Paterson, NJ, where my father's family hailed from, is a proletarian kind of town. Not a ton of rich people. Immigrants, factory workers, ne'er-do-wells. Seedy types, dangerous types. Half a dozen of the 9/11 hijackers rented a place in Paterson, for instance. 

In my early twenties, when I was wrestling most violently and assiduously with my proletarian heritage, I wanted to move to a place like Paterson without actually having to go there, because I'm frankly scared of Paterson for a host of reasons. I was in Boston at the time, drawn there because my brother Tom lived nearby, and Dorchester—with its industry, its landfill, its housing projects, its varied immigrants, its labor unions—was the most Paterson-like place I found in the metro area. 

So I had to go live there. Had to understand my father and his life better. 

Had to discover the prole I thought I wanted to be, and then abandon him.