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What's up? he said.

I could barely wait to get the words out:

Sister So And So said that anyone who was born in this country has the God-given right to become the president of the United States.

That's absolutely one hundred percent true, he said.

And then she said that all you had to do was work hard in school and get a college education and get good grades and want to help people and change things and make this world a better safer place.

That's true too, he said.

And then you just get people to vote for you?

Yup.

And then if they do-you get to be president?

Yup.

(Wow. A rush of dreamy blood flooded my tiny blond head. I went in for the ultimate okay.)

So does that mean that I could become-one day-if I did all that stuff-the president of the United States?

There was a long pause. My dad looked down at me with a warm smile creasing his friendly face. Then, he said:

Hell no! Whaddayou-crazy?

Then he started to laugh as he gave me a big hug.

Hey Nars! he called out (that was my dad's nickname for my mom, whose real name is Nora)-Dinzo thought he was gonna be the president one day!

I could hear my mom's laughter bouncing off the dark brown paneling in the hallway outside the kitchen.

Then my dad leaned down and said:

You ain't ever gonna be the president, son. Because you gotta be born here, you gotta work hard in school AND-you gotta be rich. And we ain't rich. Now go get ready for supper.

And that was the end of that dream. Crushed like a bug under the immigrant boot of my no-nonsense old man.

Did it make me sad?

Yes.

Did it knock my adolescent self-esteem down a heavy notch or two?

Yup.

Did it lessen my faith in The Great American Dream?

You bet your patriotic balls it did.

But he was right. There wasn't a chance in hell I was ever going to have even a sliver of a micro-ounce of an atom's testicle of EVER getting elected to the highest office in the land where I lived. I had a better shot at growing TITS than I did living in the White House. Shit-speaking of shots-given my place in American society I was more likely to fire a weapon AT a presidential motorcade than I was to ride IN one.

So I sucked up that fact and started dreaming of being a Bruin or a Red Sock or a Rolling Stone once again.

My precious tiny self-esteem was dealt a severe blow that it desperately needed-a dose of hard-ass reality that more and more parents in this country need to drop on their own offspring: get a grip. Life sucks and is unfair and there are certain facts that will always remain hard, fast and true: pretty, thin chicks with small tits, minuscule brain waves and long long legs will become supermodels-all other chicks will demean and abhor and hate them even as they try to starve/binge/drug their way into the same set of shoes; the fastest, smallest little guy and the biggest dumbest angry guy will both make it into the same professional team sport-no matter what it is-because you can't hit what you can't catch.

My dad taught me in eight seconds what kids nowadays don't know even as they hit their late thirties: not everyone gets to do everything. My dad and my mom worked their asses off just to get to New York City and begin to live and work as illegal immigrants and they adjusted their dream as they went along because they had a family to feed. My dad was a talented musician-he played the accordion in Irish bands on the side when I was growing up. I've always had it easy with music as does my son Jack and I believe the talent comes from my father's side of the family and I'm sure Dad would have loved to make his moolah on the stage but it didn't work out that way so he became a mechanic. He loved working on engines too. He fed his kids. He bought a house. My mom stayed home and made sure we did as we were told. They both made sure we had our priorities all set straight but even more importantly they made our options crystal clear: that's why my dad cut right to the chase when it came to questions about what we could or couldn't "become." When I decided to give