In the autumn of 1987, I canvassed Kensington, Maryland on behalf of the US Public Interest Research Group. I was talking to citizens about acid rain. (Seems almost quaint now.) Canvassing’s a tough job. You get many noes for each yes and you have to keep a thick skin about you.
At one house, the father answered and said his family was eating dinner, which was usually a reason to send me away. Instead, he invited me to the table and asked if we could have a conversation about the environment with his wife and sons. It was one of those experiences that made the job worth while.
Better still, the elder son – Tony – came and canvassed for me the following summer. He was 17 years old, tall with a big jaw and glasses. He was a bit dorky and it was clear he had not yet accommodated himself to his new size. He was like a colt learning to run. Tony was not the best canvasser in the office that summer, but I took particular pleasure watching his progress. Although I was 27 (it seemed old at the time), I took an avuncular interest in him. It was like watching a coming-of-age movie.
Through the years, I’ve told Tony’s story at gatherings where canvassers and ex-canvassers meet. “Did you hear about the time, I canvassed this house and came away with a canvasser?” I was always proud of that.
On the evening of Martin Luther King Day in DC, I was attending an event and ran into Tony’s parents, Sam and Karabelle. I introduced myself and launched into my story about Tony. As I did, I watched emotions flicker over their faces, like a breeze across the surface of a pond. Wrapping up, I said, “He was such a great kid. What’s he up to now?”
Sam swallowed and said, “Tony died… in an automobile accident…. In 1995.” I expressed my shock and condolence and then they proceeded to tell me about the rest of Tony’s life.
A computer prodigy, he programmed his first machine at age 10. By 14, he volunteered for CISPES, the Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador, getting their software sorted at the height of the civil war and oppression in that country. By 17, he was working for me and soon after departed for MIT, where he pushed forward the boundary of software design.
His parents say Tony’s interest lay in open-source software. If you’re not familiar with the term, open-source software is developed and shared without regard to copyrights and royalties. Because it is held in the public domain, anyone can access it (and improve on it) for free. It’s a technological return to the concept of the village common, where all share and all benefit. Tony’s parents said he firmly believed in the power of technology to better the lives of people everywhere, not to line the pockets of a handful of entrepreneurs. As Steve Jobs launches another product designed to get consumers to shell out hundreds of dollars to Apple for a “content delivery device,” I realize again how much we lose when people like Tony die before their time.
Tony graduated from MIT, moved to California and met his fatal accident. He lives on through the Antonio Pizzigati Prize for Software in the Public Interest, awarded annually. It’s a fitting tribute. Please pass news about the prize along to the technically proficient. I’d be honored if I indirectly helped a worthy candidate find the prize.
The pain on Karabelle and Sam’s faces was clear as we spoke. Fifteen years after Tony’s death, it was clear my words brought it rushing back to the surface. At the same time, there was immense love and pride. I could see how much it meant to them to have a face come from the crowd and have a stranger recall Tony with affection. We would all be fortunate to be so remembered.
I searched for something appropriate to say. A phrase by the Egyptian novelist Naguib Mahfouz came to mind, so I spoke it: “The quality of a life is not measured by its length.”
Not Measured By Length
In the autumn of 1987, I canvassed Kensington, Maryland on behalf of the US Public Interest Research Group. I was talking to citizens about acid rain. (Seems almost quaint now.) Canvassing’s a tough job. You get many noes for each yes and you have to keep a thick skin about you.
At one house, the father answered and said his family was eating dinner, which was usually a reason to send me away. Instead, he invited me to the table and asked if we could have a conversation about the environment with his wife and sons. It was one of those experiences that made the job worth while.
Better still, the elder son – Tony – came and canvassed for me the following summer. He was 17 years old, tall with a big jaw and glasses. He was a bit dorky and it was clear he had not yet accommodated himself to his new size. He was like a colt learning to run. Tony was not the best canvasser in the office that summer, but I took particular pleasure watching his progress. Although I was 27 (it seemed old at the time), I took an avuncular interest in him. It was like watching a coming-of-age movie.
Through the years, I’ve told Tony’s story at gatherings where canvassers and ex-canvassers meet. “Did you hear about the time, I canvassed this house and came away with a canvasser?” I was always proud of that.
On the evening of Martin Luther King Day in DC, I was attending an event and ran into Tony’s parents, Sam and Karabelle. I introduced myself and launched into my story about Tony. As I did, I watched emotions flicker over their faces, like a breeze across the surface of a pond. Wrapping up, I said, “He was such a great kid. What’s he up to now?”
Sam swallowed and said, “Tony died… in an automobile accident…. In 1995.” I expressed my shock and condolence and then they proceeded to tell me about the rest of Tony’s life.
A computer prodigy, he programmed his first machine at age 10. By 14, he volunteered for CISPES, the Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador, getting their software sorted at the height of the civil war and oppression in that country. By 17, he was working for me and soon after departed for MIT, where he pushed forward the boundary of software design.
His parents say Tony’s interest lay in open-source software. If you’re not familiar with the term, open-source software is developed and shared without regard to copyrights and royalties. Because it is held in the public domain, anyone can access it (and improve on it) for free. It’s a technological return to the concept of the village common, where all share and all benefit. Tony’s parents said he firmly believed in the power of technology to better the lives of people everywhere, not to line the pockets of a handful of entrepreneurs. As Steve Jobs launches another product designed to get consumers to shell out hundreds of dollars to Apple for a “content delivery device,” I realize again how much we lose when people like Tony die before their time.
Tony graduated from MIT, moved to California and met his fatal accident. He lives on through the Antonio Pizzigati Prize for Software in the Public Interest, awarded annually. It’s a fitting tribute. Please pass news about the prize along to the technically proficient. I’d be honored if I indirectly helped a worthy candidate find the prize.
The pain on Karabelle and Sam’s faces was clear as we spoke. Fifteen years after Tony’s death, it was clear my words brought it rushing back to the surface. At the same time, there was immense love and pride. I could see how much it meant to them to have a face come from the crowd and have a stranger recall Tony with affection. We would all be fortunate to be so remembered.
I searched for something appropriate to say. A phrase by the Egyptian novelist Naguib Mahfouz came to mind, so I spoke it: “The quality of a life is not measured by its length.”
© Mark Floegel, 2010