by Julianne McKay
One day in seventh grade, I was sitting at the kitchen table struggling through my pre-algebra homework. Frustrated, I erased my work for probably the tenth time and put down my pencil. I sighed, glaring out the window as if the trees in the backyard were to blame for my mathematical troubles. I knew what I had to do, but I didn’t have to be happy about it.
“Dad?” I called out reluctantly, “Could you come help me with my math homework?”
My dad loves math, and he is very good at it. Now, I know how lucky I am to be able to ask my dad questions about any kind of math. Back then, however, I was always wary of asking for his help. My brothers and I learned early on that asking Dad for help with a simple math problem could quickly turn into an hour-long lecture about things you never wanted to know. Once he was in the zone, there was no stopping him.
Today, however, I was desperate.
My dad got up from his place in the living room and came over, his eyes bright. “Sure,” he said, “what are we working on today?”
“Polynomials. I understand how to add them and combine like terms, but there’s this word problem I don’t understand,” I explained, trying to keep my questions as narrow as possible.
“Great. This is going to be fun,” he began, as I rolled my eyes. “Can I write on this?” he asked, gesturing to my math book.
“Well, actually- ” I began, but he’s already put pencil to textbook. “Dad, you can’t write in that! It’s the school’s!”
“Julianne, math textbooks are meant to be written in. Besides, I pay taxes, and taxes buy your textbooks, so really, this is my book.”
I huffed and slid down in my seat, resigned to my fate. I should have been more prepared with an extra sheet of paper. I knew that would happen. Dad will start writing on anything – anything– that’s available if you don’t give him another option; textbooks, your homework, permission slips, wedding invitations – all have been casualties of Dad’s lessons at one time or another.
Drawing a little diagram in my textbook, he broke down the word problem for me, and it actually started to make sense. He explained how to decide which item in the word problem is the variable, and how to order everything else around the variable.
Relieved that this had only taken a few minutes, I interrupted, “Great, thanks Dad. I can take it from–”
“But the really interesting thing is,” he interrupted me right back, “if we draw a graph for this, we can get the same answer by looking at the slope.”
I had been so close to freedom. This was the part of the lecture about things you never asked about and never wanted to know. In class, we hadn’t even learned to graph polynomials yet. I braced myself to wait it out.
As much as I tried to hate it, I couldn’t help but follow along as my dad drew the graph. He pointed out the slope and described the connections between what we saw visually with what we had done algebraically. His enthusiasm was contagious, and I found myself supplying answers when prompted and even asking more questions.
Once Dad finished exploring the connections between his graph and my word problem, he looked up at me, excitement visible in his eyes.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
I was excited too, but calling math beautiful, like it was some sort of art, had to be crossing a line. I didn’t want give him the satisfaction of having a good student, so I replied, “It’s math! It can’t be beautiful.”
Dad looked at me for a moment and then gestured out the big kitchen window to the backyard. “Look at that tree,” he said, “Do you think the tree is beautiful?”
“I guess.”
“Would a painting or a photograph of the tree be beautiful?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“It’s beautiful, then, the way the leaves connect to the branches, and the branches connect to the trunk?”
“Sure, Dad, trees are beautiful,” I replied, getting a little tired of this game.
“Well, that’s math! The connections on a tree are beautiful just as the connections in a math problem are beautiful. And when we prove something in math, we always try to make the proof as elegant as possible.” That’s his favorite word for a beautiful proof: elegant.
“Ok, cool, Dad,” I said, unconvinced, “Thanks for your help.”
I tried to push away the excitement from before and focus on what really mattered: finishing my homework. I didn’t understand how my dad could dwell on non-essential things like the beauty of math when there were assignments to turn in.
“Anytime, Julianne. It’s fun to do math with you.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled back.
It would take many years before I said those words back to my dad. For a long time I didn’t want to believe that math could be anything more than a means to an end. I didn’t want math to be fun, and I certainly didn’t want it to be beautiful. Slowly, though, I came to love the way math shaped my view of the world.
Looking back, I can pinpoint my change of heart to a few days after the kitchen-table-episode, when I caught myself looking out the window, pondering the beauty of the connections found in a certain tree.
Originally from Lynden, Washington, Julianne is a junior studying math and history at Gordon College. She enjoys being surrounded by books, looking at clouds, and wearing warm socks. If you want to be her friend, laugh at her jokes or ask her about what she is reading.