I hate math. I don’t mean that I dislike math, the way someone dislikes bananas or stubbing their toe, I mean I hate it. A true, deep, pronounced hatred.  Occasionally I’ll bring this up in conversation, chatting with college friends and fellow students about coursework. “Oh yeah, me too, I really hate math” is a response I’ve certainly gotten more than once.  To this I bob my head and give a small, commiserating smile. A simple, polite gesture.  Alas, behind my sympathizing façade is an acceptance that they don’t truly understand me. Their hatred, if hatred at all, is likely surface level and fleeting. The emotions conveyed as they make this claim match those of accidentally biting your tongue or dripping toothpaste on a black shirt. For me, it goes much deeper.

I understand that not everybody shares my same sentiment; the mathematicians of the world love their numbers just as much as I loathe them. Considering this, let me take you on journey that delves deep into my personal mathematical educational experience. There was no single, defining moment that made me hate math, but more a growing dissention building every time I stepped into a new classroom.

       The first branch of mathematics everybody learns is arithmetic, arguably because it’s the easiest. Real numbers, one answer, predetermined steps. If Jimmy has five apples and gives two of them to Susie, how many apples will Jimmy have left?  Nearly every first grader in the country is capable of drawing five apples and then crossing out two of them to conclude: Jimmy now has only three apples! It wasn’t difficulty that made my face screw up in a grimace and made me squirm in my seat, it was the simplicity of it all. 5-3 = 2 is just five symbols written down on a piece of paper. Those symbols, while they may represent actual apples, don’t say anything about where Jimmy bought them. They don’t say why he was giving them to Susie, or how they even tasted. Those symbols are flat, and I found myself resenting them because there is just so much more to reality. Arithmetic has no texture, no variation, and no emotion: frankly, it bored me. Life, and our experience in it, is not a set of numbers. Recognizing this while counting apples is where my hatred for math first began.

     While arithmetic opened my eyes to the distinct inability of numbers to capture the essence of living, the introduction of formulas to my education revealed the truth that human beings cannot be “solved”. Perhaps one of the first mathematical formulas I was able to memorize is the Pythagorean Theorem. I’m sure you know it too: A2 + B2 = C2. In words: the combined, and squared, lengths of the two legs of a right triangle equal the length of the hypotenuse! Easy. Direct. Just follow the steps. Despite this, the thought of putting pencil to (graph) paper and calculating the length of that hypotenuse puts that grimace back on my face and a restlessness in my bones. I become jittery; sigma, alpha, sin, cosine, tangent, prime numbers 3, 5, 7, 11 and improper fractions like 5/4ths and 4/3rds spin through my brain. My palms start to sweat, I try to swallow the lump in my throat. Perhaps, though, perhaps this visceral reaction is silly. After all, I would only have to follow the formula: add two squared numbers to get the length of that hypotenuse. There’s only one possible answer, a sole number is all I need to find. One single number, one single answer, one single explanation, and the problem is solved. 

       Have you ever tried explaining to someone why you love the things that you love? Not too long ago I entered a discussion with a friend about the long-running reality TV show Survivor. As a river delta meanders and branches, my explanation for the show’s value in my life began. On air for 17 years now, it’s the one show my family has consistently watched every single episode of. We sat down together on Wednesday nights, chose our favorite castaways and rooted for them throughout the duration of the season. In this way, I love Survivor because it reminds me of the closeness of my family and time spent together when we all still lived under the same roof. In a difference sense, I love Survivor because it is first and foremost a competition. I’ve been an athlete my whole life and the physical challenges and that fact that it is quite literally a game play to my competitive side. Lastly, I consider myself, in many ways, an observer. I watch and listen and think and gather information. Survivor is a game of strategy, deception, and emotional intelligence. I love Survivor because it speaks of human nature and social interaction.

      Needless to say, it’s nearly impossible to give a single concrete answer for why I love Survivor.  It all makes sense, for the most part. The reasons I provided are understandable and relatively straightforward on their own. That being said, even the answer to a question as simple as “why do you like Survivor?” leads into a complex and varied string of facts and ideas, completely unique to the person answering the question (in this case, me). There is no sole answer that can be reached by using a set formula, and in a way, this is beautiful. It is what gives us our individuality, our uniqueness, and our sense of self as human beings.

       Every question in life works this way. No two answers are exactly the same and a formula does not suffice. If asked “what is your relationship like with your older brother?” a simple “good” or “bad” cannot possibly begin to capture the emotional web I have been subconsciously constructing my whole life. He is wildly successful and incredibly smart; “bad” cannot portray the deep-seated inferiority I have always felt as a result. He is hilarious, generous, and kind; “good” cannot portray the pride I have in telling others his accomplishments, or the closeness I feel when we do things like share music with each other.  If asked “have you ever grown apart from someone?” a simple “yes” or “no” cannot come anywhere close to fulfilling the confusing, nuanced nature of our story. The word “yes” cannot help anyone visualize the snowy night we sat at the fountain, tears freezing on our faces as we acknowledged the irreparable fissures in our friendship.  The word “no” doesn’t show the awkward attempts at reconnection, the half-hearted effort from both sides, the refusal to fully accept what we both knew was broken. These questions cannot be answered by designing a formula to use over and over again. A formula cannot capture everything we feel or experience.

       Human beings are not a math problem, and life cannot be reduced to a set of numbers. There exists no set of rules to follow or steps to take that will lead you to a single answer, and a single answer doesn’t mean the problem is solved and the work is done. In math, there lies nothing beyond the combined lengths of the legs of a right triangle or 5-3=2. There is nothing beneath the surface, and every single person can, and must, follow the same steps to reach the only possible answer. Individuality is lost, creativity ceases to exist, and everything can be wrapped up in a neat little number. By biological definition, humans are complex. Emotions and experiences cannot be wrapped up in a single word or number; they must be told, portrayed, explained, demonstrated, expressed and declared. This is why I hate math, and this is why I write.