Math with Dad

In first grade I had a friend named Hunter Gamble who was a year older because, after kindergarten, he went through a year of something called “Developmental First” that was intended to ensure all kids were emotionally prepared for first grade. (Did you know that Oklahoma was the first state in the US to have universal, free kindergarten and pre-k? And it’s been one of the most conservative states since its formation! There’s a Planet Money about it. Or maybe it’s a This American Life.) Hunter came from a broken home. As far as I know, his dad was never there, and his mom was only sometimes there. I saw inside once. It was really messy. I think other people were there more than Hunter’s mom, and when she was there, I doubt she gave Hunter much positive attention. Hunter liked to postpone going home after school as long as possible. Hunter and I knew each other from the soccer team. We loved soccer. One day it was Hunter’s turn for Show and Tell, but he basically didn’t have any toys or anything interesting at home, so he showed up empty-handed. Everyone thought he was going to be in big trouble, but he surprised us (and probably the teacher, too). He said he was going to show (and tell) us how the number 3 goes into the number 15. We all looked at each other and scoffed. Some laughed at him as if he were a charlatan. We saw no evidence whatsoever to suggest that 3 would go into 15, a number so obviously consisting of a 1 and a 5. But he did it. He knocked our socks off with his otherworldly knowledge of multiplication and division. But then, what did we expect? We were mere 5-year olds, and here he was 6.

So first grade was the year I became kind of intrigued by math, but it was also the (first) year I had a real discipline problem. I recall the following dialogue with my mom. It was repeated virtually every day, for every subject.

Mom: Kamalu, you still haven’t done your (phonics/math/spelling) homework.

Me: I don’t want to. Why do I have to do it?

Mom: Because it’s the rule. You have to do your homework.

Me: But I’m busy (playing Legos/watching bugs/building miniature canals next to the creek)!

Mom: You have to do your homework.

Me: Mom. There’s no reason for me to do the homework. It doesn’t teach me anything. You know I know it. Mrs. Shoemaker knows I know it. It’s easy for me.

Mom: You still have to do it.

Me: But if you know I know it, and Mrs. Shoemaker (my teacher) knows I know it, and if I know I know it… why do I have to do it?

Mom: (sighs) You just do.

Me: (angry, does homework extremely fast, out of spite)

So in first grade I kind of became interested in math, but not the math we were learning, so my interest fizzled. I took a much greater interest in sports and friends than in academics.

Then in third grade we were learning multiplication tables up to 12x12. Every student would work through a course of 1x to 12x. The first 2 minutes of math class every day would be dedicated to a short multiplication quiz. Thirty seconds were allotted for the distribution of small sheets of paper (one per student) which had 30 multiplication problems based on a specific number (i.e. 4x or x4 would appear in each problem). Sixty seconds were allowed for answering the questions. Thirty seconds were reserved for the collection of the papers. It was a tight ship. If a student answered all 30 questions correctly in the allotted time, she passed the quiz. Any other outcome constituted failure. As a reward for her triumph, she graduated to the next number in the series (from 1 to 12) and was awarded a component of a banana split made out of colorful construction paper. Students’ banana splits-in-progress hung on the wall for all to see. Over time, they grew towards completion. There were 12 necessary components.

We all started out with a quiz around the number 1 (e.g. 1x4 = ? and 11x1 = ?). There were about 25 students in the class, and I think everyone managed to pass that quiz on the first try. We each got an ice cream dish made out of construction paper with our name written on it. Long did we admire the way they looked on the wall, neatly arranged, all so alike, but all personalized.

Then came the struggle. I had no recollection of learning my 2 times tables, and the quizzes weren’t teaching me anything. And after school, it’s not like the quiz was part of my homework, so I didn’t think about it. About two weeks went by. Some students (the real brainiacs) were already on something like quiz 7. I think there were three or four of them with banana splits that actually resembled the real thing: banana, three scoops of ice cream (different colors), some whipped cream. Next to those tantalizing masterpieces, my empty dish looked downright pitiful. I think the teacher contacted my parents. (I can only imagine how that went. “I’m calling to announce a state of emergency. Your son is trailing the entire class in times tables. He hasn’t made any progress since we gave him the quiz on his 1 times tables two weeks ago! All he has is an empty dish! That’s a gimme! That’s where we write the students’ names!!!)

All of a sudden, my older sister’s and my bedtime routine shifted from listening to (but not comprehending, if I’m speaking for myself) my father’s readings of The Hobbit to a routine consisting of Hobbit readings PLUS multiplication flashcards. I think the flashcards were the first act, and the readings followed, as a kind of dessert. I always fell asleep before the end of that anyway.

After we started with the flashcards, I consistently passed my daily quiz. I ended up completing my banana split at the same time as one other student who had led the class the entire time. My appreciation for (and recently shaken confidence in) math was restored.

In fourth grade I met a girl named Sarah Radke. I liked her. She told me she liked to eat small pieces of paper, so I decided I’d do that too. (A romantic from the beginning, I know.) The trouble was, the only paper I had handy was the top of my crayon box—which wasn’t a big deal exactly, but it struck me as a bit of a shame to compromise the storage functionality of the box by tearing off the top. Only later did I realize that not only was a crayon box made of tough, durable cardboard instead of soft, supple notebook paper but also crayon box lids are relatively large and also relatively covered in wax. Anyway, Sarah also told me that she was studying calculus. “What’s that??” I asked, enchanted. “Advanced math.” Well, this girl basically just told me she was out of my league. And just before summer break! “Haha, not so fast!” I thought.

Shortly thereafter, on vacation, my dad and I had a quiet moment, and I told him I needed to know everything he knew about calculus. I think he was thrilled that I was taking an interest in something he knew a lot about. I don’t recall following his explanation very well, but I know it included an example involving the flow of air around an airfoil. Sadly, I ended up not learning calculus that summer. In the fall, I asked Sarah to explain what calculus was, and she looked at me as if I was crazy.

“You said you were studying calculus,” I said.

“What?”

“Last May. You said you were studying it.”

“Oh, I must have been kidding. My brother studies that. He’s in high school.”

I’d been had! That’s the last time I pursue advanced math for a woman. Or anyone other than myself. Unless it’s going to save someone’s life or something, and I’m the only one who can do it… But what I mean is that’s probably the last time.

For just about forever after that, my dad loved to give me math problems whenever we were killing time together. And we used to kill a lot of time together. He’d take me on business trips all around the state, and to neighboring states, and the whole time at least one of us would be working out a math problem (he would solve a problem, then give it to me, and work on the next one while I worked on the given one). There would be a lot of silence, but I wasn’t bored. Back then radio was an unreliable form of entertainment for rural drives, car CD players hadn’t been invented, and there probably wasn’t much he could tell me about his job that would interest me, nor that I could tell him about anything that would interest him. But we did have math. A favorite of his was base conversion. “Warren, what’s 562 base 7 in base 5?” Those problems would keep me busy for long stretches and make the drive go way faster.

As I got closer to high school we stopped doing that. I’m not sure why. I definitely didn’t go on as many road trips; maybe he didn’t either? I was definitely getting very quick with calculations, so maybe he had a hard time staying ahead of me with the problems. Maybe both of us just got too busy with our own work. I know we started having other, more substantive stuff to talk about, especially my performance in school (exemplary) and my involvement in Boy Scouts (exceptional).

Leap of Faith

(Preface: Before I say anything else, I should provide some resolution to the previous post: I've been accepted to the Booth School of Business at the University of Chicago! I found out at 5:30pm on the day of the admissions decisions. It was the perfect conclusion to an excruciatingly lengthy application process.)

In The Art of War by Sun Tzu, we are told of Hsiang Yu, an army commander who did something quite unusual. After leading his army across a river toward enemy troops, he ordered all his army's ships burned and all the cooking pots broken. Retreat and camp-making both became impossible, and there remained no alternative besides victory in combat.

***

I find motivation fascinating. I'm often intrigued by the forces, great and small, that cause us to do the things we do. (If you're also fascinated by these things, check out Drive by Daniel Pink. Here's a primer.) Naturally I've been thinking a lot about business school lately. It's so expensive, I think. In fact, that was my first thought when I got the good news. I was in, but wait--do I really want to go? In an instant I switched from dying to get in to hesitant... and in the next instant I reminded myself that I was being irrational. I knew it was expensive from the get-go. It's irrational to want something for so long and stop wanting it because you get it. (Of course, to stop wanting it because you realized you only ever wanted it in the first place was because you couldn't have it is rational, but it requires an admission of previous irrationality. But if we refuse to change our minds out of a stubborn refusal to admit prior irrationality, then that too...

Anyway, why did I suddenly become hesitant? It wasn't because I suddenly got what I'd hoped for. It was because of the cost. I've never had debt before, and business school requires me to take on about six figures' worth. Now, I knew that from the moment I began applying to schools. I applied to schools that have amazing employment statistics. Every one of the schools I applied to boasts a median starting salary in excess of the (lofty) average debt students have when they graduate, and that doesn't account for the signing bonus, relocation package, and other compensation that many graduates accrue. And for me, the value proposition of business school is much more straightforward than it would be for the average applicant, who must consider lost wages and the needs of a spouse or perhaps children. But again, I've never had debt. I don't have a phobia per se, but certainly a strong aversion. I've been taught that it's bad, not to be trifled with... evil, practically. And like the vast majority of Millennials, I avoid it entirely. I've never even carried a balance on my credit card from one month to the next. Freedom from debt has allowed me freedom in other areas of life. I went to a state school that offered me a generous scholarship partly so that I'd have more freedom of choice later. There I got a degree in chemical engineering, and then bioengineering, and then I abandoned engineering because I didn't feel passionate about it. Without the pressure of student debt (and in the absence of passion), I hadn't really committed. I hadn't needed to. Attending business school will put me in a do-or-die situation. I'll need to land an internship this winter, and I'll need to get a full-time offer before graduation. I've never been in a do-or-die situation before. I've always operated over a safety net.

But wait a minute. I joined Peace Corps. I decided to do volunteer work in another country with no assurances of a future afterward. I agreed to abandon any network I had in the US and spend two years in another part of the world building a network I'd also abandon. I didn't know how to parlay the whole experience into a career; in fact I had no intention to do so. I simply decided it would enrich my life and I did it. I committed. And it worked out. Of course, I had NO IDEA what a professional risk I was taking--many of my fellow Returned Peace Corps Volunteers have been looking for work for six months now--but at least I realized that quitting prematurely was not an option.

So maybe committing to something isn't entirely new to me. Maybe I have to commit again, only now the stakes are higher. Maybe the key to success in life is committing. Getting rid of the safety net. Burning the boats, and breaking the cooking pots.

Living, Striving

I didn't post last month, but it wasn't because I forgot. I wanted to wait until I had some news.

Since the first week of January I've had my hands full working at a nonprofit during the day and doing one-on-one tutoring at nights and on weekends. I've also been waiting to hear back regarding my applications to business school. Applying to MBA programs is a process that is sometimes described as "death by a thousand cuts." It involves research, campus visits, dozens of letters of recommendation, twice as many essays, and nervewracking interviews. On top of that, applicants need to take the GMAT or GRE and the TOEFL, perhaps more than once, which is a hurdle that demands its own considerable preparation. Altogether this takes several months. Actually, the successful applicant has spent years preparing for business school "in the background" by showing leadership at school, work, and in community involvement; by outperforming his peers academically and professionally; and by assembling an impressive work history (preferably international) punctuated by frequent promotions. In fact, creating a successul application might just be the most difficult step in getting a top-tier MBA. While it's typical for schools to accept less than 20% of applicants, approximately 99% of those who begin an MBA program complete it successfully.

Yesterday I found out that Dartmouth's Tuck School of Management could not offer me a place in their incoming class. That marked the fourth school to reject my application and thus the fourth significant disappointment since I began the application process nine months ago. And I must say it's exhausting to hope for something so long and not get it. To be completely honest, I've never wanted anything as strongly as I want business school. And at the risk of sounding vain, nothing has ever come so hard. The two results are that it's emotionally trying yet stubbornly appealing.

The whole process has given me plenty of opportunity to reflect on dreams and goals. How long can a person continue to hope for something in the face of repeated denial? I suppose the answer depends on how undesirable the alternative is. Some obvious examples come to mind, such as risking one's life to escape abject subjugation. But let's stick to the question's application to professional development. I've talked to people who have been applying and re-applying to business schools for two or three years. Some are now 32, 33, 34... and they say upfront that this year is their last hope. It's common knowledge that business schools prefer applicants at an early stage of their careers; there exist executive MBA programs dedicated to those applicants with more professional experience. These unsuccessful, repeat applicants, three (or more!) times more dejected than I, somehow find the will to repeat the life-consuming process year after year, writing four essays and wrangling two recommendations and taking off work for two visits and campus interviews and paying $250 multiplied by six schools--not to mention fees associated with essay services or admissions consultants... with nothing to show for it. No discernable fruits of their labor. With every rejection, the effort required to repeat the process must grow higher and higher. It must become more and more difficult to summon the energy to try again. Or does it? Does intial rejection cause an applicant to put forth less effort, thereby weakening his application, or does he redouble his attempts?

We all know that making something unobtainable increases its allure. Kids and adults alike long for that which they cannot have. It's one of the cornerstones of the luxury goods industry. Is it possible that unsuccessful business school applicants actually have more motivation to get in after initial rejections? Do his submissions actually get stronger and stronger? Certainly everyone must give up at some point. But which man is the coward--the one too easily discouraged--and which is the fool--the one who refuses to accept defeat? Which kind of person am I? Which kind of person are you? Which would you rather be?

I'm waiting to hear from one last school. If I'm not accepted there, I'll take it to mean that I simply don't have enough work experience, or the right kind, to get in. And I'll pour all my energy into making the career change I'm striving for. The career change that I've heard is only possible through business school.

Perfect. Timing.

Last week I interviewed for a position with an education nonprofit. At the end of the interview, I learned that my desired start date might be a few weeks later than the organization would like. The opportunity would be great for me in so many ways, and I'd be great for the nonprofit too... but two weeks' difference might prove to be enough to undermine my candidacy.

So much in life is a matter of timing. Sometimes we take opportunities not because they're perfect--that is, exactly what we want--but because they're the best at the time (and we don't know if or when the perfect opportunity will come). Sometimes a job will be exactly what we want now but will lead to an unrewarding job down the line. To use marriage as an example, sometimes a perfect groom develops into an undesirable husband. After all, it's not only the job or spouse that changes; desires change too.