A Man Named Dave

Ziegler with the first signed copy of A Child Called “It”. The second signed copy I kept for my son, and the others were given to Mrs Konstan, my fourth-grade teacher who still taught at the school, and Mrs Woodworth, my English teacher who, because I had stuttered in class so badly, had encouraged me to communicate through writing. By dedicating and presenting the book to my saviors, I felt I was able to fulfill my vow of honoring them that I had made the day I was rescued.
    Weeks following, I received a framed picture of my teachers taken the day of my visit. Engraved on the frame was WITH LOVE AND PRIDE. Like a child with a prized toy, I rushed to show Patsy, but she didn’t seem too interested. For some time her patience with my new profession had been wearing thin. I tried to tell her, but I could not get her to understand how hard it was to start anew, especially since for years I had given programs for gratis, for organizations that had little to no funds. Somehow, it made it that much more difficult to make a living. To calm Patsy, I told her that because I had not received many bookings, the firm was kind enough to loan me advances. But in order to pay the rent and other bills, when not on the road I worked part-time at juvenile hall and took another job sanding kitchen door cabinets. It seemed no matter how hard I fought to convince Patsy, for some reason she thought I was going to be an overnight success.
    I knew there was something wrong back in the Lincoln office. By now I should have received more bookings. But I felt too intimidated to say anything to the owners, Carl and Rich, especially since they were helping to feed my family. I hated myself for the position I was in. For the first time I was receiving money without earning it beforehand. Since my time in foster care, I always had pulled my own weight. For the most part I kept my apprehension to myself. A part of me felt I was being overly paranoid. I believed if I worked hard enough, somehow, someday, with a little luck, I would succeed.
    My only concern was for Stephen. At times I would rush home after either flying, driving throughout the night, working at juvenile hall, or from putting in a full shift at the cabinet shop, to greet Patsy, jump in the shower, then race off to take Stephen to the latest Disney movie or spend the afternoon at the park playing baseball. Whenever Stephen came home from school, I always put aside my work so I could be with him; then later, after tucking him into bed, I’d return to complete my tasks. As much as I struggled to take care of my family, I didn’t want to lose my son in the process.
     
    For Patsy, the final straw came in July 1994. After waiting for me to break through, she had had enough. “It’s been nearly two years,” she said. “It shouldn’t take this long. And you’re still not making any –”
    “I told you, it takes time.”
    “Two years, you promised. You said two years and you ain’t made it yet. What about me? I had to wait around while you flew for the air force, and now, after two years, what do I have to show for it? We can’t even afford to heat the house.” Before I could defend myself, she went off in a different direction. “You’re such a wimp. I know you’re getting screwed from those – those speakers in Nebraska. They have no idea what the hell they’re doing. They can’t pitch you. For God’s sake, they plug you as the child-abuse guy, and who wants to hear about that? Whatever happened to you giving those motivational-responsibility programs you gave before?” I shook my head, indicating I didn’t have an answer. “You’re so smart on some things but completely stupid on others. I don’t trust them. Think about it: If you’re such a great speaker and if your book is so good, tell me, how come you can’t get any paid bookings?”
    “Well, we got more than last year …”
    “Oh, no, don’t you even go there with that. Even after your little outstanding-American-person thing, you got nothing.”
    “Ten Outstanding Young Americans award,” I proudly corrected.
    “Excuse me! Whatever!” Patsy rolled her eyes. “If your revered little award was all that, why didn’t you get anything out of it? It’s been, what, a year and a half since you got that thing, and I don’t see anybody beating down your door. Huh, come on, tell me.”
    If I had a lifetime, I could never explain to Patsy the mix of unworthiness and absolute honor I had felt receiving the recognition on the eve of the twentieth