The lesson my dad didn't teach me in 3rd grade
Context: One of the things I remember as a child (definitely when I was 8 years old, possibly younger) is that my father would ask me to get a piece of scrap paper so that he could show me something. What would follow would be some ad-hoc lesson about algebra, electronic circuits, or possibly matrix math. I didn't always get it on the first try, but it was fascinating just the same. He's still very much around, and we still go through these exercises when we're both in the same place, and he wants to talk through an engineering problem with me.
Here's one lesson he never taught me, and I kind of wish he did.
I'd probably be reading a book in the family room, and my dad would walk in, likely in a dark suit, stuffing a yarmulka back into his pocket. He'd ask me what I was reading, ask me a couple of questions about it, and ask me to put down the book for a second and get a piece of paper.
"Remember that talk we had about what a 'bell curve' is, and you were wondering about when you'd use it? So, now I have something really interesting to show you."
"In about thirty years, you're going to notice something, and I trust you'll remember, so I don't mind telling you right now."
He'd materialize a mechanical pencil, and start sketching out a bell curve with sigmas at the appropriate points. "As it turns out, one of the things that can be graphed on a bell curve is how long people are going to live. You, me, everyone. You've got a long long way to go, so does your mom, and so do I."
"So here's the thing. In about thirty years, people your age will be *just* enough closer to center of the curve [over *here*] that some people who are at the edge [over *here*] will no longer be around. That's not all that many people, but if you know a lot of them, like me and your mom do, there will be a few people you know."
"I know I must seem very old to you, but I'm not, and when those few of your friends are the age I am now, they will all seem very young to have died so early, and it will all look very strange, but it's just math."
"I want you to write something down for me. It's just five words, and I want you to remember it. Write it in other languages, write it backwards, tap-dance to it, do whatever you need to do to remember this. You're not going to understand it right now, but it's very important, okay? Okay."
"'No One Is Promised Tomorrow.' Just write it down."
So, in my too-neat-by-half handwriting, I'd write it down. Probably a couple of times to make sure it looked nice.
"Good good. Now c'mon. Get your shoes on and grab that stack of books. I promised your mom I'd take you to the library."
Here's one lesson he never taught me, and I kind of wish he did.
I'd probably be reading a book in the family room, and my dad would walk in, likely in a dark suit, stuffing a yarmulka back into his pocket. He'd ask me what I was reading, ask me a couple of questions about it, and ask me to put down the book for a second and get a piece of paper.
"Remember that talk we had about what a 'bell curve' is, and you were wondering about when you'd use it? So, now I have something really interesting to show you."
"In about thirty years, you're going to notice something, and I trust you'll remember, so I don't mind telling you right now."
He'd materialize a mechanical pencil, and start sketching out a bell curve with sigmas at the appropriate points. "As it turns out, one of the things that can be graphed on a bell curve is how long people are going to live. You, me, everyone. You've got a long long way to go, so does your mom, and so do I."
"So here's the thing. In about thirty years, people your age will be *just* enough closer to center of the curve [over *here*] that some people who are at the edge [over *here*] will no longer be around. That's not all that many people, but if you know a lot of them, like me and your mom do, there will be a few people you know."
"I know I must seem very old to you, but I'm not, and when those few of your friends are the age I am now, they will all seem very young to have died so early, and it will all look very strange, but it's just math."
"I want you to write something down for me. It's just five words, and I want you to remember it. Write it in other languages, write it backwards, tap-dance to it, do whatever you need to do to remember this. You're not going to understand it right now, but it's very important, okay? Okay."
"'No One Is Promised Tomorrow.' Just write it down."
So, in my too-neat-by-half handwriting, I'd write it down. Probably a couple of times to make sure it looked nice.
"Good good. Now c'mon. Get your shoes on and grab that stack of books. I promised your mom I'd take you to the library."