The Passion Theorem: What my freshman math teacher taught me about falling and staying in love...

I had a torrid love affair with math for one year and one year only. I took geometry my freshman year of high school and fell madly in love with it. It was the only year of my life I felt completely smart because it was the only time I ever excelled in math. It was as though I had been in a foreign place where I could't speak the language and finally after many years met someone who could speak in my native tongue and translate. Geometry translated an ever perplexing subject into something visual, beautiful and familiar. I had two math teachers that year. One was a tutor who prepared me for my first rigorous year at a prep school and the other was my geometry teacher.

Strangely enough, my experiences in math class freshman year also introduced me to the idea of what it really meant to be passionate. As an artist never would I have anticipated math class would be what taught me about passion. I have usually been wary of disciplines that always produce the one correct answer. This isn't to say I don't believe in some absolutes, but math always seemed to be an unforgiving tyrant leading me down a straight line of failure. I had a hard time believing in anything requiring every misstep be retraced and erased in order to reach the perfect and correct answer.

My math tutor the summer before I started freshman year had a startling hypothesis. She believed the way math traditionally was taught catered to men and often excluded women from more fully understanding and participating. In addition to this hypothesis she had developed a math curriculum she believed both men and women would thrive with. I desperately wanted to believe the reason I had previously been so bad at math was merely because I was socialized out of it… however, I was somewhat skeptical… That summer something remarkable happened. I did well. I did very well. I succeeded beyond what I ever could have fathomed. I marveled that one woman in her mid-twenties had already discovered something so transformative and game changing.  I idolized her. She instantly became a true mentor and provided a wealth of knowledge. I asked her about everything from relationships and haircare to life purpose and spirituality. One afternoon she gave me a piece of advice that seemingly belonged on a refrigerator magnet or Pinterest meme. She advised me to "fall in love everyday." At first blush this advice could seem like the text overlay on a photograph of dancing in the rain or even worse the permission to pimp oneself out, because at 14 "love"was the ultimate prize and worth soliciting everything for. Regardless of its possible interpretations, I was instantly struck by it and knew it was a mantra worth keeping. She went on to explain that everyday should be approached with wonder. One should wake up each morning with purpose and commitment to something valuable. One should constantly be awestruck by new things. One should love the things that have come to seem ordinary. And most importantly one should seek love only after learning to love the hobbies, interests, ideas and people swirling about them on a daily basis. I was baffled a math tutor could understand such lovely things about the world. But I knew she did. She had taken something as perplexing as mathematics and through her passion and curiosity created something that could make the entire discipline accessible and achievable for many others. It made me wonder what I could accomplish if I approached the comings and goings of my everyday with more purpose and zest.

 My geometry teacher was a woman in her mid to late sixties from Scotland. I loved her partially because of her delightful accent and partially because she was able to make math art. There were only three of us in her class so I quickly developed a close relationship with her. Similar to my tutor, I believed because she was able to unlock the door to math for me she was somehow a mystical creature who held all the answers. She did hold many good ones. As mentioned previously I was at the age where I was fascinated and somewhat obsessed with "love." I was equally enchanted by the idea of soul mates as I was disgusted by the prospect of spending the rest of eternity with one solitary, smelly person. I craved destiny as much as I feared boredom.

My geometry teacher never seemed to be bored with anything, she was the type of person who even found ways to make the month of January feel festive. In addition to knowing how to celebrate the seemingly mundane she absolutely adored her husband! After almost forty some odd years of marriage she remained smitten. It wasn't the kind of smitten that felt nauseating or codependent, nor did it seem merely like the mutual respect and gratitude couples speak of in the mature years of their relationship. It was a genuine sort of smitten. She still found this old, wrinkly man absolutely delightful and it astounded me. One afternoon I was so perplexed I finally asked her if she ever got bored with her husband. (I had certainly nailed the arithmetic of appropriate questions...)
She laughed at my inquiry and responded she had honestly never gotten bored. Flabbergasted by her response I followed up by asking how this was possible. She then explained to me her husband was the type of person who saw and discovered new things everyday. He continued to be curious and creative. He remained interested in what the daily grind had to offer and consequently remained interesting. By being willing to be surprised by life he constantly surprised her.

Stereotypically speaking, I think the only thing people struggle with more than equations is their quest for love, acceptance, and companionship. Most of the millennial women I know either make finding love their sole quest or pick a soapbox to serve as their primary distraction. As a generation I think we have become the most apathetically caring group yet. We have lost our ability to genuinely marvel. We may pontificate to the contrary, but very few of us seem surprised by what the day offers. If my calculation is correct, according to my math tutor's advice I should have fallen in love 9, 855 times by now. Unfortunately, I can't say I have. Luckily, last week I had a conversation with a dear friend reminding me of my math teachers' wisdom. I was reminded of how critically important it is to fall in love daily. I was reminded of the dire need we all have to develop passion and purpose in all arenas of our lives. And most importantly I was reminded of my desire for becoming someone who is always present and interested, becoming someone who is delighted to be in their own company, becoming someone who remains interesting, and becoming someone that a person who has fallen in love 9, 855 times before will fall in love with.

The Mormon's first day at Harvard...

I was sticky in a way I didn't know was possible. I felt as though I had been stuck in a hot tub with thousands of gummy bears for multiple hours. I was wearing what I refer to as my "apple jumper" because I had come to Boston with a wardrobe ill equipped to handle any extreme temperatures and my apple jumper was the coolest item of clothing I owned. My feet hurt as they burned against the friction of a hot day and my brisk pace. I wanted to be early. I wanted to make sure to have my reading done before class (for the first and only time) and I wanted to lose the strange fellow on the bicycle who appeared to be following me. And so began my first day at Harvard.

I searched frantically through my bag for my id card, the library wouldn't let you in without an id. And then he appeared. The Bicycle Bandit... I answered a bunch of introductory questions. I heard about his burgeoning career as a musician. I internally rolled my eyes as he told me about his late night recording session and then proceeded to scold myself for judging a musician on my first day of grad school in "arts in education." I wondered how stoned he was. I wondered how it was humanly possible for the combination of my humidity hair and apple jumper not to have dissuaded his pursuit of me. I waited for him to ask me for money. I anticipated signing a petition. He asked me for neither. Instead he asked me the question I was dreading, the question I knew I would get asked all day.

"Where are you from?" he asked. "Utah." "Oh, are you a Mormon?" 

I proceeded to answer several questions about Mitt Romney. I informed him I was a Democrat. I agreed with him when he compared Mormons to Puritans. I racked my brain to remember the faith base and practices of Puritans. Did they make furniture? Have long beards? Wear frumpy apple jumpers? I actually knew nothing about Puritans…He told me that his parents would be ok with a Mormon just not a Republican… He asked me if I wanted to get coffee sometime. I did the polite thing and gave him my number. It was the first time I had been asked out by a complete stranger. I didn't know better. It wasn't as though I had been given lots of practice turning down random men in bars. I left somewhat ashamed and somewhat proud. At least he knew Mormons could be Democrats. 

I arrived in class. I sat next to a lovely woman. She asked me… "Where are you from?" "Utah." "Oh, are you a Mormon?" "Mitt Romney?" I failed again. At least now two people now knew that you could  be a Mormon and a Democrat. I listened as my classmates spoke. Brilliance! I felt inadequate. I knew they were all smarter. I watched them cry. Discomfort. I wondered what they assumed. I let myself sink into my own apple jumpered, frizzy, left, Mormon corner of existence and disappear. This was day one…

I have thought a lot about my first day of grad school the past couple weeks. I have thought about the mistakes, the assumptions, and the pride I got caught in that day. I have always been from the smaller island off of the main island of misfit toys. I am accustom to feeling peculiar. But never before that day had I felt more like I didn't fit. I wasn't being a "good" academic and I wasn't being a "good" Mormon. I didn't belong to either my secular or spiritual world. I was adrift in my own fears that my classmates would assume I was strange, unintelligent and perhaps even bigoted if they knew I belonged to the most misunderstood faith in the Western world. I let my fears about their potential assumptions keep them from knowing me or better understanding my faith. I prayed Mitt Romney would't say something stupid and assured them that I didn't have the business qualifications of expertise to be kept in one of his binders…

At the conclusion of my first semester we were asked to submit a paper summarizing what we considered the most important "habits of mind" to develop in ourselves as educators and to cultivate in our classrooms. Our papers were visible to anyone in our cohort who desired to read them. One of the habits I focused on was the importance of freeing ourselves of assumption and I wrote about how fearing my classmates' perception of my faith had not only kept me from being knowable but teachable. 

A few weeks into the Christmas break I received an email from the classmate I considered to be the brightest, most intense, and most intimidating. I cried as I read it. Though we came from very different backgrounds and belonged to different faiths, she somehow understood my isolation perfectly. Her empathy emancipated me and I returned the second semester with no fear of being asked where I was from or what I believed. 

The experience opened me to recognize the genuine kindness of my classmates, and I was often taught a deeper understanding of the tenets I believed through their most gracious and generous examples. I was taught deeper reverence for creation and for the eternal potential of being a creator. I was taught to have greater faith in things working out for a reason. I was taught a stronger appreciation for agency and the value of choice and experience. I was taught there was sanctity and value in my own personal story. Most importantly I was taught that empathy transcends belief systems, political affiliations, sexual preferences, or anything else that may divide us. The chief characteristic of deity is empathy and we all could benefit through seeking to better cultivate this attribute within ourselves. 

The past couple weeks I have felt a bit like the frizzy, fat, failure sitting in her apple jumper on her first day at Harvard. I got rejected from school to pursue a phd, looked heinous in the bridesmaid dress for one of my best friend's upcoming nuptials, am only working part time and have no romantic prospects. Most my friends have either experienced great academic/career achievements or are thriving in their personal lives. I have yet to really accomplish either. Like that first day at Harvard I started to feel ashamed of my own story in light of a couple of really difficult weeks. However, as I have reflected on the wisdom of the past year I have realized my story is a triumph, and a miracle. I am no longer afraid to say, I am from Utah, I am a Mormon, I have a deep and unwavering belief in God and Jesus Christ. I believe it was only through the tender mercies of the Lord that I am still alive. I believe if the purpose of my life is merely to attest to that miracle than that is enough for me. I believe we all could do better at following the examples of my dear classmates and seek to recognize and validate the personal narratives of others. I believe that no matter what we believe, we should strive to make empathy the crowning characteristic of our lives.