Chaos

It is April, 2006. I am nestled in one of the many crevices in the basement of the old math building, a colored pencil behind each ear as I furiously count tiny boxes. I’m modelling a number of different rule sets based around Conway’s Game of Life – given a row of cells in one of two states (colored or uncolored), the state of the cells in the next iteration are determined by a set of rules that show what the cell’s state will be based upon the conditions of the neighboring cells. These types of models, called cellular automata, show how simple rules lead to much more complex patterns over a large number of iterations. Except my current model isn’t showing a pattern, and I am concerned now that I’ve made a mistake somewhere, but I can’t see it.

Leaning on the wall across from me, my algebra professor is amused by the mess of notepads and pencil shavings spilling out into the hall. “You know,” he says as he heads back to his office, “MATLAB would make those iterations so much easier on you.” He grins as he walks off.

“You’re not helping.” I’m being teased, and I know it. It’s well known how much I hate having to do things in the lab. I need to see how each line, each step of the process works to be able to visualize and understand how things work. The programs don’t show their work, and if I get an unexpected result, I have no way of figuring out exactly why. It also doesn’t help that any time I touch a machine in our lab, it immediately freezes, and if I try to reboot it makes the problem worse. I just looked at one of the machines earlier – didn’t even touch it – and immediately got the spinny beach ball of death. If that weren’t frustrating enough, the previous day we also had our group meeting with our supervising professor for our teaching experience, which had gone so amazingly awful that I’d immediately gone to my faculty advisor to talk about switching majors… four years into my program. This in turn led to a screaming fit with my then-fiancee, which led to my not sleeping, which segued into a decision to drive to campus early with the aforementioned colored pencils and graph paper to work on my models in peace.

Only that isn’t working, either.

I finish the final row of what is now a triple-checking of my work and toss the pencils in frustration. I would be letting out a wail if there weren’t so many damned classes in session at the moment, but I settle for a deep breath and holding my eyes shut because nobody is allowed to see me cry. I am 22 years old, supposed to graduate by the year’s end, but I didn’t want to teach, I didn’t want to get married, and I was feeling like I was already making a pretty crummy mathematician as well. I had no plan, no idea of what to do next, and that scared the hell out of me. A lot of people had put a lot of faith and work into me, with the expectation that I was going to go off and do something amazing. Yet here I was, sitting on the dirty floor of a frigid basement trying not to hyperventilate, unable to get even a simple demonstration right. I was failing.

And then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, a low, gravelly voice in my left ear goes, “Hey, keeeeed…”

*****
Dr. D. is well known as being slightly crazy. His seeming contempt for students is legendary – a good chunk of the beginnings of our lessons focus on how Americans see the act of thinking, in general, as “child abuse” (his words). He has been known on numerous occasions to change language mid-lecture. He frequently goes off on odd tangents about things like Alistair Cooke, the BTK killer (“You know why they call BTK? It stand for bind, torture, and KEEEL”) or why the coeds sunbathing outside our classroom window would never survive horror movies or find jobs. His greatest delights are telling students about his friends from the Taliban (he hails from the skirmish region along the Indian-Pakistani border, and we’re fairly certain does not, in fact, have ties to the Taliban, but he gets his kicks telling people about how Osama is going to give him a lift in his “helee-copter”) and stalking some of our male classmates around the building, sneaking up behind them and very quietly saying “Hey, keeeeed…” as they jump three feet out of their chairs. The look he gets on his face every time this happens reminds me of John Cleese’s expression in the scene with the French Taunters in the Search for the Holy Grail, just after they start hurling cows at the Knights:

The look I see when I open my eyes, however, is different. His eyes are shiny behind his glasses, like little gems glittering out from his dark skin. He is looking at me intently, his round head cocked slightly to the side in such a way that reminds me very much of a Muppet. I’ve been in his class all semester, yet I think this is the first time he has ever addressed me directly. I swallow hard, trying to bring myself back to the moment. “Hello…”

“I heard from my friend today,” he says. “I heard you wrote and asked him good questions after his visit.” He blinks, his eyes still shining. “You know no one else did that.”

“I…”

I squirm uncomfortably, not quite sure what to say. Dr. D. had brought a visiting professor to visit our class a few weeks before, and I had written afterwards to thank him for taking the time to speak with us and ask some questions about his work. He was interesting, and I try to make a point of telling people when they do things that catch my imagination. It’s important. But I don’t know how to say that to this strange little man, standing in front of me in his sandals and slightly rumpled button-down.

He looks down at what I’m working on, asking a few questions of his own. I walk him through what I’ve done so far, to the point where I’m stuck. He nods, stroking the stubble on his chin.

“Beal says you’re thinking about moving to maths.”

“I don’t know. The farther along I go, the less I seem to be good at it. I used to be at the top of my classes, and now…” I draw a deep breath and close my eyes again.

When I open them, he is lost in thought about something. A moment passes before his eyes come back to mine. They’re softer now, more contemplative. “Do you know why the other professors like you?”

Taken slightly aback, I shake my head.

“Because you work hard. Because you do the things that the others don’t. You read the books the others don’t read. You ask questions. You learn. You’re upset that some of your classmates do better than you? So what? Someone somewhere will always be better than you. You think you’re a bad mathematician because you don’t push the right buttons? Because someone else can use a calculator?” His eyes narrow. “Mathematics isn’t about one plus one is two. Mathematics is about exploring multiple ways to find solutions to problems. It is about figuring out how different properties interact. Life is chaos. Mathematics is about finding patterns in chaos. It is about discovering the language of the gods.”

“So math is about the thought process. Thinking outside the box, trying new things.”

“YEEEEEEEEEEESSSSS.” Dr. D’s eyes grow huge. “But teaching…” He throws up his hands. “Teaching is child abuse. Maths better. You think. You try. So don’t worry so much. You know what you’re doing.” He continues down the hall, leaving as abruptly as he arrived. “Remember, life is chaos! Teaching is child abuse.”

Life is chaos?

Something clicks in my brain. I check my rules again, and suddenly realize why I can’t find the pattern. This time, my voice shatters the stillness of the hall.

“SON OF A…!”

*****
It is now April, 2016. I am once again in a cold basement, surrounded by papers, a colored pencil behind each ear as I fill in tiny blocks of my cellular automaton and try not to panic that I’m in over my head. The circumstances are a little different now. This automaton is being colored for fun. The panic isn’t in regards to a lack of direction now, but rather the conglomerate of projects which, individually, I can and will rock like the badass I am…but they just look scary when they’re all piled up. The advice, however, remains the same. Keep thinking. Keep working. Keep trying. Don’t be afraid to do things differently. Trust yourself. You got this.

And sometimes, when you can’t find the pattern you keep looking for, check your rules. Otherwise, you get lost looking for order in the chaos.