Reflection

During my junior year in high school, I remember sitting in one of my math classes, and flipping through pages of the text book to see images of the various mathematicians of the past who discovered the very theorems and algorithms that we were being taught. I recall flipping through in search of a single face that looked like mine, to no avail. I remember a mix of anger at my own ancestors and of confusion. Where are we? Where do we fit in the plot? It was obviously important to someone that we learn these concepts if we’re being taught them in school. But why aren’t we a part of this narrative? What in the world were my ancestors doing?

The anger has largely subsided. The confusion has been supplanted with anthropological conjectures. My ability to recognize how counterproductive rage can be as well as to give grace, may both be functions of age. But I also have a neice. And perhaps, one day, I’ll have a child of my own. And if at any point, they have similar questions or feelings as I had in my formative years, I would like to be there to help them process them. However I can. I would like to inspire them to contribute more than I will ever be capable of contributing myself. Because the story isn’t over. The plot is still being written. And every decision I make, every mistake and triumph, will have consequences on anyone who idenfies with and comes after me. And that matters.