When I was in high school, my family lived in Hillsboro, which is part of what is known as the Silicon Forest for its concentration of tech jobs. The largest Intel plant is, in fact, located in Hillsboro. That being true, it’s no leap of faith to believe my dad would, at some point, work his way to a career in electrical engineering. In his own words, he’s comfortable with crunching numbers, while many people aren’t. And why shouldn’t he be? Some people innately understand relationships and are comfortable coping with a diverse group of acquaintances in the same way he’s comfortable with numbers. Bully for them, but numbers are a hell of a lot easier to understand than people.
Why do I trust numbers after years of intensely fearing math? For the record, I’ve spent the same years also intensely disliking most people. These fears and dislikes used to be parallel paths for me, yet they’ve diverged along the way. I have no idea how, except to say that people have squirmed out from under my little pins, while numbers have stayed put. As I’ve indicated in other posts, I’m studying math on my own time at home. After completing my latest lesson via pencil scratchings on paper, I loathed having to click over to my blog and type sentences for people to read. This math-over-writing is such a complete reversal for me that I’m left swooning from the roller coaster, switchback effect. But legacies arrive when they will, and there may be no way to predict the hairpin turns brought on by them.
Despite Hillsboro’s glowing prominence in the techie forest (dripping with rain and silicon), my dad worked for a company in Beaverton, which is a suburb that much closer than Hillsboro to the tunnel shooting into the greater tech forests of Portland. Because of that, he usually dropped me, on his way to work, at the Beaverton bus depot to cut out fifteen minutes or so from my long commute to Portland Christian High School. My commute, however, still involved changing over to the train in downtown, and then one last changeover to a bus that dropped me near the school drive–still tiresome, in other words.
I spent a lot of my commute thinking, but I’ve already discussed this in a previous memoir. With my briefcase in hand, and my raggedy school clothes, I juxtaposed myself over an urban, workaday world, insulated coffee mug in hand, and I scrutinized all these places I didn’t belong. But, again, I’m passing myself by, as it were–passing by the scenes I mean to focus on. The briefcase was one my dad no longer used, and the coffee mug was an old AM/PM travel cup with a faded logo. My dad gave me the mug, too, and that’s the image I’m trying to capture. I still remember the morning he handed me the coffee-filled cup with cap, understanding that I was seventeen–practically an adult–and that I would be trapped out in the frosty morning waiting for buses, and I would need a hot beverage to sustain me. It was one of those passing-of-the-torch moments that adults have with their almost-grown children.
My dad and I have never fit in anywhere. Would I sound childish if I claimed nobody understands us? It’s true. During our commute together, we discussed thought processes and poetry, and we listened to current music, such as U2’s Joshua Tree or Rattle and Hum. My dad talked about the connections his mind makes from one matter to another, and he sometimes spontaneously composed poetry. And then he would ask: does your mind work this way? And I would murmur a consent, even though I quailed inside and wondered if I would ever reach–do–write–understand as much as I needed to. Because of that, those pale morning hang in my head with crazy images of clouds that appear as shattered glass, of starkly bitter trees hanging over fields of orange. The dawn darkness always gave way to light, but I had yet to experience it. I sensed its presence in the distance and couldn’t quite touch it.
My dad is a kaleidoscope. He has a center, and from that, radiates images. He’s a poet, a gardener, and engineer. Most of all, he’s an artist, and if you have time, you should check out his online galleries here and here. In my opinion, he’s an artist whose work will find its way out of obscurity, so I highly suggest you invest in some originals.
Although my dad didn’t pass on his cup of artistry to me in the same way he casually handed me an AM/PM cup one morning years ago, he passed on a legacy of poetry. I wouldn’t presume to call myself a poet, and still I can’t leave poetry behind because poetry is where words and numbers and cadence meet. I’ve always loved counting the world. I’ve always loved counting words. And someday, maybe I will call myself an engineer and I’ll write about it by word count, while simultaneously loathing and loving every minute of it. Oh, did I mention I applied for an engineering program? The silicon forest where I grew up has caught up to me, its dense growth rooted deeply inside my head.