Pursuit of happyness chris gardner pdf

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The astounding yet true rags-to-riches saga of a homeless father who raised and cared for his son on the mean streets of San Francisco and. Download The Pursuit of Happyness (Chris Gardner) Retail epub mobi PDF (Itzy) torrent for free. Download The Pursuit of Happyness (Chris Gardner) Retail. Editorial Reviews. From Publishers Weekly. Gardner chronicles his long, painful, ultimately Look inside this book. The Pursuit of Happyness by [Gardner, Chris] .

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THE PURSUIT OF HAPPY NESS CHRIS GARDNER with Quincy Troupe and Mim Eichler Rivas. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The spelling in Chris Gardener, without benefit of college education, has set his sights on becoming a stock broker. Read "The Pursuit of Happyness" by Chris Gardner available from Rakuten Kobo . Sign up today and get $5 off your first purchase. The astounding yet true.

See all Editorial Reviews. All at once, Mrs. Arshid Bhat. See our User Agreement and Privacy Policy. Throughout my life I would battle that same reflex to want to strike back when certain individuals of a different race or class spoke to me in that way.

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To put up with the ex-tremes in the seasons, the brutal winters and scorching summers, you had to have an innate toughness and the kind of deeply practi-cal, hustling ability that my relatives and many of the other mi-norities and immigrants brought with them to Wisconsin from other places. Those traits must have existed as well as in the descen-dents of the true Milwaukeeans—members of tribes like the Win-nebago and Potawatomi.

All that ambitious, pragmatic dreaming sometimes resulted in overachievement. Smith and the automotive giant American Motors deceased as of the late s. These blue- collar jobs were far and away preferable to a life sharecropping in the sweltering heat way down south in Dixie, in places where less than a century earlier many of our people had been enslaved.

Seemed like almost everyone had family members that brought with them their country ways and who tended to stick together. The Tripletts, some of the nicest, kindest folks you could meet—with the exception of Freddie, the bad seed—had come from Mississippi. As hard as everyone worked all week, at least in my neighbor-hood, over the weekend they played and prayed even harder. No such thing as casual drinking in our part of Milwaukee.

From Fri-day evening when the whistle blew at Inland Steel—where all three of my uncles worked, Archie and Willie until they retired from there and Henry until his dying day, which came much too early—the party began and lasted until Sunday morning, when it was time to go to church and pray for forgiveness.

My uncle and his wife maintained an easygoing, peaceful atmosphere without too many rules. A de-vout Christian,TT made sure we got that old-time religion in us. Every Sunday, all day, we spent at the Tabernacle Baptist Church, and in summers we attended Bible school daily, plus we accompa-nied her to any and all special midweek meetings and were present for the funerals of every member of the church who ever died, whether we knew them or not.

The Pursuit of Happyness 25 change their clothes and themselves. TT never tried to be a substitute for Momma, but she provided love and comfort all the same.

Nor could I devour fast enough the books that TT seemed to have limitless funds to buy for me. My mother later reinforced the importance of reading, raising me with her own credo to spend as much time at our public library as possible.

It was TT, however, who first instilled in me the love of reading books and storytelling. The story of the Sword in the Stone made a lasting impression on me, setting up the idea that someday, somehow, I would fi nd the destiny that awaited me. Books allowed me not only to travel in my imagination but to look through windows into the world of the unknown and not feel afraid. A big light green book, the color of a garden snake, it captivated me for days on end as I studied ev-ery minute detail of the snake world—from the friendly- sounding During waking hours I was fascinated, but at night, espe-cially during one particular snake- infested nightmare in which my bed was full of writhing, hissing poisonous snakes, I regretted ever seeing those pictures.

Apparently so did TT and Uncle Archie, who woke up in the middle of the night to find me wedged in between them in the bed.

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In the end, they both went back to sleep, letting me feel safe and not making me feel too embarrassed—until later when I was a big, strong guy and they teased me about it mercilessly. The other window into the world of the unknown was the black- and-white TV set, and the finest vision I ever saw on it was of Sugar Ray Robinson standing next to a Cadillac. Uncle Archie had a contagious aura of calm that he maintained even during the excitement of the fights or when crises came up.

Besides his hardworking ethic on the job, Archie used his quiet, strong intelligence to rise up through the ranks of his union at Inland Steel, setting an ex- The Pursuit of Happyness 27 ample for me about tenacity and focus. A very handsome guy who was the male version of Moms in looks—nut brown in color, slen-der, and on the short side but appearing taller than he was—Archie was an incredibly sharp dresser, something that influenced my later sense of style and the clothes habit I acquired long before I could afford it.

As a result, Uncle Archie could narrate those fights for me as well as any announcer of his time. Sugar Ray and the other boxers were larger than life, superheroes who could do and have it all, including a pink Cadillac.

What that said to a poor kid from the ghetto like me was everything, a very early precursor to the red Ferrari. But Sugar Ray Robinson and his Caddy were on television. I had something closer at hand to show me the beautiful world beyond the ghetto: In the dead of winter one year, we changed the game in recog- All this is yours.

This is all yours! In those hours spent playing this-page-that-page, there was no discussion about who Momma was, where she went, or when she was coming back. But there was a feeling of anticipation I recog-nized. We were biding time, waiting for something or someone to come for us. All the happy memories of the beautiful woman who made me candy fi lled me with wondrous expectation, and for one brilliant flash of time the reality of our being together made me happier than anything I could have dreamt.

But those feelings were rapidly overshadowed from almost the first moment that Freddie Triplett bulldozed his way into my life. While I had no inkling of the violence he was going to cause in our lives, I must have sensed that he was mean and seemed to take pleasure in hurting my feelings.

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My hunch was confi rmed when he launched the line he loved to throw at me every chance The Pursuit of Happyness 29 he got, which killed me every time he said it, stirring up the sedi-ment of anger and resentment that would later erupt. Chris, wake up! Without opening my eyes, I force myself to remember where I am.

As soon as these facts register, I ease back down into sleep, wanting to rest just a little longer. The world of the unknown that overwhelmed me when we stayed with Uncle Archie and TT seemed wonderful by com-parison to everything that took place in the territory of the famil-iar over which Freddie Triplett ruled. Moms gave us all the love, protection, and approval that she could, but often that seemed to make him more brutal than he already was.

My instincts told me that the logical thing to do was to fi nd some kind of way to get Freddie to like me. But no matter what I The Pursuit of Happyness 31 did, his response was to beat me down, often literally. Ophelia and I almost never got whippings when we lived with Uncle Archie and TT, but with Freddie we all got whupped all the time, usually for no good reason other than he was an illiterate, belligerent, abu-sive, and complete drunk.

Initially, I thought Freddie might be proud of my academic suc-cess. At five, six, and seven years old, school was a haven for me, a place where I seemed to thrive at learning and in social interac-tions. One of my favorite teachers, Mrs. Broderick, reinforced my love of books by frequently asking me to read aloud—longer than any of my class-mates.

My mother still clung to the hope that she would one day ob-tain the necessary schooling and licensing to teach in the state of Wisconsin.

Until that time, she devoted herself to doing what she had to do to take care of her four children—Ophelia, myself, Sharon, and the youngest, my baby sister Kim, who arrived in this time period. The Red Balloon was one book that I could read over and over, sitting next to Momma and showing her the photographic illustrations of a magical city where a little boy and his red balloon went flying, exploring the rooftops. I never knew that the magical city in the story was a place called Paris in a country called France.

My accomplishments as an elementary school student obvi-ously made Moms proud. But if I ever fooled myself into thinking this was going to win me points with Freddie, I was sadly mistaken. In fact, Freddie Triplett—who could not read or write to save his life—spent every minute waging a one-man antiliteracy campaign. You could see it in the crazed flare of his eyes that he lived in a world full of slick motherfuckers out to get him.

Mix that attitude with alcohol and the result was big-time paranoia. In an odd matchup, Salter and Freddie turned out to be great friends and drinking buddies. This made no sense, not only because both had kids by Moms, but also because they were so different. A nicely dressed, ar-ticulate high school teacher—who could read and write and talk trash so good everybody thought he was a lawyer, although Freddie never once accused him of being a slick motherfucker—Samuel Salter had nothing in common with Freddie Triplett, who took The Pursuit of Happyness 33 over any space he entered by siege.

It was an appendage. How he managed to keep his job at A. Smith— eventually retiring from there, pension and all—was another mys-tery to me. Granted, as a steel man, he was a hard worker. But he was an even harder drinker. Whenever he came by, Salter brought a little something for us— usually two dollars for Ophelia, his real blood daughter, and one dollar for me, because he treated me as a pretend son.

Freddie had just made his point one too many times, on top of his incessant commentary about the size of my ears. Be-sides, when I looked at my ears in the bathroom mirror to see how big they were, I realized they were sort of big, which made his comments sting all the more. The Pursuit of Happyness 35 daddy.

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Everybody else knew who their daddy was. That needless comment from Freddie that afternoon when Salter gave me the one dollar made it clear to my young sensibilities, fi - nally, that he was never going to warm to me. The question for me then became—what could I do about it? My long-term plan had already been formulated, starting with the solemn promise I made to myself that when I grew up and had a son of my own, he would always know who I was and I would never disappear from his life.

But the short- term plan was much harder to figure out. Big-time fear. Fear that my sisters and I would be murdered. It had gotten to the point by this time that Moms slept on the living room couch with her shoes on—in case she had to run, carrying the baby and dragging the rest of us out of the house fast.

Fear that the next time Freddie beat Momma up within an inch of her life he would go that inch too far. The questions of what was I going to do and how was I going to do it loomed large. They followed me at school, snuck into my Some of the dreams I was having were so terrifying, I was too paralyzed to wake, believing in my sleep that if I could knock something over, a bedside lamp, for example, it would rouse some-one in the house to come to my rescue and help me escape what-ever terror was in that dream at the time.

Now I open my eyes, sitting bolt upright, taking a fast inven-tory. Before I went to sleep, nothing eventful had happened, other than some Halloween trick- or-treating, after which Ophelia went to a party with her friends—where she is, apparently, at the pres-ent.

There, lying face down on the floor, is Momma, unconscious, a two- by-four stuck in the back of her head and a pool of blood spreading underneath and around her. First I observe that Momma was trying to get out of the house and move toward the door when Freddie attacked her with the two- by- four, bashing it into the back of her skull with such a force The Pursuit of Happyness 37 that the wood splintered into her skin, sticking into her, spewing blood not just underneath her but everywhere in the room.

Next, feeling the waves of terror that Momma is dead or about to die, I turn to see Baby on the telephone calling the ambulance. The answer: I have to do something, anything. I need a job, a duty to perform. Using a scrap of a dishrag, Brillo, and soap and water, I commence to clean and scour with all my being, at the same time that I com-mence to pray. The idea that the white paramedics and policemen will see the blood everywhere and then the dirty stove as well is too shameful to bear.

So my job is to clean it up, to prove that decent people live here, not savages, with the exception of Freddie, who has drawn blood, once again, from a woman. When the ambulance came, the attendants moved in quickly, spoke to Baby and Bessie, not to me of course, put Momma on a stretcher, with the two- by- four removed, took her out to the am-bulance, and drove off. Even then I continued to clean, the only task I could fi nd to create order in the chaos. The world became very small for me that night.

A part of me shut down in a way that froze me emotionally but was also necessary for my survival. Apparently what saved her was She returned the next day, bandaged, battered, but conscious enough to promise he was never going to be allowed to return.

I knew this roller coaster. But he was as predictable as rain. Again, and again, and again. Why Moms fell for it each time was confusing, without ques-tion.

By the same token, I understood that we were sometimes in the most dangerous straits when we were trying to get away. While I had no control over the short term, I expanded my long-term plan.

Not only was I going to make sure my children had a daddy, I was never going to be Freddie Triplett. This plan evolved over time as I studied at the virtual col-lege of how to grow up and not be Freddie.

For now, I could only hate him. It was an emotional truth that lived under my skin, close to the bone. Small flickers of rebellion had begun to flare.

As an antidote to my feeling of powerlessness, I did little things just to see if I could mess with Freddie. Real good. Other times I was even more calculating, holding my book and pointing to a word as I asked Momma had only to give me a gentle look, telling me just with the expression in her eyes—Son, you know very well what the answer is.

Finally, in the dead of night that same winter after the two- by-four incident, Moms enlisted me and the rest of us in a full-scale rebellion. After Freddie unleashed on her, for the umpteenth time, and left the house to go drink in one of several local watering holes in the neighborhood, Momma got up from the floor, put ice on her swelling face, and began packing, urging us to help.

Instead of going to stay with relatives, we were moving to a place that Momma had rented on Sixth Street, just two blocks over from the back house on Eighth and Wright.

After we piled everything into a shopping cart that we wheeled together over to the new place, all four of us in tow, I watched her face fall as she frantically rummaged in her pockets and purse. It was I had to win.

As proposed, I executed my plan—scaling the pole to the roof, jumping down from the roof to the porch, thankfully raising the window on the porch level, and sliding inside.

Over the next few days Moms caught me looking worried and knew that I was scared Freddie would show up and try to conquer our new land. The conversation was about money or rent. A nondescript fellow in layers of winter clothes ap-propriate for the season, he was speaking in a disrespectful way that caused my mother to tremble.

Almost by reflex, I ran to the kitchen and returned with a butcher knife, pointing it at the white man. My mother threw me a look that spoke volumes, warning me to amend my tone and my words, to be polite. I sent her a look right back, telling her that I would obey her. It was, unfortunately, not the last time I heard that dismissive, superior tone being used toward my mother, my siblings, and myself.

Throughout my life I would battle that same reflex to want to strike back when certain individuals of a different race or class spoke to me in that way. The Pursuit of Happyness 41 The more immediate consequence was that Freddie came back. The roller coaster crested the top and plunged down again. Each time I hated him that much more.

Barely gone more than a week, we packed up and returned to the back house, with Freddie giving us a respite of no less than a week without violence. Disappoint-ment, and not understanding why, ate at me.

Only later would I fully understand that she had little fi nancial indepen-dence, certainly not enough to raise four kids, and no means of escape, but I could already sense that she was stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

This made my need to find that remedy to fix our situation that much more urgent. As a rule, watching Freddie eat was as close as a city boy like me ever got to a pig trough. But on this oc-casion it only took this once to watch him suck, break, and knock neck bones on the kitchen table to experience permanent revul-sion. Thank you Chris Gardner for offerring up yourself so others might learn! Chris Gardner had a truly tough childhood, with few people to teach him how to be a good person.

How he became the man he did is hard to under- stand. The Pursuit of Happyness held my attention all the way through and left me wishing it didn't have to end. If we all could become such a person as he did, what a wonderful world we would all live in! Paperback Verified Purchase. Great book to read about what the American dream is and how it can be achieved through adversity. I watched the movie first and loved it but after reading the book, I hate the movie.

They should have been more truthful on Chris's personality, they missed a lot of key aspects. I love that Chris didn't leave any of his mistakes he has made out.

He doesn't portray himself as a great person, even though overall he is a great person and a good father. It is a fascinating and inspiring story that could have been told better. I think as much as two thirds could have been trimmed down and be better for it, there was far too much "telling" instead of "showing.

It is still worth reading because the story itself is great. When a movie based on a book comes out, I usually like to read the book beforehand. Which is why I haven't seen the movie yet, anyway, I finally get around to reading this book and am not disappointed. What amazes me about Mr.

Gardner is his willingness to learn things and how quickly he learns them. That, paired with a tenacious desire to succeed is what propels him out of poverty.

Granted, he made some poor decisions that contributed to his situation, but, we've ALL made poor decisions. He doesn't play the victim or make excuses, he takes responsibility, works hard despite adverse circumstances and with help from the kindness of others, he succeeds. Read it. To no surprise, there are differences in the book and what was in the movie; nonetheless; the message, the struggles and triumphs are real. I love the artistic writing style and personification of things such as done with the city of San Francisco.

A must read for anyone. Looking forward to meeting him in July and getting him to sign this book. See all reviews. Amazon Giveaway allows you to run promotional giveaways in order to create buzz, reward your audience, and attract new followers and customers. Learn more about Amazon Giveaway. This item: The Pursuit of Happyness. Set up a giveaway. Customers who bought this item also bought. Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. Prisoner of the Samurai: Switched On: John Elder Robison.

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