Good People Are Round People
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Walk Emily Home
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I’ve always loved etiquette books, especially ones that come with lists of arcane tips or guidelines for leading a fuller life. Among my favorite are the following: A gentleman has a crisp, clear handwriting and he holds doors open for his friends. He carries a lighter whether he smokes or not. He reads for fun, and a gentleman makes an honest effort to enjoy those things he doesn’t understand.
It’s August 26th, and on a giant screen I’m watching 15 ruddy-cheeked, chubby 11 year-olds frolic together on a grass field. They lovingly embrace, crying in ecstasy as they roll together on the ground. They wear tight pants and have creepy biblical-but-not-quite-biblical names like Micah and Taylor. They dive all over each other. The rolling goes on for some time.
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No, I’m not sitting in Professor Ellis Hanson’s class. I’m watching the end of the Little League World Series. The Georgians have finally won something.
I nod with respect as the Japanese opponents wipe their tears and stoically exit the field. They’ve provided honorable competition, and deserved to win just as much as the Americans.
Swelling with patriotism, I then turn away from my TV and notice that my roommate is staring at me with a very concerned look on her face. She doesn’t get why I’ve spent the last two hours watching pre-pubescent children play a game, and, understandably, this has given her pause.
She silently backs out of the room, presumably second-guessing her decision to live with me for the 15th time that day.
“Come on!” I yell as she leaves. “It’s baseball!”
She doesn’t seem to get it. She doesn’t seem to understand. I don’t blame her, though, because I, too, am offset by the different and unknown.
Like most people, there are many things that terrify me because I’m unfamiliar with them. I’m scared of bees because I’ve never been stung. I don’t care how many times you’ve been stung, I haven’t had the pleasure, so I just about wet myself whenever one of those furry bastards comes near me. I’m terrified of flying because I have no concept of the physics involved, and I consider it a miracle when my plane lands safely. I’m scared to order crawfish because it looks disgusting, I’d probably die of shock if I got caught in a tornado and I worry about the Klan more than a reasonable person should.
But I’ve overcome some fears. For instance, before this summer I was scared of math, because, honestly, I suck at it.
When I say “I suck at math,” I don’t mean to say that I’m completely inept. I can figure out most math problems, it’s just not a pretty sight. I’m like the black-and-white “before” footage in an infomercial that shows a distressed proto-palsied woman fumbling slippery knives because she needs the Magic Bullet and hasn’t yet bought one. That is, I’m capable — but I wouldn’t bet on me to chop without maiming myself.
But, this summer, as a rising senior, a cruel reality set in, and, once again, the words of my 11th grade pre-Calc teacher rang in my ears: “Writing might get you out of school, but it’s the math that gets you in … Also, Noah, you’re not going to be an astronaut, so stop kidding yourself.”
In order to move on with my education I had to take — and do well on — the GRE exam. It’s relatively easy math, sure, but it’s math that I hadn’t done in five years, and I never really had the hang of in the first place. To overcome this hurdle I decided to alter the way I saw math in order to make it interesting to me. I chose to use my dull, shaky knives — the wrong side of my brain — to approach and conquer math problems, to seek and then destroy.
It worked pretty well, and I’m no longer frightened by numbers. In fact, warping the unfamiliar into the entertaining was pretty cool. I’ll demonstrate:
Pre-Calculus problems (graphs, lines, what-have-you) allow me to pretend that I’m launching world-saving mega missiles from NORAD to deflect oncoming asteroids. You too would memorize the quadratic formula if it meant the difference between saving civilization or having to eat canned Fancy Feast because the Big One hit.
Calculating Bill and Jane’s average gas consumption for their 75-mile trip to and from the pep rally reminds me how much I love road trips (and pep rallies!) and makes me think how much fun it might be to run out of gas with a girl, provided she doesn’t leave me for dead at the side of the road.
This type of problem, though, proves especially difficult for me because I get distracted by unnecessary information and tend to over-read. Bill and Jane drove to the rally together, you say? What did Jane have for dinner? Did Bill pay for her meal? Does Bill plan to drive Jane home, or will they be joining the rest of the team at the Best Western for a sleepover?
Even Geometry problems can be fun: A certain dumpster measures 10 feet by 10 feet by 30 feet. How many Ayn Rand novels and Thomas Kincaid paintings does it take to fill said dumpster?
So, yes, I’ve avoided mastering math, but through this process I’ve learned that it’s possible to enjoy something I don’t understand. Even though my understanding is still pathetically incomplete, I can at least appreciate what used to be frightening.
This lesson can be applied to other areas of life. Perhaps by embracing and celebrating our ignorance, we can come to at least tolerate, if not enjoy, the unfamiliar things around us. I invite everyone to play along.
If you’re the jock type, go to a dance performance and appreciate the choreography — think of it as complicated pick-and-roll plays. If you’re an indy-rock snob, go to a hockey game and find the cheers just as liberating as down-tuned ballads. If you’re tired of Greek life, go to a quiet wine-and-cheese house party. Racist? Take an Africana Studies course. Homophobic? Sit in on an FGSS lecture. Hate baseball? Watch a playoff game and then tell me it’s not beautiful. Let’s round ourselves. It’s what good people do.
Noah Hy Brozinsky is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. He can be contacted at nbrozinsky@cornellsun.com. Walk Emily Home will appear alternate Wednesdays this semester.