May 31, 2002
What My Father Inscribed
Every May, the same scene returns to my mind: A gray-haired, square-jawed man leaning over a sloped drafting table, dipping the metal nib of a pen into a bottle of India ink, and carefully writing the names of soon-to-be college graduates on their diplomas. The man is dressed in navy blue Sears, Roebuck work clothes, with cuffed pants and an open collar, and well-shined black shoes.
Once every few days, after making a mistake, he utters the only swearword he ever uses:
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