December 25th, 2023
It’s a typical Tuesday. The school bell rings and students pour out of classrooms. Some run to catch the impatiently waiting school buses. A good portion proceeds to the athletic departments, where they participate in a school sports team. Many others stay behind to hang out with their friends in the library or attend a club they have a genuine interest.
I stride towards the dreaded math wing.
I arrive outside the vacuous meeting room. I greet our advisor and enter. Sometimes, there’s a statistics teacher who signs off her computer, packs up her belongings, and walks out through the student-forbidden exit at the side of the room. Other times, it’s filled with a couple of members who ask me if they’re too early, if there’s a meeting today, what we’re going to do.
But many times, the room is empty. Cut out the noisy air conditioning and throw out the backpack beside the desk, it’s an eerily lonely room to be in when people out there are hanging out in the orchestra room or competing against another school in a dual meet.
At the same time, I respect the silence.
Within minutes, everyone who attends shows up. I greet them and hope the other officers show up on time. As abruptly as an object springing from rest in a trebuchet, the room is suddenly filled with life. Chattering. Noise. Yelling, even.
What once was a quiet, settled, controllable environment changes into a riot. All around the room, numbers, symbols, and ideas of all shapes, colors, and forms splatter onto the whiteboard. Dry-erase markers attack the board, making the incessant pitter-patter that marks ingenuity, creativity, error, and misconceptions. Logical conversations and clarifying interruptions often fill up the once-empty, devoid space.
At a round table in the corner, a group of freshmen plays video games on their phones or computers. Other kids think about a number-theoretical problem. Some upperclassmen discuss geometry.
In this room, everyone is engaged in some activity that stretches their mind in some form.
What in the world?
Welcome to South Math Club.
At precisely ten after 4, the chaos subsides. The room is quiet again. One or two of the officers remain to help clean up the room for tomorrow’s morning class.
After I finish wiping down the geometry diagrams, the algebra equations, and even complex numbers, I pack up and listen to the never-ending humming drone of the air conditioning above. I face the tables, around each surrounds four or five chairs. Everything looks tidy.
I turn off the lights and walk out of the room. I wave goodbye to the officers who leave.
And how many times have I stood there, in the middle of an empty math wing? Silently pray for my mathematical ability, which I doubt often. Take glimpses at each classroom, bounded by foldable walls that have never been, and never will be replaced by real walls. Very rarely do I stare at the rows and columns of trophies, shielded by a glass display. Who knows how long it has been since anyone has ever modified it, touched it, or even glanced at it?
Sometimes, I immerse myself fully in that environment. It’s just me and the math. No distractions, no competition scores, no officers, no members, nada.
The rows of desks, the chairs beneath the desks, the antique rug that won’t be replaced. The wooden tables in the main commons.
(will need to look again for that differential)
It’s a lonely place to be in. And it pains to think about other students: busy, moving, lively about their lives.
But I would come back. This is where I belong.