And a Lesson Passed On

Another professor from my college days passed away recently. This one was a really decent guy. His name was Norton Starr.

Prof. Starr was the kind of teacher everyone who actually wants to learn something should be lucky enough to have. He was patient, engaging, and supportive. He was also creative. In the 1970s, he established himself as one of the earliest creators of what we now call "computer art."

He mostly worked with a pen plotter, which draws lines on paper with a ballpoint pen. Those fell out of use for a long time, as laser printers got faster and were able to draw finer lines. Lately, they've been making a comeback because the esthetics of the actual mechanical system's output are gentler on the eye than razor-sharp laser print. He developed a family of shapes based on modulated radial patterns, which are now called "Starr Roses." Here's an early one:

In the 1970s, these could take an hour to draw. Today, we can draw them in a split second and, owing to that fact, we can draw them repeatedly, in rapid succession, allowing us to animate them (here's an example I created).

Prof. Starr taught me how to make these shapes in 1977. Today, I teach my students how to make them. I sent him an email, about six months ago, to let him know his work was still in classrooms, exciting new undergraduates, 50 years after he first produced it. He sent me a nice note back, seeming pleased by what I'd told him. I'm glad I did, when I did, because he passed away a few weeks later, at the age of 88.

Norton Starr may be gone, but I'm making sure that the fun and joy I had with math and art he showed my generation is passed on to the next generation after mine. Here's hoping the Starr Rose lasts forever.

Rest in Permanence, Professor.

Lesson Learned, Lesson Taught

Found out a professor of mine from my college days passed away a few years back. I'm a university instructor now myself. Not formally a "professor," but the students all call us that, no matter what our title on the paper says. My style as an instructor is very much due to having been that past professor's student, long ago.

A couple of years ago, a student came into my office with a fried Arduino in his hand. He'd hooked up the power wrong, based on some dumb YouTube he'd seen. Did I kick him out? No. I spent two days a week for the rest of the term, teaching him basic electronics. He knows what he's doing now, and he doesn't think I'm an asshole.

What would have made him think I'm an asshole? I suppose if, instead of helping him see what he'd done wrong, I'd castigated him for misusing equipment, told him he was too ignorant to work with electronics gear, and banned him from my lab, that might have done it. But I didn't because, thanks to that professor of mine, I know what it feels like to be treated that way, so that's not what I did.

Rest in peace, professor.

You were a dick to me. But, I finally got even with you for it. When I was in your place, and a young adult came to me after making a mistake, I undid the damage you almost did to the future. As far as my student is concerned, it's the same as if you were never here.

Standing for the Anthem

My wife and I go to sporting events at the university where I work. Each one starts with a playing of the national anthem, after the announcer says we should stand and, among other things, show respect for the people who defend our nation.

Our anthem is not a military anthem. As a military brat, I learned to stand when it is played. But not for our military. I stood because military brats stand for the anthem.

The announcer also says we should place our hands over our hearts. I don't do that either. The hand-over-heart is called the "civilian salute." As a military brat, I know that there is no civilian salute. That's part of what it means to have a country where the military is under civilian control: there is no paramilitary regimen that the civilians must obey. Further, the salute is a military privilege. Civilians aren't entitled to it. So I don't do it.

I do stand. When the music ends, I blow a kiss and give a short military salute to the sky. (As it happens, I have a DD-214, so I actually can salute in this context, under the silly law Republicans passed to make it look like the flag is some kind of sacramental object.) But I do this to thank my mom, and honor my dad, who was a lifetime military officer.

Yes, I do stand for the anthem. Not for the nation I have loved. Not for our fighters who defend it. I stand for the memory of who my parents raised me to be. I am a military brat. We stand.

Arcane

Great scene in the episode of "Arcane" we watched tonight. Character notes that, when you choose a child's name, you're picking one word they will have to live with forever.

Well, we know that's not true, now don't we?

I'll Let You Know

There comes a certain point when it starts being silly to think you wish your parents were still around. My dad, for example, would be 103 years old. People live that long, from time to time, but he wouldn't be the guy that I remember. Mom would be 95. Ditto on her.

But, of course, when you say you wish your parents were still around, you don't mean "at the age they'd be." You mean "the way that I remember them." My wife has four parents (originals divorced, so two steps, in a rather remarkably successful, albeit also problematic, family structure). She also has a sister she's close to. I have a sister, but we're not close. I have a son. He changed his name.

So my wife calls, or is called by, four parents and a sister fairly often. I don't get called by anyone. Well, my son called, after he changed his name. He seems to be distantly aware that I don't have much to talk with him about anymore. Maybe I should talk to him. But it's hard to be conversational with someone you raised with his mother, your wife, after he has done everything in his power to make sure he has no discernable connection to you.

This all means I'm feeling a bit lonely. Now, being honest, I'll say I was never a big holiday-gathering person before. My mom always made this sickening dessert item called a "blintz" at Christmas. I suppose it became mostly psychological in origin, but my reaction when made to eat one was to gag. Literally, like my stomach would heave and I'd nearly throw up. She knew this, but made me eat one every single year. So, around this time, we'd all be saying, "Christmas is coming! Yay!" Except I'd be wondering if she was going to make blintzes again, or would this be the year she stopped? She stopped when I went to college. Or, at least, I made it clear I wasn't eating the fucking things anymore.

Okay, so clearly "home for the holidays" wasn't this big source of familial joy for me. It's just working out that I am stuck with some acute reasons to know I'm without any meaningful family outside my home. And, blintzes being only once a year and all, I do remember some times I miss. We used to get dinner sometimes, at the Army/Navy Country Club, in Arlington, when I was little. (The club, which is not a taxpayer funded thing in any way, was founded 100 years ago this year, btw.) I rode in the back of our big white "Chrysler car," as we always called it.

There was a stream that ran over the road in a place called "Rock Creek Park." It was always a fun part of those outings to drive oh-so-slowly right through it. I'd always put on my blue blazer when we'd go. It was a big deal, just going there. It felt kind of important, and grown up, and special.

That's what I wish were still here. That family. I don't have it now, not even with my own offspring.

Dad passed away 28 years ago. Mom was nine years ago. I get that it never stops hurting. I had been wondering when I'd stop feeling bad about not being able to reinvent my childhood. Now it's not a "when" question anymore. It's an "if" question. Check back with me in a while. I'll let you know.

Still Keepin' My Head Down

Well, I've been pretty good about not listening to news or reading news sites. As I expected, some big chunks find their ways to me. Dumb Trump wants Dr. Oz to head Medicaid/Medicare. Now that might affect me, since I'm over 65. But, as always, the question is: what can I do about it? My wife's company has good insurance for us both. If that changes, my employer offers excellent options. So we'll see. Even if Oz and Dumb Trump do something destructive that affects me, I don't see how knowing what they're doing helps me much.

Closer to home, I do want to help people less fortunate. On the strength of an online friend's endorsement, I gave $25 to a person I don't know, who got fired after coming out as trans. Was going to give another $25 to a different person in trouble for the same reason, but they only took money via PayPal and PayPal is just too problematic. That second $25 will go to someone else.

Been doing some streaming. Having fun with that. Learned a bit about tensors and rotation and moments of inertia. They tried to teach me some of it in the late '70s, when I was a student of physics. But, well, that wasn't the time. It's relevant to my work with Unity, so I'm learning it now, almost 50 years later. Fortunately, the laws of physics don't change much in half a century. Not Newton's laws, anyway.

Still bummed about my son. Feels like he erased me, or himself from my family, or something like that. He called me a few days back, and asked how I felt about everything since the election. It was a short call. He texted us some silly thing about his contact lenses. His mother answered. I didn't. I don't feel quite like I have a son anymore. F____ U____ is a good guy. The world will be better with him in it than it would have been without him. But I don't feel like we're really family now. My wife is still a Miller, but she has said once or twice that she actually thinks she should not have changed her name. I could have understood it at the time and I told her so then. I don't know if she'll change it back. She might. Whether she does or not, though, I guess this is the end of the Miller name as a lineage. By itself, that doesn't bother me. But my son erased it. That does bother me.

Takes the edge off Dumb Trump being president, though, a bit.

Will continue to keep my head down. That's working better for me than I actually thought it would.

First Order

My son took calculus in high school. He was a math wiz in the earlier grades, but that was due to his innate aptitude for numbers, not a result of study. His aptitude was pretty impressive. He even proved some entry-level theorems in number theory. But he did not like to learn things, partly because he found learning hard. Back when I was his age, people who were smart (like him) but learned slowly (like him) were told, "You're not applying yourself!" (like me, and always with that exclamation point). But by his high school years we knew better. Not everyone learns at the same rate, which means even some smart people learn slowly. The smart ones, unfortunately for them, spend their early years thinking they don't need to learn. Which lasts until their innate aptitude no longer covers what they are asked to learn.

So when he took on calculus, he hit his limit (heh, see what I did there?). He did not innately comprehend what a derivative was. I offered to help him, but it turned out that was kind of the absolute last thing in the world he wanted. Still, his math teacher and I met with him and she straight-up told him he wasn't going to make it unless he took some help and that I was the best source of that he had. So he agreed. ("Agreed," the way the eldest son of a powerful emperor "agrees" to marry the unpleasant daughter of the king of a neighboring land, which typically isn't known for an overwhelming display of enthusiasm.)

We went right home and got to it. I figured if I could help him over that basic hump and get him to see how math could define a derivative for him, he might actually just take off on his own. Or, if not on his own, he'd see that help from me didn't have to be a crushing omnipresence in his life. He most certainly did have the smarts to comprehend it. For your amusement, here is what I tried to show him. It's the means by which you take the derivative of the function for a parabola:

He did not really look at it. He just wanted what we were doing (which was me trying to help him) to be over. When I realized that's where we were, and where we were going to stay, I told him he could ask me again any time he wanted some help, but he was free to operate on his own. He never asked me for help again. I don't think he knows what a derivative is to this day, although I'll be quick to admit that probably doesn't have any direct adverse effect on him. Most of the benefit of learning math or science for the average person is probably in their awareness that they can learn such things. Also, that such things are definite and reliable. You know, that science is real and math can answer questions for you. He probably got that much anyway.

Still, I wish he'd let me help him. He could have done it all on his own, after just a bit of that. That's what a good parent ought to do, I think. You try to help them just enough to let them see they can do things on their own.

Well, I did try.