Dear President-Elect Trump:
I grew up in rural America. In our town of 10,000 people, the 4th of July was a wonderful celebration. It started with early morning pancake breakfasts, which went on until the main event: the parade down the main street.
The last of the parade entries was the kids’ bike and trike brigade for the kids who had decorated their tricycles and bicycles in red, white, and blue crepe paper. It was a big deal, and kids from all over town flocked to the parade with bikes and trikes all decorated to the hilt.
One of my brothers was around three years old when he decorated his trike for the 4th of July parade for the first time. My father loaded his trike into the trunk of my parent’s sedan and headed to the parade staging area.
The parade started, and my brother nervously paced back and forth in front of his trike, waiting for all the other entries to start the parade. First went the color guard, then the parade’s grand marshall, then the mayor, city council, local legislators. The national guard followed with a piece or two of military hardware. Then came the fire trucks, which always threw candy to the kids along the parade route. After the fire trucks were the high school band, followed by two dozenish float entries, created by local clubs, churches, and other organizations.
Finally, it was time for the kid bike and trike brigade. My dad watched proudly from the main street’s sidewalk as his three-year-old son made his way onto the street to take part in the parade.
But my father’s moment of pride quickly turned from pride to confused wonder. From the middle of the pack of bikes and trikes, my brother peddled his way to the side of the brigade, peddling as fast as he could. Within a few seconds, he was at the front of the line of bikes and trikes. My dad quickened his pace to keep up with him.
But he didn’t stop there. Continuing to pedal as fast as his three-year-old legs could go, my brother continued down the parade line. Whizzing past the two down floats, then the band, then the firetrucks, he flew. My dad’s pace had grown to a pretty fast jog, as he tried to get my brother’s attention and run at the same time.
With eyes fixed ahead of him, my brother didn’t see our father waving his arms nor did he hear his voice telling him to stop. Screaming past the howitzers, my dad broke into a sprint to stay close to my brother who was passing the cars carrying the local legislators, mayor, and city council members. Whizzing past the vehicle carrying the parade’s grand marshall, he caught the color guard just a few feet before the end of the parade. A few moments later, my dad arrived, sweat streaming down his face and utterly out of breath. Also out of breath, my brother was celebrating.
“I won, dad! I won.”
My dad’s frustration and confusion gave way to laughter as he understood. His son had thought the parade was a race. His nervous pacing in front of his trike at the beginning wasn’t because he was worried about being in a parade, but because he was nervous that everyone else was getting such a head start in the race.
This is a cute story that my family has laughed about now for over 60 years. But there’s also an important point that it illustrates: You have to know your purpose, to accomplish your purpose. My brother thought he’d won the race. In fact, he didn’t. There was no race. His purpose was to be part of a celebration of American independence.
When you go to Washington to be our President, please remember your purpose. It’s not to win any race or advance yourself. It’s to serve us and to rebuild American independence.
Yours truly,
David O. Leavitt
