James Dean

"This is my gift to you," my dad said to my older brother. "For your twenty first birthday I give you my Doggie Diner on El Camino Real in South San Francisco."

My dad, Albert Campbell, and oldest brother, Ronald Campbell, stood in our big kitchen of our 80 year old 24 room farmhouse at 402 Avalon Avenue in San Francisco. My family of two older sisters, one other older brother and my mom and I stood beside my dad listening and watching. My dad's generosity was voluminous; my brother's acceptance was denial. The day was Saturday morning, the month and year was October 1, 1955.

"I don't want the Doggie Diner dad. I want to go to college and study Eastern Philosophy."

"Listen to me, son. I've worked hard for thirty years for the Southern Pacific Rail Road, I've created the Cal-Core fire extinguisher and sold it to hardware stores across the United States, I hold the blue prints to the electric wheel chair and electric lawn mower, and I've owned the Doggie Diner for two years. The restaurant is profitable and I'm giving it to you as a birthday gift. You have to think like a business man, get educated in economics, know your way around a profit and loss statement and most importantly earn a living."

"Listen to me, dad. James Dean died yesterday. He was the rebel, my generation's breakaway from all the old cultural stigmas. I knew him, dad, I studied acting with him, he was my mentor for one semester at UCLA. I don't want the Doggie Diner. The Diner is you not me. Your work history is you not me. I'm looking at options for my future, dad. I want to study Eastern Philosophy."

"Listen to me, son. James Dean is a fluke, a silly idol of hype the movie industry is flaunting at us. He is dead now and just another lost soul. Eastern Philosophy will not earn you a living. You need something concrete to rely on. You need skills like a plumber, an electrician, a carpenter. You need to be educated in entrepreneurship not philosophy."

"Listen to me, dad. I can't stand this. I can't be your pet, your dog, like you have me leashed, dragging me around by the neck, guiding my life, making me do things I don't want to do. I'm an individual, dad, not a zombie; I'm a human being, not a dummy. James Dean died but he was happy because he was doing what he loved to do. I want to do what I love to do."

"Listen to me, son. You love to study Eastern Philosophy? Well, Eastern Philosophy won't kill you. Forget about my gift. Pretend I didn't offer you the ownership of the Doggie Diner. If you want to die doing something you love to do go to your Eastern Philosophy classes and meditate yourself to death. I won't condemn you for it, but I'm telling you right now that two years from now, after you've graduated college, you'll be in dire need of a job that requires physical and mental skills that Eastern Philosophy didn't prepare you for."

That was the end of the conversation and the end of my dad's and brother's relationship. My brother didn't graduate college yet he continued to study Eastern Philosophy for the next thirty years. He never acquired a job, he married his best friend's mother, he lived off her deceased husband's life insurance, wrote and self-published three insignificant manuscripts and passed away from respiratory disease at 73 years of age.

Whether our dad was right or wrong or my brother was right or wrong, my brother lived his life the way he planned his future, but he didn't die doing what he loved to do. He never achieved notoriety even though he adhered to the rebellion ideal the movie industry hyped the public about. And, the legacy of James Dean lives on.