Numbers and Words

One of the things I miss most about school is my math group. Alejandra, Luke, Taylor, Nathan, John, Ameya and I would sit in the back of the room during work time. John the Brilliant Freshman and Alejandra the Amazing Sophomore helped us to understand logarithms; Ameya fretted over his 98% ("I had a 102! This is so disappointing."); Taylor, Luke, and I talked about theatre. And Nathan? Nathan ate personal-sized pumpkin pies. He is potentially one of my very favorite people, ever.

Apart from struggling over exponential decay and trig, my math group had some really beautiful conversations over the last six or so months. One of these came on a snowy Wednesday at 2:15. College and credits had come up. What classes we were planning to take, the grades we needed, extracurriculars - the like. Luke on whether or not AP Calculus BC was worth it. Ameya saying he has no interests other than doing what his parents want him to do, which made us all a little sad. Taylor telling us her plans to become a dietitian.

And then the talk turned to money.

We wants the grades so we can get into the college so that we can have the job so we can make the money so we can buy the car and the house with the white picket fence so we can be happy. Luke on the idea that, if money weren't a factor, he'd love to be a professional pianist. Ameya saying he'll probably be a computer engineer so he can make that bread. Taylor telling us her plans to become a rich dietitian. And it made me said.

First of all, there's nothing wrong with wanting money. That's the way society has been conditioned, and you do need a certain amount of money to afford certain types of happiness. It's just realistic. I also know I am speaking from a place of privilege - money has never been a problem in my family. I am an upper-middle class white girl, living among masses upon masses of cookie-cutter houses and skinny tree trucks. My life is very privileged, I'm very grateful for it, and I recognize that in this post. That being said: I wish that my friends's wishes weren't so quantitative. I wish my own wishes weren't so quantitative.

So I said so, and proceeded to give a speech instead of finishing my worksheet. I got a D+ on the test. Hip hip hooray.

I've been thinking about what language I will die in. Will it be Latin or Mandarin or Spanish? Will it be Morse code or ASL or... I don't know... Python? I think I've sort of figured it out (as well as I can, with my minimal life experience). If I have it my way, I plan to live and die in the language of words. Words like grounds and pollen and scones and love. When I die, and I see my life flash before me, I will see daffodils and people and cashmere and feelings.

I won't see wads of cash, stock market figures, or the D+ I got on my logarithms exam when I was sixteen.

At the end of the day, words are so much important than numbers. Numbers are good at counting the tangible things in life, but rarely are the tangible things the best part. Words are better at all things qualitative, a better depiction of what something meant to me. A scar's significance doesn't come from its physical visibility, but the story behind it; unless you're Harry Potter, and your scar is a special shape. His scar's not like other scars. Oh so quirky.

Numbers are a strong foundation for a happy life. Because of that, I understand why people are infatuated with GPAs and SATs and annual incomes. But at some point, numbers stop building upon the general quality of your life. That's where the words jump in, furnishing the foundation, garnishing the ground floor. The richest, most opulent moments in life come in the form of crow's feet. People don't remember you for your height or your weight or your grades or your income. Nothing numerical. They remember you for the ways in which you touched them, the way your laugh sounded, and your heart.

Numbers and words. English and math. My math teacher always cracks jokes about the mundane, boring-ness of English class. My English teacher groans about the concrete, explicit-ness of math. We need both numbers and words in our lives, to survive, sure, but also to live. I do not deny the significance of zeros and ones. But when I die, when I'm flipping through the chapters of my life (please oh please, let the book be gold-gilded, like a fairy tale), my annotations won't be about zeros and ones. I will highlight the human-er bits and pieces. The word-sier ones.

I will smile and remember Nathan's personal pumpkin pies in math class. I can almost guarantee that I will not ruminate on my grades. But who knows? I'll let you know in eighty-ish years.

Remember what it's all for.
- Maya

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