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).

Gestation Period

How can you determine a person's potential? Is there a trick to it?

Toward the end of last month I spent a week with my father's mother and stepfather. Years before I was born, my grandmother divorced my biological grandfather and later married for a second time. During my time with the two of them, she told me that her second husband had seen in her a unopened flower bud that had yet to bloom. And she strongly feels that over the course of the last 30 years, she has been able to develop into the person she was supposed to become during the first 50 years of her life. Interestingly, I see in her second husband nearly all of the traits of her first husband that she says suppressed her development.

I wanted to know what my grandfather (her second husband) knew that I didn't. "How do you look inside someone and see what she's capable of? Is there a trick?" I asked. He laughed. "I have no idea. I don't think there's a trick, though."

Okay, so I didn't get an answer to that question. But I had another one: Why couldn't my grandmother see for herself that she wasn't developing to her fullest? That's a question I decided not to ask aloud.

But maybe that's just the way it is. Maybe people don't explicitly realize when their development has stalled. Maybe they have only a vague feeling of ennui. And was it in fact the characteristics of my grandmother's first husband that held her back? Were they really to blame? Or was it merely her perception of their culpability, and her subsequent resentment of them (and him), that made divorce the only course of action?

This fall I'm going back to school. It's comfortable and lazy to think it will be a period of great personal development. I say "comfortable and lazy" because it's a deferment of action. Why should I wait until then? What would the-person-I-want-to-be do in my position?

I'm off to go learn something.

A New Normal

In Ukraine I used to fantasize about what it would be like to be back in the US and drive again. After so long riding sluggish Ukrainian marshutkas on pockmarked roads, I imagined how terrified I'd be to drive fast again. I recalled this yesterday as I was doing 80 mph on I-94.

It's astonishing how fast we adjust to new circumstances. We can adjust to an increased (or decreased) workload, more (or less) frequent meals, and even life with (or without) loved ones. Whether things change for better or for worse, humans always seem to reach equilibrium pretty fast. Harvard psychologist Dan Gilbert gave a TED talk in which he described the descrepancy between how (un)happy we expect to be and how happy we actually are following an unpleasant turn of events. The fact is, humans synthesize happiness when things go poorly. We're resilient like that.

Thanksgiving, Homecoming, and an Embarrassment of Riches

Today is Thanksgiving, and I have so much to be thankful for. The past month has been filled with sentimental goodbyes as I parted ways with friends I've made over the past two years. My departure from Ukraine has been extremely emotional and difficult, but I take this as a positive sign. I feel that the more difficult it is to leave, the more significant this experience must have been.

My homecoming was a surprise for my mother and my sister. My father secretly picked me up from the airport, and then we killed a few hours while waiting for my sister's flight to arrive from New York. My father and I got BBQ pork sandwiches for lunch (so delicious) and then went to Sam's Club for Thanksgiving-related groceries. This is the point in the story at which my mind exploded.

Beginnings and Endings

Preface:

I thought this would be a fitting inaugural post, as it marks the end of a narrowly-themed (and thus scantly updated) blog and the beginning of a broader (and hopefully more regularly updated) blog.

A lot of things are changing in my life. A new job, a new country. The end of a romantic relationship, the beginning of some remarkable friendships. Some of the things that are ending were part of my life for years; some lasted only a couple months. As new things begin in my life, I find myself wondering what (and who) will play an enduring role, and what (and who) won’t. But what specifically will last isn’t so important; what’s important is that the things that will last will do so because they contribute to my growth.

Endings are a time for reflection. As one lives the final moments, goes through the final motions, it's natural to think back on what transpired. My fellow Peace Corps volunteers and I recently had a close of service conference, signifying the end of our international engagement. The conference meant the end of being near other volunteers, some of whom I only befriended at the very end of service. It also represented the end of my immersion in a foreign culture. But my time here, although drawing to a close, marks the beginning of my interest in foreign languages and volunteering.