"On Life and Math", Chapter 1: The Best Beginnings
I was always the best at math.
Actually, I was always the best at everything. All the subjects in school, no question about that. Plus, I was the fastest runner on the playground. The best at tag, and the best at four-square, and the best at kickball — always first-picked for the team. And the best at piano. And the best at kung fu. And the best at chess. And, and, and. Best, best, best.
I suppose I was merely tied for best at basketball, with my best friend Daniel. But I wasn’t not the best at that, too. And he was my best friend, so.
Of course, I wasn’t actually always the best at everything. I remember when I first met someone faster than me: Kye. And oh dear god, do I remember when I first met a girl who was faster than me: La Shaunté. That was… bad. That was very, very bad. Because, you see, boys were the best. Obviously: because I was a boy, and so boys must be the best. And I was the best among the boys. So how could it be that a girl was faster than me? It simply didn’t make any sense.
But I was always the best at math. And that was always the best thing that I was best at, partly just because it was the thing that I was the most best at. It was so easy for me, and so hard for everyone else.1 I’d raise my hand long before my teachers would even finish asking a question, since I had complete confidence that I could finish solving it by the time they’d finished asking it.2 I was genuinely confused that my sister wasn’t next-best at math, after me; I guess I figured my math-bestness should’ve rubbed off on her.
But it wasn’t just that I was the most best at it. I loved it! I really, really loved it. The answer to a math problem: definitive; inviolable; True. It always brought a feeling of deep satisfaction, like the crunch of biting into a perfectly crisp apple. Math made sense.
Some of my earliest memories are of family road trips from Berkeley to Los Angeles to visit Grandma and Grandpa. “Daddy, give me another problem!”, I’d demand from my car-seat with unrestrained glee. First two-digit addition, then three- and four-digit addition; then on to bigger and bigger multiplications, and all the powers of two.3 I relished discovering so many little rules and patterns. I felt them coursing through my body, imbuing me with power and invincibility. In anticipation of a problem, I was the conductor of an infinite orchestra, poised to draw forth the truth from the numbers — from my numbers.
As I grew older, my math-bestness flourished, becoming increasingly pronounced and codified over time. I was one year ahead of everyone else in math, then two: I spent the last two years of middle school taking math classes at Berkeley High, and the last two years of high school taking math classes at UC Berkeley. Though I didn’t consciously choose it, being good at math became an identity. At summer camp there were two Aarons, and to disambiguate us someone gave me the nickname “Smart Aaron” — and it stuck.4
Well, not everyone else. For instance, Kye was pretty good at math too. But thankfully I was better than him, which saved me some real chagrin — at least at the time.
That must’ve been pretty insufferable. I remember the first time I got an A- (my lowest grade thus far): it was from Ms. Muller in 4th grade, I think for being too quick at answering all her questions and not leaving space for everyone else.
Much later, Dad admitted that he eventually stopped checking whether I was getting the right answers.
I feel really bad for the other Aaron. That must have been awful.