The Church vs. John Cena

An honest man can sell a fake diamond if he says it is a fake diamond, ain't it?

--Jack Pfefer, wrestling promotor, in 1934

Many of you don't know this, but I'm a professional wresting fan. I know it's not real, but I choose to act like it is. I keep kayfabe.

No, that's not a made-up word. Like the mythical languages of Middle Earth, professional wrestling has its own nomenclature. But you should never say "kayfabe" to industry professionals, because that is breaking kayfabe. Let me explain. 

Kayfabe is defined as the code of secrecy that undergirds the pro wrestling industry by which the secret of its unreality is protected. To "keep kayfabe" is the act of staying in character before, during, and after shows so as to maintain the illusion.

Live the illusion. Don't wink. Endure to the end. Keep kayfabe.

But there was a time in the 90's when, for wrestling to survive, WWF Presidnet Vince McMahon had to break kayfabe. I still remember, when I was about 6, watching a documentary at my grandma's house called "Professional Wrestling EXPOSED!" This was on network television, during primetime. 60 Minutes also ran an expose on wrestling--the same news show that later exposed Abu Ghraib. Hard-hitting journalists were catching wrestling red-handed in the illusion. It wasn't that hard to see--when wrestling came on national television, the wrestlers looked like they were fighting with pool noodles instead of arms.

If you say it's real, then you're a sucker for watching it. If you say it's fake, then you're a sucker for watching it. No matter what--the media made you feel like a sucker.

So Vince McMahon orchestrated the Montreal Screwjob. He created an unscripted ending that robbed fan favorite Bret Hart of the championship belt. After Bret's defeat, he spit in McMahon's face (real spit), then found him backstage and punched him (real punch), causing McMahon to have a real black eye. 

But McMahon had to do an interview the next day. WWF's writers wondered what the story should be. McMahon couldn't tell the truth and expose himself as the man behind the curtain, could he? 

In a move of utter brilliance, McMahon did exactly that. He broke kayfabe. He explained how he fixed the match. And he created a new character for himself: the conniving, greedy, manipulating Mr. McMahon.

Wrestling wouldn't have survived unless McMahon plunged it into the haze between truth and fiction. By winking at the audience and telling the truth, he gave wrestling fans a way out. He knew that a knowing wink is a huge relief to someone who has to defend his love of irreverent storylines, cartoonish characters, and extreme brutality. 

We don't have any McMahon's in church leadership, but we do have this guy and a stock photo of a woman eating:

...very...very...slowly. Elder Durrant gave the greatest winking talk of the century, but the rest of the church seems to be clinging to the illusions of the past. 

My church just doubled-down on an interesting doctrine. Same-sex marriage is now tantamount to apostasy and draws a comparison to polygamy. My church said that children adopted by same-sex couples cannot be blessed as babies nor baptized until they are adults who live apart from their parents, and opposed to same-sex marriage. My reaction to all this was the way John Cena reacts to the Russian Flag:

My wife, on the other hand, channeled her inner Roddy Piper (my wife's bat is made out of internet memes):

Do they not see how hard this is? We all sing Follow the Prophet, but we wink at each other when Brigham Young or Bruce R. McConkie is quoted. But leadership doesn't wink back because of the infallibility doctrine, found in tiny print in Official Declaration 1:

"The Lord will never permit me or any other man who stands as President of this Church to lead you astray. It is not in the programme. It is not in the mind of God. If I were to attempt that, the Lord would remove me out of my place..."

Besides the superfluous spelling of "program", do you see the problem? The church can't claw back! There's no Montreal Screwjob! We always have to double down on existing doctrine--even as the fruit of that doctrine starts to rot. And we end up with ideas like asking children to declare that their same-sex parents live in an apostate relationship, which would be laughable if it wasn't so strange. The church, by an unrelenting pursuit of virtue, has turned public heel.

So now we get temple recommend interviews that look like this:

Bishop: Do you support any apostate groups?
Member: I support gay marriage.
Bishop: That's okay--it's not an apostate group.
Member: Yeah it is. There's a bullet in your manual below Polygamists.

The Mormon Church is difficult because you have to take the doctrine as supremely important to salvation, but at the same time, worth a grain of salt. You have to wink at it, or its utter seriousness will destroy you. The infallibility doctrine is at the root of this mess. It's time for the church to throw it out and wink back. It's time to break kayfabe.

Heavenly Mother is Worried Sick

There is a dead end near my house that my father likes to reminisce about. When we drive by it, he recalls with fondness the many hours he slept there.

When I was a teenager, I had a curfew. Since I considered a curfew more of a suggestion, rather than a rule, I disobeyed a lot. I mean, a lot. And not by five or then minutes. I’m talking hours.

The way my dad tells the story, at the two-hours-late mark, my mom would wake him and tell him to get in the car and drive around until he found my body. She told him to start at Del Taco. (Obviously.)

My dad would then drive approximately twenty seconds, park the car at the neighborhood's dead end, recline his seat, and snooze until his phone rang.

“Honey, he’s home,” my mom would say.

“Oh good. I was worried sick. I'm just on Main Street now – be home in a few.”

And he fell asleep for another then minutes.

• • • 

My dad was a great father. The very best. 

But my mother didn’t sleep until I was home. And when I got home, she wanted to talk. Not about my punishment—but about my night.

My favorite memory of my mom is just before Kristi and I got engaged. We were visiting my house for the all-important parental approval and decided, late one night, to go to the beach and listen to the waves crash. Three hours later, after we were done making out listening to the waves crash, we realized the keys had fallen out of my pocket and into the sand. We spent an hour searching for them, and then I made what seemed like a good decision at the time: walking home.

We arrived at 3AM. Every light was on, the garage door was up, the car was gone.

I walked in to the living room to find my mom in tears. She ran up to us both and hugged us. Then she stepped back and said "Why didn’t you call?! I am so angry with you I could scream! Let me make you some hot chocolate. DO YOU WANT SOME HOT CHOCOLATE?"

And she lit the stove to make us hot chocolate. And we talked for an hour.

• • •

I thought of these two stories as I read my church’s new essay on our Heavenly Mother. The essay talks about the foundations for our belief in a Mother in Heaven, holding equal standing with our Father in Heaven. As President Harold B. Lee once said:

“We forget that we have a Heavenly Father and a Heavenly Mother who are even more concerned, probably, than our earthly father and mother [1], and that influences from beyond are constantly working to try to help us when we do all we can.”

Joseph Smith, it appears, personally taught the doctrine of Heavenly Mother. And yet the revelations on Heavenly Mother seem to end with him. What we have from prophets and apostles after him rehash the same truth. 

Eliza R. Snow: “In the heav’ns are parents single? No, the thought makes reason stare; truth is reason—truth eternal tells me I’ve a mother there.

Recent Church statement: “As with many other truths of the gospel, our present knowledge about a Mother in Heaven is limited. Nevertheless, we have been given sufficient knowledge to appreciate the sacredness of this doctrine and to comprehend the divine pattern established for us as children of heavenly parents. Latter-day Saints believe that this pattern is reflected in Paul’s statement that "neither is the man without the woman, neither the woman without the man, in the Lord". Post-Joseph teachings default to logic, reason, and the pattern reflected in Paul’s statement [2]. 

Gordon B. Hinckley: “Logic and reason would certainly suggest that if we have a Father in Heaven, we have a Mother in Heaven. That doctrine rests well with me.”

The doctrine “rests well” with Gordon B. Hinckley even though, “none of us can add to or diminish the glory of her of whom we have no revealed knowledge.” Ouch. President Hinckley then goes on to list quotes from the New Testament, where Jesus references only the Father in prayer, as scriptural evidence against praying to Heavenly Mother.

But wait a second. Did the Church just use the scriptures to stop the worship of a God who isn’t in the scriptures? We believe in Heavenly Mother, who is not in the scriptures, but we shouldn't pray to Her because She's not in the scriptures. Should we really not pray to a female diety simply because Jesus never made mention? [3] 

“The fact that we do not pray to our Mother in Heaven in no way belittles or denigrates her,” President Hinckley says. True—but it doesn’t help Her come alive in our hearts either [4]. 

I can’t imagine coming home late at night as a teenager and saying to my mom, “Sorry mom—I only talk to dad about my day.” That is the dissonance the Church is creating here. We believe in a Mother in Heaven, who cares for us more than our earthly mother, but we shouldn’t talk to her in prayer, because that's weird [5].

Think of how much we know about Heavenly Father—not much. When He speaks, it’s only to introduce His Son. And yet, because we speak of him in church, during family home evening, and in our prayers, our Heavenly Father is real and alive to us. Our leaders never defer to logic, reason, or the pattern found in an obscure scripture to justify their believe in Heavenly Father. 

Addressing a prayer to Heavenly Father was revolutionary and groundbreaking—a tectonic shift in our understanding of God. Because of it, we can picture Him. We seek to understand Him. Why can't we move forward by acting on the additional light given to us by Joseph Smith?

“As with many other truths of the gospel, our present knowledge about a Mother in Heaven is limited.” Is it limited because we, ourselves, limit it?

I’ve always imagined my Heavenly Parents like my real ones. And the last thing I want is for my Heavenly Mother to ask me, as she makes hot chocolate, why I never called.

---

[1] If this is the case, then I have kept my Heavenly Mother awake and worried for approximately 30 years and 7 months. I hope there’s a dead-end somewhere on Kolob for Father.

[2] As a fun side-note: biblical scholars believe Paul’s teaching of the importance of the Gentiles is the reason Luke attributed words to Jesus that he probably didn’t say.

[3] There are many saying attributed to Jesus that he probably didn’t say. Consider Mark 4:12, what Jesus says about some of the Jews—“That seeing they may see, and not perceive; and hearing they may hear, and not understand; lest at any time they should be converted, and their sins should be forgiven them.” This is literally the opposite of Jesus’ mission, likely written and attributed to Him by someone wishing to spur the development of Paul’s mission to the Gentiles. If things can be added, they can be removed. Also, Jesus drank wine. Just throwing it our there.  

[4] Even as I write this, Microsoft Word thinks “Her” shouldn’t be capitalized—there’s a blue squiggly line under it. But it has no issue capitalizing “Him” mid-sentence. Come on, Bill!

[5] Praying to a woman isn't that weird. See Catholicism. 

Le Premiere Danseuse

They watched the sunrise together. She wanted to go to a flea market on the water's edge. He wanted to go to the park (so naturally, they went to the flea market).

They weaved in and out of faded sweaters, used books, handmade jewelry, and chairs with cracked paint. They lingered at a table littered with baseball cards, vintage magazines, and other knickknacks. She pulled something from the clutter and fell in love with it.

It was a flipbook, no longer than the wrinkle in her palm. A fortune teller had read that wrinkle once, and had prophesied she would live to be ninety-two. If the average lifespan is eighty years, and women usually live five years more than men, I'll live eight years without you. 

She set the flipbook in motion. The pictures were in black and white. A simple girl doing a simple cartwheel.

“I just love little things like this."

“Like what?”

“The girl—I wonder who she was and why they didn't let her finish.”

“Finish what?”

“The kiss.”

She held the flipbook to his eyes. It was called Le Premiere Danseuse, and he saw it all in a flutter of breath. A girl does a cartwheel then stands, raises her elbows, and covers her mouth.

“Maybe she’s not blowing a kiss,” he said. “Maybe she’s embarrassed, like she didn’t know she was being filmed.”

“No, she’s about to blow a kiss. You can tell by how she’s bent forward.”

The man turned to the woman behind the table. “How much for the flipbook?”

The saleswoman smacked her gum. “I think my boyfriend wants five dollars for it.”

“Can we get it?” his wife pleaded. She normally bought everything for herself, never asking permission (to his dismay, at times). Yet here she was--seeking approval for a five-dollar trinket. She was not asking him to buy the flipbook. She was asking him to want it. He nudged her. “Let’s keep looking and come back.”

***

He held her hand and they walked on, past a table with old photographs. Antique cameras sat on a rack above pictures, cameras that looked like accordions with price tags reading: "Still works. Film available at Such-and-Such Store. $175." 

She held a black accordion camera in her hands. "I wonder what this lens has seen."

Her husband agreed and told her he’d always heard old cameras take better pictures with film than the newer digital ones. He looked at the price tag. “That’s a little above my pay grade."

“For now,” she winked at him. He hated the pressure of those words.

The old man selling the cameras noticed them and chimed in. “You can't find cameras like this anymore!"

“Let’s keep walking around,” the husband said. “We shouldn’t buy the first thing we see.” As they walked off, he prayed the black accordion camera would be gone when they came back.

***

They moved to handmade jewelry. There were necklaces made of old subway tokens dangling from brass chains.

“How much for the token necklace?” he asked a tattooed woman. She told him it was $25.

“That’s pricey for a fifty-cent token,” he said. “I’ll give you twenty.”

“Sorry. Wholesale prices.”

His wife looked at him. “This would be a great keepsake to remember our trip!” She tried it on and the woman gave her a dusty mirror. The necklace hung perfectly, just above the freckle on her chest.

He thought about the necklace. It was functional, unlike the flipbook, and could be used daily, unlike the camera. So he bought it, and she flashed a smile that made him want to buy every antique camera in the world. He gripped her hand with excitement and said, “Let’s go back to the camera stand.”

***

A group of college students stood in front of the shelf, listening to the old man’s pitch about film cameras. The husband practically pushed his way through them. In the row of cameras, one spot was vacant: the black accordion. The old man noticed him staring at the empty space. “These cameras go fast,” he said. “People wait in a line to buy them.”

His wife was sad. We should have bought it when we had the chance--my husband, the cheapskate! He could read her mind, but she didn't say these things. She noticed he felt bad. “I’m glad we didn't buy it. It was a little expensive.”

“Yeah.”

But it was his fault, and he knew it. He hated how he'd wished the camera was gone. He hated the voice that told him his wife was emotional, and he should be rational--the one that made marriage a teeter-totter instead of a swing set. It was a lie, and yet he still listened. The camera was gone. Someone was going to the film store to buy special film for it right at that moment.

They found a box of old records. Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley, and so forth. She started thumbing through them--there were dozens inside. He took two steps away. She didn't look up. Two more steps. Still, no.

He dashed to the table of knickknacks. There, under the Batman comic book where he'd left her, with her arms outstretched, laid Le Premiere Danseuse. He quickly grabbed five dollars from his pocket and pushed it into the gum-smacker’s hands. He looked over at his wife, who was flipping through the last remaining albums. There was no time to get back. He took two strides to a hat stand and put on a black fedora, just as she looked up and began searching for him.

“Do you like this hat? I look pretty good, eh?” he said. She rolled her eyes and laughed.

They left the flea market--her with a subway token jingling round her neck and him with flipbook burning a hole in his pocket. Only one other thing had burned like that before. 

You sure she’s the one?

No, Dad.

Then why are you marrying her?

Because I want to be with her forever.

Even if she’s not the one?

Even if she’s not the one.

Even if you've been sleeping on the couch for a month, and you’re sitting in a restaurant alone, and another woman walks up, and there’s a connection you've never felt. And then the sky opens up and God comes down and tells you this new woman is wonderful. And your wife is waiting for you at home, cold and angry.

Yes, even if all that.

Then she’s the one.

***

They walked home under the moon. He held her hand, felt her shiver. He took off his coat and wrapped her in it, glancing once at the speckled city on the river.

“I think you were right about the girl,” he said.

“What girl?”

“The one from the flipbook.”

“You think she was blowing a kiss?” she asked. He could see her breath.

“Yes."

“Me too,” she said, almost relieved. “I liked the flea market. I like how it’s full of other people’s memories, like a scrapbook of the country. There are stories, and the only thing I know about them is that they happened.”

He laughed. “Quite profound!"

They walked in silence for a while. The skyscrapers across the river burned like candles.

“Today was a perfect day,” she said. "I just wish—"

Before she could finish, he reached into his pocket and slipped La Premiere Danseuse into the palm of her hand— a window of endless cartwheels and almost-blown kisses.

Something You Should Know About My Wife

Ladies and gentleman, this is Kristi.

This is Kristi on the last leg of a 50-mile run through the Grand Canyon. I think I was wrapped in blankets and watching reruns of The Wonder Years on Netflix when this picture was taken. Kristi is a badass. When she's not putting on her badassery clinic, she is smoking hot.

Actually, that's her doing a velociraptor impression. Wrong picture.

Ahh, that's better. And, just so she doesn't get pissed at me...

she's really smart, too. 

Two days ago, Kristi and I ran the St. George Marathon. We had been training for four months--doing a long run of about 15 miles every week during that time period. We survived by listening to books-on-tape and timing our runs around TNT action movie marathons. Believe me--there's nothing like watching Terminator II with the sound off. Or The Matrix. Or Backdraft. Or Terminator II again.

But we slogged through it to qualify for the Boston Marathon. I should put that in all caps and throw an exclamation point at the end, like this: THE BOSTON MARATHON! because THE BOSTON MARATHON! is nothing but a crazy party for runners. Imagine a bunch of fit people discussing the pros and cons of Gu vs. Clif gel packets. Imagine a race with distractions like screaming coeds giving out free kisses and dudes handing out beer. That is THE BOSTON MARATHON!

To qualify, Kristi had to run the St. George Marathon in 3 hours and 35 minutes. We felt good when we started the race. It was cold, but the wind was blowing against our backs, and the first seven miles were downhill. However, miles 7-13 were like ascending the freaking Agro-Crag (for all you GUTS fans). Remember when a kid would be climbing the Agro-Crag, and he would keep going even after the bell rang? The announcer would be like, "Okay, it's over!" but the kid would just keep climbing even though he knew a Glowing Piece of the Radical Rock was not waiting for him at the top?

Kristi is like that kid. She knew she wasn't going to make her time at mile 19. She tried to run with her pacer, but the pacer slowly pulled ahead, then disappeared in the distance. Her dad called me and told me she wasn't going to make it. I figured she would walk the rest of the way, because having finished the race myself, I knew how crazy-difficult and crazy-painful the last seven miles were. I figured she might quit. That's what I would have done. You work for four months to run a certain time--so when you know you're not going to make it, what's the point of trying? It's devastating.

But she didn't quit. She ran her legs into the ground. It stopped being about the time, and started being about "I'm not gonna let this course kick my ass". She came in only six minutes off her goal time.

If she would have met her goal, I would have been proud of her. I expected that. But I did not expect her to keep pushing herself even when her goal was out of sight. That says something about her. I respect her for it. The girl's got GUTS.

The Difference Between a Father and a Dad

When you are 2 hours late for curfew, your father is waiting outside in his pajamas to punish you by saying "You're an idiot." Then your dad laughs and says "But I was one too when I was your age."

Your father takes you to a baseball game. And your dad buys you one of those 6 dollar plastic batting helmets with the scoop of ice cream in them (your dad is also the one who complains about the price).

Your father tells you not to swear. Your dad then goes and swears.

Your father wants to have long father/son talks, but it's your dad who wants to have them on a golf course.

My father bought me my first baseball. My dad then took me to an empty field and lobbed tennis balls at me until I was no longer afraid of getting hit by the baseball.

Father wanted to play games with us so that we could bond as a family, and dad got out the poker chips and started Boyce Family Poker Night.

Your father tells you the rules, then forgives you when you break them. Your dad does all of this at Del Taco.

My father wrote me a spiritual thought every week while I was on my mission. My dad used some of that time to give me a quick surf report.

My father taught us children how to work, but my dad taught us how to have fun at work.

My father is my mentor. My dad is my friend.

Thank God for fathers, but thank heaven for dads. I'm lucky to have both.

The Moment I Became A Feminist

I'm a feminist, and here's why.

This weekend, my wife, her sister, her best friend, and I went to the Macklemore concert in St. George. We stood out in the cold and rain with five thousand college students and Macklemore repaid us by putting on a fantastic show. He rapped about baseball and thrift-shopping, which is a big reason why I like his music. Then the music stopped. He hushed the crowd and said into the microphone, reverently,

"This next song," he said, "is about acceptance."

The crowd cheered. "Same Love!" they yelled. 

Macklemore straightened up. 

"This next song is about compassion."

The crowd went berserk. 

Then Ryan Lewis laid down a soft piano riff. And Macklemore started to sing about tolerance and same-sex rights and how we should treat gay people with respect. The crowd sang along, including me. I like the song. It preaches tolerance and love, asking us to respect those around us, regardless of their sexual-orientation. 

The song ended and the crowd cheered. Macklemore then started a song called "Castle", which is about what he would do if he owned a castle. Here's a sample:

I got a cutey and I'm making a beat on her booty

Like I was up on the roof beating up on a bongo

and later...

Your thighs are the closet to Narnia

Is it cool if I go and get lost in that?

and one more...

Girl's booty was bigger than the stomach of Rick Ross'

Holy mother mountain of tender tendin' you get lost in

Bounce, bounce, that castle booty, that bottom

Make it wobble, wobbly-wobble 'til my third leg has to hobble

Now, I'll admit, I couldn't understand the lyrics while I was there. The concert was a lot of fun. It wasn't until after I downloaded the song that I realized the disparity that exists in society:

We preach love and respect for 5% of the population while we demean and indignify 50%.

I think what upset me most is that I thought about how I would feel if Macklemore were talking about my sisters, or my friends, or my wife with those lyrics. As a society, we get angry when someone says "that's gay," but we sing along with "See what's poppin' at the malls, meet a bad bitch, Slap her booty with my ****s."

I'm also angry at Macklemore. By cultivating the impression you are respectful and above all that "rapper nonsense", you make your young, impressionable listeners feel like it's okay to talk about women like you do. How can you be so upset about society's abuse of the word "gay" while you promote the abuse and objectification of an entire gender?

Mackelmore is right: if I were gay, I'd think hip hop hates me. But if I was a woman, I'd think hip hop hates me, too.

What I Wish I'd Known In College

I have sisters and brothers who are either in college or about to begin. I'm writing this post to them. I'm writing because I want them to know what life is really like, and to be prepared for the moment when they take their diploma, walk off the stage, and realize that life is not what they had expected.

Your whole life everyone around you has said that you can be anything you want to be. And that's true, but they didn't tell you everything. There's a big part they left out. All they have done, really, is given you a treasure map with a big "X" in the middle, but no path to follow. It's great to stare at the big "X' and know the treasure's out there, but it becomes depressing when you leave college, with your degree, and you realize that the degree doesn't have a path on it, either.

Then you'll wonder if it was even worth it. You'll think, "I have a degree. I know stuff. Why won't anybody hire me?"

When you start to think that, please remember that your degree is not worthless. Every degree, from the liberalist of liberal arts to the nerdiest BS, has distinguishable merit. You know how to think, you know how to write, perhaps you know some math. But you don't know how to get a career.

Isn't it funny? The one thing you need--the path to the "X"--isn't taught to you in college.

They teach you that life after college is like a game of checkers: you only move forward. But that's a lie too. Life after college is more like a game of Monopoly.

If you remember, in Monopoly, the goal is to collect as many properties as possible. These properties can then be used to earn you profit; they can be traded to further your goals; they can be used as collateral in a bankruptcy. They can do almost anything once you have them in your possession. But they do nothing if you pass them buy (especially if you go to jail).

Monopoly is a game of collecting. The more properties you have, the more value your collection is worth on the board. The more houses you own in a specific sector, the more your profit from that property grows.

Now, please don't think I am telling you to graduate and then immediately take out a loan and build a hotel on the boardwalk. That's now what I'm saying. But, you do need to build on the board, just not houses or hotels.

You need to build relationships.

80% of jobs are given to friends, relatives, or good acquaintances. That means that, out ten resumes you submit, eight of them are thrown in the trash before they're even read. Eight. 

That's why I laugh when I hear about resume classes on campus as being the ticket to success in the job market. Especially when, statistically, 80% of employers don't give a crap about whatever "power font" you choose. Most of the time, the only thing that sees your font is the trash can.

My wife works at a law firm that recently posted a job opportunity for a second legal secretary. In one hour, she got 75 resumes. By the end of the day, she had a stack of resumes. Let me ask you this question:

Pretend you are her, and you've just read 50 resumes that have the same business jargon/nonsense. And the 51st has this sentence:

Objective: I am a self-starter who desires a rewarding position with a well-established firm that will give me opportunities to advance and demonstrate my experience.

Would this crap, over and over again, start to make you laugh? Would you be able to take this "self-starter" seriously? That's the problem with relying on resumes. A good resume on the top of the stack is effective; a good resume in the middle of the stack is funny, and a good resume on the bottom of the stack is annoying.

So how do you get your resume to the top of the stack? Someone has to put it there.

Now here's a fun statistic: zero. That's the percentage of people who wrote or called my wife personally, asking for a minute of her time to meet and talk about the job. And the funny thing is, her boss asked her if any of the resumes made a special impression.

Your name on paper is a word. But, when associated with your face and personality, your name becomes an powerful impression.

This post is getting long, so I will cut out for the night. But this should get you started on the right path. I have a system I will write down in future posts for you to help build, manage, and sustain relationships. Your success after college will be determined more by what you do after school than what you do in school. If you're the person that comes home and turns on the TV with a box of Lucky Charms until you fall asleep, then have fun playing the resume game. Just don't use the phrase "self-starter." It will be a lie.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you what the path to the "X" is.

You can be whatever you want to be. You just need to know the right people. 

What The Shallots Taught Me

Friday's work was hard. He didn't get much sleep the night before, either. She had a beautiful dinner waiting, full of cubed potatoes and bacon bits and red wine vinegar. There was a side of cabbage with sauteed shallots and lemon juice.

An empty plate later, surrounded by dirty dishes, his left for the bedroom. He fell like a timbered log onto the bed. He napped. "Just for five minutes," he said.

She woke him an hour and a half later. The sun was gone.

"Get up," she said. "I've asked you five times now. I'm going to the store to get things for breakfast tomorrow. Come with me."

He rolled over, groggy and impatient.

"Why are you so concerned with me getting up?" he said.

She brushed off his question.

"I'm going to the store. Do you want to come or not?"

"No."

She huffed out and walked out the door.

He pulled himself up and walked to the living room. He saw the kitchen, full of pots and plates and crusty potato skins. The flavors of dinner came to him. The cabbage had been covered with so many shallot pieces. She must have spent a lot of time cutting them,  alone.   

The Man On The Train Tracks

Two weeks ago, a man was pushed onto the tracks of a Times Square subway station in New York City. He tried to pull himself out, but, because of the awkward height of the track well, he could only flail his arms. A photographer, R. Umar Abbasi, took a picture of him staring at the oncoming train. The man couldn’t climb the well and was killed.  The entire process, from fall to impact, took twenty-two seconds.

                       

Try staring at the clock for twenty-two seconds and imagine the ordeal unfold. That’s a long time to watch a helpless man try to escape with his life. What would you do? Of course you would help, right? That’s what a woman named Denise Martorana was quoted as saying in a news article:

                       

“I would certainly try to do whatever I possibly could. I certainly wouldn’t be able to stand there and watch, that’s for sure.”

                       

Is that for sure? Denise is probably upset, along with the rest of the United States, at Abbasi, whose photograph landed on the cover of the New York Post next to the headline “DOOMED!” But Abbasi’s interview with the Associated Press provides some insight into why he didn’t help, and why Denise probably wouldn’t, either. 

Here is a retelling of the event, from Abbasi’s point of view:

“It took me a second to figure out what was happening…I saw the lights in the distance. My mind was alert to the train. The people who were standing close to him…they could have moved and grabbed him and pulled him up. No one made an effort.”

                        

Ignoring a death is horrible, but the most terrifying thing? This isn't the first time.  

                        

In March, 1964, an elderly woman named Catherine Genovese experienced a long, loud, tortured, public  death. Here are the first few paragraphs of the story, written by A.M. Rosenthal, from the New York Times:

                        

For more than half an hour 38 respectable, law-abiding citizens in Queens watched a killer stalk and stab a woman in three separate attacks in Kew Gardens.

                        

Twice the sound of their voices and the sudden glow of their bedroom lights interrupted him and frightened him off. Each time he returned, sought her out, and stabbed her again. Not one person telephoned the police during the assault; one witness called after the woman was dead...

[Assistant Chief Inspector Frederick M. Lussen] can give a matter-of-fact recitation of many murders. But the Kew Gardens slaying baffles him—not because it is a murder, but because ‘good people’ failed to call the police.

                        

Isn’t that what happened in the subway station two weeks ago? Rosenthal concludes that the depersonalization of urban life causes New Yorkers in particular to ignore their neighbors’ troubles. The only way to live in a big city is indifferently, he says.

                        

But psychologists have studied this problem, and have come to a different conclusion. There is a much larger rule being manifest in both the Genovese murder and the man on the train tracks. It’s called “The Principle of Social Proof”, and it’s the same reason for why sitcoms have laugh-tracks.

                        

The Principle of Social Proof states we view a behavior as correct in a given situation to the degree that we see others performing it. When an abnormal situation happens, we rely on the crowd to figure out how to react. But here’s the problem: when an individual looks to the group to understand how to act, he doesn’t see the group acting appropriately, he sees the group staring back at him. In our natural reaction to adhere to the norms of the group in abnormal situations, we render the group without any norms at all.

Let’s go back to Abbasi’s testimony, and imagine how Abbasi’s eyes moved.

                       

“It took me a second to figure out what was happening” (from the man)…

                       

“I saw the lights in the distance. My mind was alert to the train” (to the train)…

                        

“The people who were standing close to him.” (to the people around him).

And what does he notice? That no one goes to help. No one makes an effort, because they are just as confused as he is. 

And there's your twenty-two seconds.

The Principle of Social Proof sounds like a bad thing. But, in some contexts, it can have a positive impact on a situation. In fact, Disney uses this principle to help vacationers have the maximum amount of fun, in the same way laugh-tracks make bad jokes seem funnier. My wife and I recently went on a Disney cruise, and I was shocked by how many times I was told to do something. Before every show, and sometimes even before dinner, the cruise director would get on stage or the speakers and say,

"Everybody put your hands in the air!"

"Now wave them side to side."

"Now, as loud as you can, say "I'M HAVING FUN, AND I'M ON VACATION!!"

And you know what happened? Every single person in the theater/restaurant/pool deck would raise their hands, wave them side to side, and yell that they were on vacation. Even the big fat dude wearing the Crimson Tide t-shirt with his belly hanging out and a beer in his hand did it. Then he did the Mickey Limbo and dressed as a Pirate for Pirate Night. 

Disney uses this trick to get us into group-think mode, because they know that if we see others having fun, we will likely have more fun as a result. Even in 1830's Opera Houses, businesses such as L'Assurance des Succes Dramatiques charged performers for their services. What were those services? Professional applause. Each "Bravo!" and "Bene!" carried a price, all depending on how insistent you wanted the fervor to be. The claquers got paid, the performers got recognition, and the audience, believe it or not, enjoyed the show more because of it. 

Adam and Eve and Feminism

I’ve been thinking about a column my wife read to me a couple of days ago called The War on Men, by Suzanne Venker. Her ideas led me to wonder if men and women really do have natural talents and inclinations towards traditional gender roles.

Our parents and grandparents seem to think so. In their eyes, a woman’s primary role is that of caregiver. This is based on the assumption that women have natural talents men don’t have. Men’s role in society is that of ambitious career-seeker to provide for his family. We live with these enforced gender roles because we buy in to society’s assumption that men are better at one thing, while women are better at another. Media creators know they can get an easy laugh simply by combining a man and a baby. Look, he’s holding a bottle! Look, he’s duct-taping a diaper! That’s ridiculous, isn’t it?

Women have it just as bad in film and television, where to have a career is synonymous with being selfish and stuck-up; the higher the office, the higher the heels, and the louder the walk. Think Sandra Bullock’s character in The Proposal before she finds the joys of family…in the family’s mansion, in an Alaskan town owned by the family. Even Cruella Deville would grow a heart under those circumstances.

But the career-woman stereotype will have to disappear because now, for the first time, women have surpassed men in the workforce. Women do better in school and get more advanced degrees than men.  This feminine ambition is nothing new, however. A close reading of Genesis shows us it’s merely a rebirth of the actions of Eve, who I think was the world’s first feminist.

Shortly after God made Eve, her and the serpent have a conversation:

2. And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden:

3. But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.

Eve’s explanation to the serpent fascinates me. Not only has God commanded her not to eat; he has commanded her not to touch. Why would Eve receive this second commandment which Adam did not? Could it be that God knew the temptation of His knowledge would be greater for Eve than for Adam? Was Eve the ambitious one in the Garden of Eden?

The serpent responds:

4. And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die:

5. For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as the gods, knowing good and evil.

6. And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.

She ate the fruit in her desire for knowledge. And that knowledge probably included the realization that she would be kicked out of the Garden of Eden for her disobedience. But why did Adam eat?

And he [God] said, Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?

And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.

The words “to be with me” give Adam’s motives away. He knew he needed to cleave unto his wife, and the only way to do that was to gain her knowledge and follow her out of Eden. He traded the comfort of the garden for the toils of living by the sweat of his face. He adapted. But it took the ambition of Eve to push Adam forward. That’s why it is not good that man should be alone.

Feminism is not the end of men. It is an opportunity for men. It gives us a chance to do what societal norms never allowed of us: to be a fulltime father, or a part-time employee who leaves early to pick up his kids from school and start dinner.  We can finally show the world we are more than one-trick ponies. Let’s fight sleep to rock a crying baby and cut the crusts off of sandwiches. At the front door, let’s hear “Daddy, I’m home!” for a change. Let’s make that old joke about the guy who can’t change a diaper obsolete.  

Fidel Castro's Relationship Advice

My current unemployment leaves me with time to think about subjects that interest me, and nothing interests me more than the mathematics of personal interaction. I receive squinted eyes as a response when I reveal this as my hobby, since mathematics is synonymous with arithmetic for the majority of the population. But there is a significant distinction: arithmetic is a branch of mathematics that deals with the study of quantity, while mathematics is the study of logical quality. I prefer to think of mathematics as Albert Einstein did: as the poetry of logical ideas.

In my mind, interpersonal interactions carry both weight and shape. The shape is the type of statement we form in response to another person; the weight is the effect that statement has on the other person's beliefs. In conversations where two people express opposing views, there is a desire to create a unified belief system between the two individuals. Each person wants the other to subscribe to his own beliefs, and both appeal to logic and reason to justify their claims. First, we need an understanding of where the thought process that you and I almost subconsciously subscribe to began.

Logic and rationality were not born in the Garden of Eden, but rather in Greece during an intellectual blossoming of the fourth century. Several schools of thought existed at that time, including the school of Socrates. The Socratic method of revealing truth through questions was formed during this time period. Plato was a disciple of Socrates, and wrote dialogues in which his master used the Socratic method to question, and vanquish, rival philosophers and rhetoricians. I am not going to enter into a treatise on rhetoric but, if you are interested after reading this post, there is a fantastic book I want to recommend called Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig.

My point is to show that logic is just one of the many schools of thought that existed at the time, but it is the one the Western world adopted. And that is a good thing, because logic runs the computer on which I am typing, and the internet through which I will broadcast this post. However, I wonder if logical thought is the best way to deal with human interactions, and if the Socratic method is the best way to unify opposing belief systems. We appeal to logic and rationality whenever we argue with another human being, always under the implicit assumption that the rules for logical thought and rationality are universal.

One of my favorite documentaries is The Fog of War, a chronicle of the decisions of former Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara. He described the Cuban Missile Crisis as follows:

"I want to say, and this is very important: at the end we lucked out. It was luck that prevented nuclear war. We came that close to nuclear war at the end. Rational individuals: Kennedy was rational; Khrushchev was rational; Castro was rational. Rational individuals came that close to total destruction of their societies. And that danger exists today."

Rational individuals came close to total destruction. But what scares me about this scenario is Castro. Was Castro rational? McNamara asked Castro these three questions in a meeting after the crisis:

"Number one: did you know the nuclear warheads were there? 

Number two: if you did, would you have recommended to Khrushchev in the face of an U.S. attack that he use them? 

Number three: if he had used them, what would have happened to Cuba?"

Castro's responses are chilling:

"Number one, I knew they were there. 

Number two, I would not have recommended to Khrushchev, I did recommend to Khrushchev that they be used. 

Number three, 'What would have happened to Cuba?' It would have been totally destroyed."

How is self-destruction a rational choice? Castro must have assumed that mutual destruction was inevitable, therefore nobody would be left alive to care who was responsible. Rational indeed. The choice, illogical to everyone else, was logical to Castro. 

I can imagine Khrushchev staring in disbelief at Castro's recommendation and asking, "Are you crazy?" Castro probably responded with, "Lo digo como lo veo." Translation: "I'm just telling it like it is."

This phrase bothers me when I hear it, because what is really means is, "Only my belief system is rational and logical," which is the same thing as saying, "You are irrational and illogical." No wonder over fifty-percent of marriages end in divorce: when you're assumption that is logic is universal, any argument means that one of the spouses is out of this universe (in a bad way). And nobody wants to be that person. 

The only relevant part of a conversation is what is heard, not what is said. Our words have no meaning other than the meaning which the listener attributes to them. 

This is because each human being is the intersection of an infinite amount of circles. For example, if I draw a circle labeled "Mormon," and another labeled "Man," then I am the intersection of the two. Now add a circle labeled "Moderate Republican," then one labeled "Husband," then one called "Brother." I am still at the intersection. 

Then draw one for "Baseball games with Dad" and "Grandpa has dementia" and "Mom was full-time homemaker" and on and on and on. Draw one for every experience, every feeling of happiness and heartbreak, then multiply the number of circles you have by infinity, and take the intersection of those circles. 

That is me. 

The labels on those circles define my frame of reference, which is the foundation for my own brand of logical thought and reason. I derive my assumptions from my frame of reference, and from there I form my premises and conclusions. My logic is my own, and so is yours. 

The stereotype that women are illogical always makes me laugh. Illogical compared to what? You? Some Aristotelian universal logic? It turns out that the circle labeled "Woman" is pretty important. 

Since logic cannot be used to change another person's mind, what can be? Rhetoric. Socrates and Aristotle just rolled in their graves, for the art they detested is the answer to the problem they created. 

Rhetoric deals with form, rather than substance. You have the ear of the listener in mind when you speak, instead of your own mouth. Presentation is the key. For which is better: to tell your son he should care more for the poor, or to take him to a soup kitchen? Both relay the same message, but one is combative to his belief that he already does care, or doesn't need to care, while the other provides another circle in his frame of reference. One tries to cut a branch, another adds a root.

I'll talk more about rhetoric in relationships in a future post.  

The Walls That Divide Us

For centuries, mankind has attempted to solve problems by building walls. I stood under one of those walls yesterday, erected for the same reason as the Great Wall of China and the Berlin Wall--preservation through separation.

The fortress to which I refer is the wall that separates the West Bank from Jerusalem. It is built with mammoth cement bricks and resembles a grey row of teeth. Roads that used to connect the two areas stop at graffiti-ridden concrete slabs. The wall has suffocated the once-thriving West Bank.

We stood before it in the West Bank city of Bethany. What made this experience striking was the monument two-hundred feet beyond us. At a place where the wall can be seen ominously rising over surrounding buildings, a small wooden sign reads "The Tomb of Lazarus." It marks the place where Lazarus awoke from the dead at the command of Jesus Christ. Here, The Master tore down the wall that separates us from our loved ones: Death.

This makes sense because the Savior was an unabashed destroyer of walls. He spoke with unclean women and associated with the Samaritans. He ate with publicans and sinners. He chose a hated tax collector named Matthew and a simple fisherman named  Peter to be leaders in the organization of His church. He comforted an adulterer and praised the widow's mite. His teachings relieved people of the unnecessary fences the Jewish authorities had built around God's law, for His yoke was easy and His burden was light.

He tore down walls that divide.

Above the walled Old City in Jerusalem is a hill called the Mount of Olives. Here in this grove of olive trees, Jesus Christ routinely looked out over Jerusalem saying:

"O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!"

But it was below the Mount of Olives in a place called Gethsemane where He destroyed the barriers that separate us from God. My wife and I recently visited Gethsemane, and I commented on how foreboding the trees looked.

'"No," she replied, "I think they are beautiful."

When I looked again, I realized she was right. The unique twists and knots of the olive trees are picturesque in the daylight. I had been imagining them snarling at the Savior by moonlight as He fulfilled the Atonement.

This is where the Savior bridged an infinite wall that divides our imperfect selves from our perfect Heavenly Father. I studied mathematics in college, and when infinity popped up in a mathematics problem, I tended to throw my work out, because infinity in mathematics is impossible to overcome. That is why the Savior's Atonement is a miracle: He created a bridge to our Heavenly Father over a chasm of infinite width. By overcoming the world in Gethsemane, Jesus Christ defeated infinity for us all.

But what strikes me most about Gethsemane is its proximity to Jerusalem. The Savior could see His people from the Mount of Olives and their lit houses from Gethsemane.

All He had to do was look over the city wall.

Thoughts in Nazareth

We know little about the maturing years of Jesus Christ. Of His life between His instruction in the synagogue at age twelve and the start of His ministry at age thirty, the Apostle Luke gives us one sentence: "And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man." But we do know He apprenticed in the family business of carpentry with His father, Joseph.

However, the belief that Jesus spent his time carving rocking horses and other wooden toys is probably false. A more correct translation of the Greek word that describes Jesus' occupation is 'builder' and, since the most popular building material in Nazareth was stone, Jesus more likely worked with His father to build houses instead of horses, by moving large stone blocks, instead of pliable 2x4's. He spent His growing years building physical shelters for the citizens of Nazareth; He would spend his last three years creating spiritual shelter for us all. Indeed, He knew from personal experience the importance of building a house upon a rock.

Stone is the material that lines the walls of the synagogue in Nazareth where He proclaimed Himself as the Messiah after quoting the prophesies of Isaiah and adding, "This day is this scripture fulfilled in your ears." The Nazarenes in the synagogue were bewildered at His gracious words and asked, "Is not this Joseph's son?"--which is a perfectly acceptable question in the context of His occupation. If the construction worker who built my home came to me with his yellow hard hat on and claimed to be the Messiah, my response would be the same.

But it was in Gethsemane--the Aramaic word for "oil press"--where He who provided shelter for all mankind received none for Himself.

Matthew 26:37-39 And he took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be sorrowful and very heavy. Then saith he unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me. And he went a little further, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.

In Jesus' time, before olives were made into oil they were ground into paste. The typical Nazarene olive press consisted of a large log on which was fastened three stones, each weighing one ton. The olive paste was placed under a flat stone and a basket was placed on top of the olives to separate the solid elements from the extracted oil.

The first press was with only the weight of the basket. The oil that seeped through was the best quality-- extra virgin. It was saved for temple anointings and other religious ordinances.

Matthew 26:42 He went away again the second time, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, thy will be done.

After the extra virgin olive oil was extracted, the full weight of the three stones (six thousand pounds) was dropped onto the already sweating olive paste for the second press. The pressure on the flat stone squeezed the remaining liquid from the olives. This oil was still fairly high quality and used for cooking and perfumes.

Matthew 26:44 And he left them, and went away again, and prayed the third time, saying the same words.

Luke 22:43-44 And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.

The third and final press on the olives was the most grueling: the olives were completely sapped of their liquid. In fact, the flesh of the olive became so compressed that it squeezed through the basket.

The oil gleaned from this final press was absolutely everything the olives had it give. It was used to light the houses of the Nazarenes.

May we light our homes and our lifes with the oil of His atonement.

Sailboat or Security

I found a sailboat for three-thousand dollars on the internet last night. It has a small cabin with two tiny beds and is perfect for heading south. It is both exactly what I want, and the exact opposite of what I want, at the same time.  

I have a good friend who is studying for his PhD in economics. He is a smart man, quick-witted, and infallible in logical arguments. I will relish calling him Dr. ______, mostly because I know it will annoy him. Of his good qualities, I envy only one: his singular passion and devotion to one subject. I envy everyone who has found what they want to do for the rest of their lives.

My brain is a seesaw. The left side gives me the strong urge to pack my wife and myself in a sailboat and toss my ambitions overboard. Sail to Central or South America, work odd-jobs, and have adventures.

The right side tells me to devote myself to the study of something, anything, and use my abilities to make a difference in the world. Money is also a factor.

The left side tells me I'd be happy as a nobody. The right side says I want to be President of the United States.

I'm stable when one idea is higher than the other on my seesaw. It's when they are even, like yesterday, that causes anxiety. I spent the morning searching terms like "Best Behavioral Finance programs" and "Mathematical Finance Master's Degree". Then the nagging question buzzed into my head: is this what you really want? 


So I spent the afternoon reading articles entitled, "How to Overcome Seasickness" and "Buying Your First Sailboat." The night ended with a doomed pitch to my dad to buy twelve acres of wildlife preserve and natural hot springs in Central America.


Google must think I'm schizophrenic. 

Don't Disturb My Circles

I recently read a story in the New York Times about free after-school programs that help high school students from lower income families get the test scores they need to be competitive in college. The subject of the article was a student from Newton High School named Nathaly Lopera. I believe in both the effectiveness and necessity of these programs, but Nathaly's self-reported statistics do not add up.

Nathaly says she has been attending after school programs since she was in second grade, and studies for hours a day, sometimes getting to bed well past midnight. Yet her SAT scores are so bad, she won't discuss them for the article. The article states that "to get a good grade (on the SAT), a student must read and write quickly," which are necessary elements for a successful college applicant. If Nathaly spends three to four hours per night reading just her AP Spanish homework, college will be difficult.

But what caught my eye were her performance in mathematics, which produced the only C grade to blemish an otherwise stellar record. According to the New York Times,

'Her first two semesters in math, Nathaly got an 89 and an 86, but then fell apart on trigonometry, exponents and logarithms. “Fractions, the pi thing, oh my God,” Nathaly said.' 


I spent two years tutoring high school math for BYU Independent Study, where I helped countless Nathalys. And I've noticed the correlation between SAT scores and math grades. I talked to tearful parents who complained their child studies math four hours every day, yet does not score well on the SAT's or the course. They believed the system is unfair.  


Each conversation had the same format:


-        Let me talk to your son/daughter. 
-        ...Hello?
-        Hi. I've just talked with your mother, and she says you are studying hard in geometry, but you are             not doing as well as you'd like. How many hours per day are you studying on the course?
-        Between four and five hours per day. 
-        Wow, that's a lot. And how much of that time is spent with Facebook or Youtube opened on another  tab?
-         (laughter) Most of it. 
-         So you really aren't studying between four and five hours per day. 


It is unfair to judge Nathaly, but the article's title picture is her staring at her laptop as she yawns. I wonder what she's staring at. 


There has been a steady decline in SAT scores since 1986, which is ironically the year Bill Gates took Microsoft public for $21/ share. I think at least a small part of that decline is a result of the ease with which a computer delivers distraction. Here's another conversation, this time on an online whiteboard I was using to show a student how to do a trigonometry problem:


-         So if this angle is 160 degrees, what would this corresponding angle be?...Hello?
-         Yeah, sorry. I got hung up for a minute. Yeah, I don't know. 
-         Are you chatting online with someone else right now?
-         Yes. I'm sorry. 
-         This conversation is over. Email me when you are ready to focus. 


I had these conversations weekly. But the sad part is that these conversations happened with the students who studied four to five hours per day, and whose parents raved they are the best everywhere except math and complained the system is unfair. Many students I tutored aced their other classes, but the common excuse for taking math through BYU Independent Study was "the teacher here is terrible." I've seen students who try to do math homework with their ipods blaring music in their ears; maybe the hated teacher's problem is that he's teaching terrible students. 


This is why I love mathematics. You cannot run from it. I had parents who, on a regular basis, would confront me about their child's test score and tell me there is a glitch in the scoring system because there is no way their child can study for this long and do this poor, because their child is on the honor roll, and blah blah blah blah blah. But when I force the child to do problems in front of me and his parent, the dad blushes in embarrassment.


Mathematics requires the student to make connections between seemingly irrelevant pieces of information. You are given a problem, and asked to solve it without an instruction manual. A mathematicians two greatest weapons are focus and silence: focus to learn the material, and silence to allow the brain to make the necessary subtle connections. Both of these are difficult to find in the instant media and communication age.


I remember a particularly difficult math problem I had to solve for a college class. I had already spent several days thinking about a solution, but there was a gap between two important concepts I still needed to bridge. I was so consumed in thought that I decided to drive home with the radio off, preferring the silence. The answer to three days of contemplation popped into my head in between two stop signs. I am convinced that I would have failed the assignment had I listened to music on that ride home. 


Students like Nathaly who complain about "the pi thing" should take a lesson from Archimedes, the Greek mathematician whose name graces the principles in their textbooks. Of him, Plutarch stated: "He placed his whole affection and ambition in those purer speculations where there can be no reference to the vulgar needs of life." And there is no event more exemplary of his life-philosophy than his death. 


Archimedes was in charge of defending Syracuse from a Roman siege led by General Marcus Claudius Marcellus, who had given the order to spare the famous mathematician. The Romans broke through Archimedes' defenses and stormed the city. 


A Roman soldier entered Archimedes' headquarters and, with chaos surrounding the building, found Archimedes drawing diagrams on the floor. The soldier told Archimedes that Marcellus requested his presence, but Archimedes stood puzzling, deep in thought, over his diagrams. Angry at the disrespect with which Archimedes treated his general's request, the soldier slayed him. 


Archimedes' last words?


Please don't disturb my circles.