Dean Brockob Celebrates David DiLaura: “My Students Are My Family”

On 15 August, I had the opportunity to attend the 80th birthday celebration for Dr. David DiLaura, perhaps the most influential educator alive today.

When I arrived at the Koenig Alumni Center at the University of Colorado Boulder, a table displayed handmade pins shaped like smocks. I had seen Chip Israel wearing one the previous day at IES26, The Lighting Conference, and now the meaning became clear.

Donation Pins Made by Teal Brogden for the Fundraiser. Photo by Teal Brogden

Teal Brogden had created each pin by hand as part of a fundraising effort for the David L. DiLaura Faculty Fellowship in Architectural Engineering Endowment Fund. Teal explained that David typically wore a smock while teaching his classes. Your humble editor scanned the QR code, made a contribution and picked up a smock pin. A few pins remained on the table; one was a small red car that initially seemed out of place. Its significance would become clear when Dean Brockob took the microphone.

Sandra L. Vásconez sent the following information:  We are also pleased to have an opportunity to further David’s legacy through contributions to the David L. DiLaura Fellowship in Architectural Engineering Endowment Fund.

Before David delivered his own reflections, Dean Brockob—a 1990 graduate of the University of Colorado lighting program—welcomed the guests gathered to celebrate his former professor.

Dean promised to be brief. He also promised to speak “really, really fast.”

What followed was part tribute, part alumni trivia contest and part family reunion. Through a rapid-fire collection of memories, Dean portrayed David as exacting, intellectually curious, quietly funny and profoundly invested in his students.

Learning the DiLaura Vocabulary

Dean acknowledged that his academic record may not have been exceptional, but his memory was. Decades later, he could still recall David’s jokes, wisecracks and favorite vocabulary words.

The first was “bamboozle.” Then came “penultimate,” a word Dean said he learned from David and still uses about once a year to impress his children.

Another memorable word entered his vocabulary before a student retreat in Estes Park. David was explaining the rules for the weekend, particularly because respected lighting designer Gary Steffy was expected to attend.

“Listen. Eyes up here. Listen carefully,” David told the students. “I want to be very clear: No one will be inebriated this weekend. Am I clear?”

Dean understood that the instruction was serious, even if one detail remained unresolved. “My answer was, ‘Yes, that is very clear. I’m going to figure out what that word means.’”

David’s precision extended beyond vocabulary. A lover of classical music, he was equally attentive to pronunciation.

Dean recalled David’s reaction to alumnus Gary Dvorak pronouncing his surname differently from the traditional Czech pronunciation of composer Antonín Dvořák. According to Dean, David met with Gary several times and asked whether he had considered pronouncing his name differently.

David DiLaura looks on as Dean Brockob reminisces

Alumni Trivia and David’s Red Volvo

Dean then transformed the evening into an alumni trivia game based on the people in attendance. One question involved David’s red Volvo: Which student had borrowed the car and wrecked it? I happened to be standing next to Jeff Quinlan, whose expression immediately suggested he knew something about the incident.

“Don’t look at me,” Jeff said.

It was, in fact, Jeff.

I later tried to uncover more details about the red Volvo, but without success. Exactly how the car was borrowed—and how badly it was damaged—remains part of CU lighting-program lore.

The tiny red car on the smock pin finally made sense.

“No More Damn Pajamas”

Dean saved one of his most memorable classroom stories for a pair of red sweatpants. David had assigned what Dean described as an “insane, monstrous” homework problem. Dean worked on it for approximately an hour and 10 minutes before giving up. Other students persisted for two or three hours before reaching the same conclusion. One student reportedly taped six or seven sheets of paper together to accommodate all the calculations.

When the class reconvened, David was not pleased. He lectured the students about laziness, hard work and what would be required of them if they wanted to succeed.

He then turned to the chalkboard and began teaching. After only a few seconds, however, he remembered one final grievance.

Bob Hawkins regularly attended class wearing gray or red sweatpants. David turned back toward the students, pointed at Bob and declared, “And one more thing: No more damn pajamas!”

At the birthday celebration, Dean held up a pair of red sweatpants as he delivered the punchline.

A Lighting Educator Who Could Teach

The laughter eventually gave way to gratitude.

Dean admitted that mathematics had not come easily to him. Nevertheless, he built a successful career and credited much of that trajectory to his experience in CU Boulder’s lighting program—and to David’s ability to make difficult subjects understandable.

“I was blessed to be in the lighting program because David, number one, could teach,” Dean said. “He could help us understand these things. We could take away stuff.” Without David’s guidance, Dean joked, he might have ended up selling Dippin’ Dots.

His final story helped explain why so many former students had traveled to Boulder for the celebration. David frequently invited his students to his home for dinner, often once a semester. He prepared pasta, and afterward the kitchen would be filled with red sauce, dirty pots and pans, and students helping with the cleanup.

During one of those evenings, several students asked a question that went beyond lighting or mathematics. Many professors, they observed, present the material, leave the classroom and simply hope their students pass the final.

Why did David care so much?

Dean could not recall David’s exact words, but he remembered their meaning:

“In many respects, my students are my family.”

Looking across the gathering decades later, Dean found the perfect description for the occasion. “I’m delighted to be at this large family reunion,” he said.

The stories were funny because the people in the room shared their history. But beneath the vocabulary lessons, red sweatpants, difficult assignments, and a damaged Volvo was the real subject of Dean’s remarks: a gifted lighting educator whose influence endures because his investment in his students extended far beyond the classroom.