A Teacher and an Engineer

This post is Part 2 of a series, Formation Under Constraint: The Making of a Writer.

My relationships with my parents were both best described as “fraught,” but it’s not my intent to air any more dirty laundry than I absolutely have to. In fact, there are quite a few aspects of my parents that have left me feeling proud — and privileged — to be their daughter. One of the most basic is the sheer diversity of their skill sets: my father was an engineer; my mother, a teacher. Both of them passed down worldviews, patterns of thought, and beliefs that echo in my own life and work. This is particularly true when it comes to the way I think about language and words.

One thing my parents had in common was that they both read for pleasure. As such, I don’t recall ever having specific time set aside for reading. Instead, I grew up with the assumption that reading nearly every day was normal (and unremarkable). Even today, I’m astonished when I realize that some people actually avoid reading whenever they have to. I don’t. In fact, I sometimes have to be stopped from reading too much. It’s hard for me to put a good book or an interesting article down.

My Mother: A Teacher

My mother’s bachelor’s degree was in elementary education. While I was in grade school, she completed a master’s degree in adult education. She went back one more time shortly after I finished high school, completing a second master’s degree in rehabilitation counseling. There’s a common thread that runs through all of these fields: they assume gaps in understanding. Children have to be taught how to read. If that doesn’t happen, that work has to be done as an adult. Reading, in turn, is the key to accessing one’s vocation in life, because it’s how knowledge is transmitted.

In other words, my mother taught me that explanation was a responsibility, not a weakness or an oversimplification. Explanation had to be done correctly if it’s going to be effective. It wasn’t enough just to explain; it was necessary to explain in a way that the audience actually understood. This approach emphasizes language that puts clarity before aesthetics, and comprehension before sophistication.

As a result, I’m deeply suspicious of writing that prioritizes aesthetics and sophistication, particularly if it does so by way of obscurity. That kind of opacity functions as a gatekeeping mechanism — something that’s designed to “lock people out” instead of “inviting them in.” It creates elitism, which directly opposes my parents’ shared value that all people are worthy of dignity and consideration. (There will be more on that value in a later post.) An emphasis on clarity and comprehension also naturally leads to a valuing of precision.

My Father: An Engineer

That’s where my father’s influence comes in. As an engineer, precision was his reason for being. It wasn’t an abstract ideal; it was a practical necessity. This was especially true in his specific field — radio engineering with the Voice of America — where he worked with ultra-high voltage electricity and national security. Lack of precision wasn’t just inelegant or incorrect; it was dangerous and potentially deadly. Systems either worked or they didn’t. Assumptions had consequences. Errors could propagate into disasters.

My father had scored a perfect 800 on the Math SAT, and he often played what I thought were fun “games” with me. It was only years later that I realized he was teaching me basic mathematical thinking. By this, I don’t mean arithmetic or algebra. I mean concepts such as pattern recognition, logical sequencing, and algorithmic thinking. I also never was allowed to develop the idea that math was irrelevant; nor did I ever differentiate between “numbers problems” and “word problems” — for him, as in real life, all math problems were word problems.

Yes, Dad was a bona fide geek. I didn’t know that until I was an adult, either.

This is why structure is so very important to me. In addition to emphasizing clarity and precision, I was also taught to approach the world using systems thinking. I instinctively break things into parts, examine them, and then look at how they fit together into a whole. Nothing exists in a vacuum or simply for its own sake.

Art and Function, Walking Hand-in-Hand

It’s also worth noting that another thing my parents had in common was that they were both visual artists. My mother sold some of her acrylics, donated others, and passed a few down to me. My father earned extra money on the side by doing electrical drafting diagrams on a pickup, word-of-mouth basis. Thus, while I was raised valuing clarity, precision, and correctness, I was also taught to value the artistic. I never saw any opposition between the artistic and the practical; both were presented to me as critical aspects of a fully lived life.

I inherited their tendencies, but not their talents. As a result, I’m not a visual artist myself beyond hobbyist photography.

Taken together, my parents’ influences shape how I approach writing at every level. Words are not ornamental; I expect them to function as tools, and use them the same way. In my mind, this is actually a form of respect, because clear writing assumes a reader’s inherent dignity. Writing precisely is taking responsibility for one’s statements. Acknowledging systems and consequences admits that words, like actions, do not and cannot exist in isolation.

This aspect of my formation also explains why I struggle, as a reader, with certain literary traditions, particularly 19th- and early-20th-century prose. Authors like the Brontës or Tolkien assume a shared cultural context, a patience for indirection and imprecision, and a tolerance for linguistic ornament that I simply do not have. Language for the sake of atmosphere or effect will, at best, bore me. At worst, I completely lose sight of the narrative thread. For me, words must do something: move understanding forward, clarify stakes, or make cause and effect visible.

This preference isn’t a rejection of art or a repudiation of Victorian authors and their literary descendants. It’s how I was formed, and it’s an essential part of who I am. My parents raised me with the baseline assumption that clarity, precision, structure, and artistry are not opposing values. Rather, they are complementary. I see beauty as coming from coherence rather than replacing it. Function comes first — not because art matters less, but because it matters enough to be taken seriously.

My parents taught me that words and language matter. How we use them matters. And when the stakes are real, being understood is not optional. It’s essential.

Next Up: Midwestern Restraint, Southern Memory — How Place Affects My Writing