My First Time at the AMC
By Tim Chartier
Since 2020, high school students ages 15 to 18 submit compelling math communication projects to the National Museum of Mathematics, also known as MoMath, as part of the Steven H. Strogatz Prize for Math Communication. Cash prizes are awarded to the authors of the winning submissions who share a love of math with the world through social media, video, writing, song, poetry, dance, apps, art, or audio. Entries are judged based on content, creativity, and communication. Would you or someone you know want to participate? This year’s application deadline is April 27, 2022.
This past year, first prize in writing went to Julia Schanen, currently a senior at Montclair High School in Montclair, NJ. (She was a junior when she participated in the competition.) In the last Math Values post, we met Julia. Now, let’s enjoy one of her award-winning poems.
MY FIRST TIME AT THE AMC (NOT THE ONE THAT SELLS POPCORN)
by Julia Schanen
Is a number the opposite of a feeling?
Is a proof the opposite of a poem?
I love clothes with history, art with mystery,
unusual haircuts and boba tea,
flowers and ballet and photography.
Does that make me the opposite of a mathematician?
What if
opposites attract and interact
and even co-exist, within one person,
as equally valid facts?
This is the question I’m trying to pursue
by travelling somewhere new
without much preparation
or confidence
or even accurate directions.
My mom drops me off, and I run, with minutes to spare,
from the wrong building to the right one.
And into a lobby filled with parents, and an auditorium filled with boys.
I stand there, awkward and alone, tempted to back away from all this noise.
A boy brushes past me, shorter than my shoulder,
He holds a clear bag filled with several perfect pencils,
while I clutch just the two I’d grabbed from the junk drawer of my kitchen.
What if both break?
This boy, who looks maybe 12, moves with resolve toward the front of the auditorium.
Wait.
This is supposed to be the AMC 10. As in, American Math Competition 10th grade.
But all of these boys surrounding me look too young – like 11, 12, 13 years old.
I am 15, tall and lanky, not to mention a girl.
Maybe I am too old and too late and too female to even try this.
The auditorium is full (though not of girls).
It’s every other seat, please.
I can feel the excitement building.
A scary, springy feeling.
No one looks around, at least not at me. No one smiles.
The boy to my left has brought five pencils. Five. I count them up.
Maybe math geniuses use up more pencils than math mortals.
The boy in front of me takes a gulp from his water bottle.
I forgot mine in the car.
Everyone looks like they are here to do battle.
But what if I don’t agree?
What if I’m here, weapon-free?
With just my curiosity,
and this urge to experience something different than what math is like at school.
Seventy-five minutes pass like it’s only been five. Just me, paper, pencil.
The auditorium vanishes as I fall into a spiral of joy and terror.
The satisfying click of logic falling into place.
The excruciating certainty that the answer is in reach, if I stretch really, really hard.
The paralysis of seeing three ways to a solution, but only having time to pursue one.
But which one??
My brain is on fire.
An adult voice finally puts an end to it. Douses the inferno.
I look up, wake up, can’t believe it’s over, this crazy math fling.
Already, I fear I have blown it. Didn’t even finish the whole thing.
But before I even get up, I want more.
I know I’m in the right place, whatever my score.
I follow the crowd out of the auditorium and look for a familiar face.
But there is no one here for me,
no one to chat with feverishly,
or commiserate and celebrate.
I need to do both, to release all this energy
I scan around for the few girls that took this exam, too.
What’s their story?
Am I the only one who wants to go back into that auditorium and do it all over again?
And then can we please spend the entire evening discussing the exam questions, because I’m dying inside?
Outside, the parking lot is full of people chatting. Relatives. I even see some grandparents.
The AMC is a family event, for some families.
My mom finally shows up, looking distracted and tired.
The car ride home is lonely.
I try to tell her what just happened, but she doesn’t get it.
She doesn’t understand why I pushed to do this today.
I can only see the right side of her face as she drives,
but it’s enough for me to see
that she is humoring me.
There is no one to text either, because my friends would think I’m nuts.
If they even knew I was here, which they don’t.
Mom offers to stop by Panera as a treat for all the painful math that I’ve just endured.
Except it wasn’t painful.
I’m someone who sat through the slow-drip of middle school math, bored and daydreaming,
not seeing what it was all for, wishing – but never working up the guts to push – for more.
Not until now.
Now, I don’t want Panera.
I don’t want to be patted on the shoulder and misunderstood.
I want to go back into that auditorium and finish the exam and talk about it all night.
If only this were the American Math Conversation, not Competition
My hopes might come to fruition,
to chat and discuss and share
our answers, not compare
who is the best and worst,
who came in last and first.
I try to get my point across. I struggle for a way to convey it.
In the Panera parking lot, I find the words to say it.
I’m a math person. This is me. This is what I love doing, without apology.
To see all the winning entries of the Steven H. Strogatz Prize for Math Communication visit https://momath.org/the-steven-h-strogatz-prize-for-math-communication/.
Tim Chartier is the Joseph R. Morton Professor of Mathematics and Computer Science at Davidson College. He was the first Chair of the Advisory Council at the National Museum of Mathematics, continued as a member of the council, and is an active collaborator with the museum.