Larry Elder - A Lot Like Me: A Father and Sons Journey to Reconciliation

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Praise for a lot like me

Larry Elders story of growing up and his relationship with his dad is unique in some ways but quite common in others. The bitter estrangement and then reconciliation with his father is somewhat unique. But the hard challenges his father encountered and the discipline he tried to instill in his children was common among many blacks that generation and earlier. A Lot Like Me is proof that parental actions that we thought were cruel and unreasonable were a major input into a successful life.

WALTER E. WILLIAMS, professor of Economics at George Mason University

Above all it is a wonderful read. I am tempted to call it a page-turner but in my case I hated to turn every page because that meant I was getting closer to the end and I did not want it to end.The book is filled with emotion. It is, of course, a handbook for life. I guess it is that above all things. Any kid who reads it and follows the advice of how to live his life just has to come out well.

BURT BOYAR, coauthor of the bestselling autobiography on Sammy Davis Jr.

Its a powerful story, Larry, and one that will touch a lot of lives.

MIKE HUCKABEE, bestselling author and former governor of Arkansas

Praise for Larry Elder

You are a great man, I appreciate you the utmost.

JESSE LEE PETERSON to Larry Elder

Part of Elders mystique has always surrounded his willingness to take on African-American groups with a message of self-empowerment.

VARIETY

[Elder] is a fresh voice on the scene and deserves a listen and a read.

NEW YORK POST

Copyright 2012 by Larry Elder

Published by arrangement with WND Books

Afterword copyright 2018 by Larry Elder

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To Randolph Elder. Thank you.

H is face was hard. Not just his expression, but his skin.

It, too, was hardsandpaper hard.

When we were little kids, before the whippings started, we would jump in his lap when he came home from work. I would put my arms around his thick neck and hug him. But when I kissed his cheek, his skin was so rough it hurt my lips. This must be why, I thought, Mom never kisses Dad.

Id never seen them kiss. Not a peck on the cheek. Not a pat on the behind. Not an air kiss. Not an accidental bumpeven when they squeezed through the narrow aisles at Dads restaurant. Not a smile or a hug or even a shrug from Mom when he walked in from work. They never held hands either.

When my older brother Kirk started shaving, the razor made his face bleed and break out into ugly pink and white bumps, mostly on his neck and under his chin. It embarrassed him so much that he made excuses to get out of going to school. No matter what kind of shaver he tried, the blade did something hideous to his skin. He finally discovered Magic Shave, a formulated-for-black-men chemical cream depilatory with a God-awful smell. Though it was time-consuming to mix the powder with water in an old coffee cup, carefully spread the paste on his face, and scrape it off with a butter knife, it worked. Kirks skin slowly improved. But his face remained scarred for years.

I dont have time for that mess, Dad said when Mom recommended Magic Shave.

Dad had had the same problem when he started shaving. His face erupted and scabbed. Still, every day he used the same razor, conquering the bumps by turning them into blisters, and the blisters, over the years, into a scratchy, dry leather. After each shave, he picked up a bottle of green aftershave, poured some in his hand, and splashed his face. Mom told us that the stuff stung like hell and burned his face. Dad never flinched.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are approaching the Los Angeles International Airport. The captain has switched on the fasten your seatbelt sign.

I looked down from the plane at the soaring arches of the Theme Building at LAX. I smiled. My two brothers and I used to call it the Jetsons Building because of the cartoon show about the happy, futuristic Jetson family with its hapless but loveable husband and father.

I remembered when Mom told us about the rotating restaurant at the top.

Can we eat there? we asked. Please? Can we? Please?

Someday, she always said. Someday. Someday meant never. Someday meant when horses quack. I know now that we simply couldnt afford to spend money on something so frivolous, but she would never say such a thing. Dad just said, No. And dont ask again.

In a half-hour, counting the time to pick up luggage, I would be on my way to the diner.

I hated my fatherreally, really hated him. I hated working for him and hated being around him. I hated it when he walked through the front door at home. And we feared him from the moment he pulled up in front of the house in his car.

Back then, cars had curb feelers, little coiled wires that stuck out from the wheel well or the bottom of the car on the passenger side, to tell parking drivers their distance from the curb. As soon as we heard the grinding sound of metal against cement, one of us would say, Hes home. Immediately everything changed. Everyone, including my mother, got quieter.

When Dad walked through the front door, he was usually scowlinga massive, dark hulk. He sat in his green lounge chair, Dads chair, where no one else was allowed to sit. My mother never even sat there. He opened the evening paper and often fell asleep, the paper spread across his chest. I would signal to my brothers, point at our father, and hold my index finger to my mouth.

Shu-u-u-u-ush. Hes asleep.

Kirk and Dennis nodded, and from three rambunctious kids, we turned into three little kittens tiptoeing around the junkyard dog as though there was a sign that read: Guard Dog On Duty. Do Not Disturb.

One night, my little brother and I took a bath together. I was five. Dennis was fifteen months younger. We started a water fightthrowing, splashing, kicking, and ducking. The floor was soaked. Dirty bath water dripped from the ceiling and the walls. We laughed and started to wipe the water up when Dennis suddenly stopped and stared past me. I slowly turned around.