Friday, January 17, 1997
PROFESSOR:
Martin’s death invokes memory of valuable life lessonBy Warren
Hoppe
My heart skipped a beat today as I read the Daily Bruin headline
"Computer science professor dies after 29 years of service" Â
somehow I knew immediately from somewhere deep in my gut that it
referred to Professor David Martin. Since our brief, one-class
encounter over 10 years ago, thoughts of Professor Martin had
recently resurfaced in my mind. In November of last year, while
surfing the Internet for information regarding the computer
representation of conceptual knowledge, the name David Martin
jumped off the screen. Checking the email address, I determined
that it was in fact the David Martin  the person who possibly
taught me my most valuable lesson at UCLA.
With two quarters and 32 units standing between me and a June,
1986 graduation with a bachelors of arts degree in linguistics and
computer science, I foolishly enrolled in an upper division
computer science course titled "Compiler Construction" (the exact
course number, like the sands of time, escapes me). Professor David
Martin was the instructor and the co-author (as I recall) of its
primary text, a tome catchily titled "Compiler Construction."
Festooned on the book’s cover were some crude, colorfully drawn
dinosaurs  the reason why Professor Martin referred to it
exclusively as "The Dinosaur Book." Probably because of his
approachable demeanor, wry sense of humor and the fact that he
reminded me of my father, I liked Professor Martin almost
immediately.
For the next 10 weeks, while Professor Martin delivered his
carefully crafted lectures on the current issues, trends and
challenges of compiler construction (exciting stuff like reverse
Polish notation, referencing variables, procedure calls and stack
maintenance), our primary gradeable task was to work with a
teammate to construct a simple compiler. By week nine, it became
apparent that, through a combination of sloth and procrastination,
our compiler project was beyond salvage, even with a marathon week
of all-nighters. It was time to shift strategies. It was time to
weasel.
Summoning my spinelessness, I put on my most nimble pair of
fast-dancing shoes and went off to find Professor Martin, planning
to dance, wiggle, and squirm my way out of another scholastic
debacle. I could tell by the look on his face as I met him in the
inner sanctum of the computer science office that he knew exactly
why I was there. Nevertheless, I charged downhill into the valley
 do or die. He listened silently to my litany of lame mea
culpa excuses and to my plea for a project extension, an incomplete
 any option to make the evil "F" tarnishing my transcripts go
away and never come back.
Without malice, remorse or delight, he matter-of-factly looked
me in the eyes and said "No." The "F" would stand.
I can still remember that precise moment in the bowels of
Boelter Hall, the moment my actions had permanent, irreversible
consequences that no amount of weaseling could circumvent or erase.
I thanked him for his time and consideration, and headed for home
 and my impending 20-unit final Spring Quarter at UCLA.
Eleven years ago, Professor Martin gave me the "F" I deserved
and held me accountable for my choices, a conviction that is not
very popular or prevalent in today’s "it’s not my fault" talk show
society. My thoughts and prayers go out to Professor Martin and his
family as I remember him more for the strength of his convictions
than for the simple excellence of his scholarship.
UCLA would be a much finer institution if it had more men and
women like David Martin.