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.

        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 a grimace on my face and 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 add two squared numbers to get the length of that hypotenuse, and 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. It went something like this: well, my family has been watching Survivor since it aired over a decade ago. It’s kind of like a tradition in our household. Oh, but also, as an athlete I also love watching the castaways compete in the physical challenges! It’s the ultimate competition! Mmm, but as an observer and a listener I think it’s fascinating to watch the human interactions and the differences in each person’s social strategies…

       Needless to say, I don’t think I ever ended up giving a concrete answer to why I love Survivor.  It all made 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.

       Every question in life works this way. No two answers are exactly the same and a single word 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.

       Human beings are not a math problem. 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. 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.