David Ferrari

David Ferrari was a teacher. He found his purpose standing in front of a classroom, encouraging young people to see the world with curiosity, skepticism, humor, and love. The only times he felt more fulfilled were the moments afterwards, seeing the seeds he'd planted sprout towards the sun at their own unique angle (He took pride in appreciating the idiosyncrasies that define us). He'd often bring his son Adam to campus, and they could hardly walk 30 seconds without being interrupted by a former student rushing up, red-faced with excitement and maybe a little residual adolescent embarrassment at being so delighted to see their teacher. First, they'd start some personalized ritual of in-jokes and classroom references. Then, they'd both crack up laughing. Then, the student would say something about their next project or job, and Dave would say something encouraging. Finally, the student would thank Dave for helping them get this project or job, Dave would deflect the praise back onto the student, and they'd revive the damn in-joke routine again as they walked off laughing, both looking so completely at home on campus. Dave had students from over 100 countries, and he always tried to make them feel at home--asking about their cultures, creating assignments that drew on their life experience, treating them like beloved nieces and nephews just old enough to be in on the joke. (The joke was always twinkling in the corner of his right eye, and he was always proud of it, even the rare times he thought better of saying it.) His students made him feel like the most important person on campus, even if the bureaucrats called him "adjunct." He taught up to 12 classes at a time, usually without health insurance, fair pay, or even an alcohol habit to fall back on, but he made a living for his family, and he loved the work. In the days before his 67th birthday, already paralyzed from the waist down, he spent some of his last lucid moments typing recommendation letters for students. In the last days, when he could no longer move his hands or speak above a strained whisper, he'd briefly come into consciousness and ask his wife Lori, "Just tell me this: Am I teaching tomorrow?" 

Dad was a father. As a child, he learned a lot about fathers. In his 20s, he became a mental health technician for children because he wanted to help troubled young people learn to heal themselves from traumatic abuse. Many of Dave’s best stories were about how he’d delight in connecting with the most dangerous patients: He’d “steal the bad behavior,” teach the kid a jedi mind trick, distract the kid with a crazy story, redirect the kid’s energy into their own personal in-joke routine, or notice something subtle about the kid’s body language that showed that--despite all evidence to the contrary--all they wanted was to feel safe. Dave didn’t plan on becoming a father at 31, but when it happened, he decided to be the gentle kind. “No physical violence in the house,” he’d tell the bloodthirsty teenage boys, and he had the moral authority to say that because that’s how he lived, in the house and out. He taught his boys to solve their problems with words or music; he taught them to love helpless creatures; he taught them to respect others’ differences; he taught them to see the good in people; he taught them to see the cruelty and hypocrisy and racism in the world; he taught them not say “gay” to mean “stupid”; he taught them to prefer advanced stats; he wrote them personalized books ranking the best basketball players at each position; he drew them pictures of animals; he assistant-coached their teams and found the perfect defensive scheme to utilise the mental toughness of the worst player; he drew up trick plays on his stomach during the family Thanksgiving football game, drawing his sons into the conspiracy to help the smallest kids score a touchdown; he walked with them all over Edmond, telling his “Greatest Hits” stories; he taught them the entire history of American popular music and that this story is also the story of racism; he took them on long, rambling drives through the countryside, teaching them by example how to wander, how to enjoy being lost. He taught them how to take care of each other even when they’re broken.

Dave was a husband. He loved his wife, Lori, more than anything else in the world. In the later years, when his tongue got freer about the vulnerable stuff, he’d often interrupt an interlocked chain of Greatest Hits stories by saying, “...and it’s a good thing, because that led to me meeting your mother, which was the most important thing that ever happened to me.” He moved to frickin’ Oklahoma--OKLAHOMA!!!--so that Lori could be near her family, and he never acted bitter about it. He wrote her special anniversary cards and cooked her homemade popcorn and joked about the NCIS characters with her. He hid holiday-themed Reese’s peanut butter cups around the house for her, and she’d still be finding them nine months later. Lori’s birthday was two days before Dave died; Dave had spoken his last words, moved his last finger, swallowed his last swallow. But when she woke up to check on him in the middle of the night, she found a Reese’s peanut butter pumpkin resting on his chest, because David Ferrari was a husband, a father, and a teacher.