Mathlete

This was first published on the original Asnuma blog on January 12, 2015.

Much as we may wish to make a new beginning, some part of us resists doing so as though we were making the first step toward disaster.

- William Bridges

Today, January 12th, marked the first day of my second attempt at Calculus I. I attended the first lecture with a sense of impending doom at the hands of some incomprehensible lecture on chain rules; perhaps I may not make it past the derivatives bridgekeeper.

My professor is a curly-haired woman with a brash, sarcastic sense of humor. I liked her at once, but more importantly I respect her: She throws numbers down on a blackboard as though they were as easy to toss - as tangible, really - as a sack of potatoes. Perhaps such an approach to mathematics will benefit me. God knows I could stand to comprehend the material on a deeper, more embodied level. She walked into our palely-lit classroom, tugged her cardigan back into place, and began at once. "The pass rate of this class last semester was dismal," she announced.

"God, that sucks," I said to no one in particular.

She leaned against her podium. "The final exam was hard. That got a lot of people. But you know what? The exam was exactly like the study guide, the exact same problems. That tells me that too many students weren't looking at the material. You must complete the study guides. You must do the problems in the book." I glanced at the white textbook resting against my feet. It resembled a ball and chain.

We began where all calculus classes began, with the limit. As in any class, there are those students who take to the subject naturally. It does no good to envy them, but anyone who can look at a problem with five variables in the numerator, four in the denominator, and proclaim within seconds that the answer is -7 deserves the chorus of furrowed eyebrows that gets sent his way. He seemed to sense our hostile stares and smiled good-naturedly at the rest of us.

I can't begrudge him for his obvious talent. It is as though you are in a forest in winter. From the sky to the ground, you see only snow and dead trees. When you look to the left, you see white powder on blackened, twisted branches. When you look to the right, you see more of the same. Wherever you go, you will be in winter and you must learn to navigate the wilderness, learn to differentiate shades of snow and bark.

In this silent forest, you encounter a student draped in heavy clothes. Thick boots cover his feet and woolen mittens guard his hands. At his side is a satchel of supplies - a tent, a lamp, a compass, a book filled with warm words for the long nights. You stand in the snow, barefoot and with naught but a thin jacket. Your supplies are scattered throughout the trees, miles away from each other and from you. What must you do?

You must learn. You must learn to interpret the read the sounds of the birds in the morning and the owls at night. You must learn to trace your footsteps back to your tent and your lamp and your compass and, most importantly, your book. You must learn to draw comfort from the chilled air and sense when it shifts into something more sinister. You must learn to tell one tree from another, to rest your hand on its bark and feel its unique roughness and remember this tree put its roots here. You must do this if you wish to see this forest in the spring when it is in its most verdant splendor and its trees breathe life once more.

I am committed to learning. In this first week of class, I've no real choice but to go back where I started and gather up my tent, my lamp, my compass, and of course my book. There's a Samuel Beckett quote I've long admired: "Try. Fail again. Fail better." Try. Fail. Learn better.

Then go watch some Monty Python when the summer breaks through.