My dad was a perfectionist.
I say that with pride because his perfectionism was never used as a mark of evaluation for others. It was his goal for self-evaluation.
My Dad could design, fix or build anything. In combination with his sense of perfection and a creative flair, he was the ‘go-to‘ guy for our friends and neighbors the first sign of a problem. His son included.
I was a high school and community college teacher. One school year, toward the end of Dad’s life, I was faced with a problem.
And I was stumped.
A physically disabled student of mine – a senior and a brilliant young man – shared a confidence with me because I’m physically disabled too.
It was after school one winter day. His mother called the office to let him know she would be delayed picking him up in their wheelchair van because of the weather. So to occupy his time until she arrived, (I thought), he motored his wheelchair down to my room to shoot the breeze while I set up my classroom for the next day’s lessons.
As it turned out, his visit had a motive.
It seems he begged his parents for a personal computer. They balked. After several months of his intense lobbying, they gave in and purchased one for him, fully realizing the challenges confronting him, but unwilling to point them out.
Because of his disability, he couldn’t use his hands [or feet] to type.
But he’d already solved that problem. Or so he thought. However, after several months of trying to use his solution, and unwilling to admit defeat or let his parents know he was having a problem, he stopped by my room.
He broached the subject first by discussing his occupational therapist. She was trying to get him an oversized but portable calculator to use in his A.P. calculus class. She was frustrated because the big key ones were just basic function calculators primarily aimed at the elderly market.
Then he said, “But she doesn’t know I have a computer at home.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked. I looked straight at him and asked, “With your disability, how do you type?”
“My nose. My head and neck are the only areas that don’t jerk as much.” Then he added, “I don’t want anyone to know because I don’t want to be laughed at.”
I commiserated with him, sharing similar stories of being the focus of humor for nondisabled people to enjoy. Finally, the real reason surfaced for the entire conversation.
College.
He’d been accepted as a math major to a major university about an hour away from where he lived. He was in the process of deciding which residence hall to request.
“So, you’re worried about what the other kids are gonna say when they see you type with your nose, right?”
He nodded. “Can you help me figure something out?”
A lack of confidence in his occupational therapist, a sense of commonality with me because of our disabilities, and the question of peer acceptance that I too faced when I left home for college, all came crashing together in my head and heart.
“Sure,” I said. “Let me see what I can come up with, and I’ll let you know.”
After struggling over the next several days with several impossible, non-productive ideas, I finally called Pop.
He listened quietly, as I explained the situation. When I finished, he asked if there was any hurry. Since the fall semester was six months away, I said we probably had time.
He hung up. Just like that. Just click. Forgot to say goodbye; forgot to let me talk to Mom. Just click. Mom called me back a few minutes later. She was laughing. “He’s already drawing stuff on the paper napkins.” (Dad’s fav blueprint-type paper.)
A week later, Dad called me at school and asked what university my student was attending in the fall. When I inquired why, he just said that Mom wondered. His answer didn’t ring true to me, but I shrugged it off.
That night, Dad called again, and told me it was ready. Floored but grateful, I drove home to pick it up.
It was AWESOME!
My Dad rigged up an adjustable, lightweight rod as a pointer attached to an adjustable metal headband. All my student had to do was nod his head at the key he wanted. Presto! Typing with dignity.
But Dad didn’t stop with that. His perfectionism and creative flair saw the need for something else that took this from functional to “Total Cool!”
Fearing the chafing from the band and dissatisfied with its overall appearance, Pop took Mom, and they drove several hours to the university my student would attend in the fall.
They found the university’s bookstore, and after checking every single hat they had with the university colors and logo (my Mom later revealed), Dad picked the one that met his strict specifications.
The hat had to have a sweatband that was cloth and folded down so the metal headband could be covered by it to prevent chafing and absorb any sweat. The cap top had to be part mesh to help with release of body heat from wearing a hat indoors, have a plastic snap adjustment, and a half-moon shaped hole above the snap adjustment to fit around the pointer-holder. And besides the school colors, the logo had to be unmistakable.
Wearing our hats backwards was the style of Cool! back then, and Dad wanted to make CERTAIN, nobody would EVER laugh at THIS disabled young man.
Dignity with Cool!
I refused to take it. I told him: “Your creation – Your presentation.”
In my room the next day after school, Dad – with Mom and my student’s mom and me watching – fit the hat and adjusted the pointer on that flabbergasted young man’s head. The look on his face after he tried it out on a computer I borrowed from the school library was something I’ll never forget.
Both Mom and Pop have been gone quite a few years now, and I still miss them both. But I’ll never forget my Dad. That story is just one of the many about his heart, art, and humanity.
(And his perfectionism, too!)
Food for thought.
Mac
[P.S. My former student is now an engineer for the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (N.A.S.A.), and technology now allows hands (and head)-free typing. But he still has the hat my Dad gave him that day.]
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