Sometime after H. Ross Perot announced that he would be pulling out of the race for the presidency, my father died. In fact, I heard the news about Perot on the way to visit my Dad in the hospital. Now, after a little time has passed, I have noticed something that appears kind of strange, something that at first made me sad, but now makes me a little hopeful.

When I was very little, my father worked the late shifts at Braniff. He would often come in just before I got up or while I was getting ready for school. I was probably in the first or second grade, when he found me up watching television in the middle of the night. I was terrified of the dark and I was watching what my father called "the idiot box" more for the light than for entertainment. But I wouldn't tell my Dad that.

"I can't sleep. I don't feel very good." I said sheepishly.

"What is it?" he asked, seeing right through my lie.

"Uh, my stomach. It hurts, uh, really bad," I answered.

He lifted up my pajama top and pretended to inspect my white belly with fingers that were dirty and worn with years of fixing airplanes and smoking Lucky Strikes. Finally, just when I thought he'd send me to bed, he prescribed some medicine that may make doctors and mothers alike gasp: he said I needed a hamburger.

I waited anxiously as he showered and changed clothes. Then he picked me up and took me, in my pajamas, to Denny's. There we talked about what we did that day, told each other jokes, and ate burgers.

My Dad did a lot of other things to make me proud of him. Whenever I got in trouble, he always explained why he was punishing me and made me understand that spankings and restrictions were not because of his anger, as is the case with some parents. After years of struggle, he finally beat the alcoholism that cost him so much. The last ten years of his life were sober, but fun ones, and he never blamed anyone but himself for his problems. But that late night run to Denny's made me feel like a human being of more value than the IRS could put a price tag on. My father considered my words, be they the silly riddles of a child or the expression of a child's fears, as important as his own triumphs and defeats.

In a way, I wonder that Perot might not have given a similar feeling. I mean, I'm not sure I agree with everything that Perot has said or done. Great Yahweh knows my hair would keep me from an upper level management position in his company. But H. Ross Perot made a lot of Americans, people in abject despair over the way the political process works, believe that they had a voice as valid as senators, congressmen, and judges. He made us feel like what we said and what we wanted counted for something, something beyond the cold and sterile polls and deeper than the evening news.

My Dad is gone and Ross is not running for president (maybe), and I think that the world must endure a great loss for both. But there is hope. I don't know that I would have voted for Perot anymore than I could honestly say that my father was one of the greatest men to ever breathe. But I do know that I have hope that I can be a small force for change because both men made me believe that I am worth something, and that my worth has power.