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The ProgrammerDirectron Scholarship 2008 Essay No. 122
by Philip Michael Tan
Intended School: Grove City College
Intended Major/Degree: Electrical engineering
You would think that the son of a computer wizard would share his father's technological gifts. Even before my dad started high school, he impressed his peers with his programming skills. Family friends still awe us with tales of dozens of middle-schoolers lining up after class to try a homemade version of Donkey Kong, Pac-Man, or some brand-new invention. After majoring in computer science, he accepted a job working in his home as a programmer for a small software company: he took the job straight out of graduate school and has enjoyed the position for almost twenty years. His programming skills support not only our own family of nine children, all of whom are under twenty years of age, but also keep in business the small company that provides jobs for six other families. Moreover, my dad puts his knowledge of his field to use beyond the workplace. Several times a year, he will disappear into the late hours of the night to rescue a benighted computer user across the city. When a neighbor's hard drive crashes, when our pastor's screen goes blank in the middle of his sermon preparation, when a biology professor from the nearby university loses all his research files-everyone knows which telephone number to call. Even his own employer has to beg him for assistance every once in a while. Just as no document is too deleted to be resurrected by my dad, no "unavailable" book, recording, or antique is too inaccessible for him to track down on the Internet. Relatives across the ocean will forward him out-of-print titles they are desperate to purchase; the elusive item somehow materializes under his computer-savvy eye.
Most would imagine that an individual so technologically proficient would be a socially bumbling hermit unable to interact with the "normal" (that is, barely-computer-competent) masses. Nothing could be further from the truth. In every sphere of interaction, people esteem my dad as a devoted and highly entertaining man. At home, he frequently takes breaks from his thousands of lines of blue and green script to call all the children into the office to watch a silly video, cheer up my mom hard at work in the laundry room, or wrestle with my hyperactive five-year-old brother. All the members of our church know they can receive both sympathetic encouragement and wise counsel from my dad. And it doesn't take long for new employees at the office to figure out what's happening when they receive a call from a belligerent customer in Sri Lanka with a thick accent: after a dozen such calls in their first week of employment, they realize it's my dad injecting some humor into the otherwise mundane workday.
Naturally, most people assume my dad's love for computers, or at least his proficiency with them, would somehow have been passed down to me. Somehow, the DNA failed to do its job. The supposition that I should reflect my dad's abilities is not irrational: I not only outwardly resemble him more than any of my other siblings, but also share his math and science interests. Several years ago, my dad even helped me blunder through a Python beginner's programming course. While I appreciate the innumerable benefits computers have given us, however, I harbor no hopes of succeeding my dad as the computer aficionado of the family. Other than becoming a presidential candidate or a poet, there is no vocation I dread more than the one my father holds so productively. What makes the idea of becoming a programmer something that only appears in my nightmares? For one thing, I have never been able to overcome my frustration over not being able to reason with my computer. On innumerable occasions, I have sat glaring at the keyboard, wondering why computers are unable to utter merely one or two simple sentences every now and then to help out bungling users such as myself. Furthermore, I find myself unable to perform several basic mental functions while focusing on a seventy-nine square inch screen. Could it be that the buzz of a hard drive interferes with brain operation? The cerebral stupor computers induce in me is so potent that I even have to write out my essays on paper before typing them into my laptop. In spite of the enormous dissemination of knowledge computers have catalyzed, the precision and efficiency they have brought to every profession, and the powers of calculation and communication they have made accessible to virtually every human being, I still crave face-to-face interaction in my endeavors. My personal aversion to this last generation's greatest advancement in civilization, however, does not make me resent those who can easily harness the computer's power. Rather, my incapability to master computers inspires greater respect for those who can wield power over them. The confusion computers instill in me only helps me better appreciate how special the technologically gifted in our lives really are.
A computer is a tool that comes to life in the hands of the right person. As the ubiquity of computers grows, their increasing functionality (and hence complexity) will, in all likelihood, serve to diminish rather than augment the ranks of those who truly understand them. While many of us will never be able to tell a microprocessor from a monitor, our bewilderment should only make us value more highly the individuals who keep our screens aglow. The students, businessmen, mechanics, waitresses, and retired grandparents who are indebted to programmers for the technological marvels they enjoy each day should not only bestow more gratitude on these diligent workers, but also fight the stereotype of the insensitive, dorky computer freak. I only hope that when I grow up and my computer goes berserk, I have a friend as competent with computers as my dad.
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