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May
16,
2010
Dear
________,
In
April,
I
was
sitting
in
our
G
band
calculus
class,
watching
you
and
your
compatriots
take
an
assessment
on
some
tough
anti
‐
derivatives
and
the
fundamental
theorem
of
calculus
(part
II).
The
windows
were
open
and
the
sun
was
streaming
in,
and
you
were
stuck
inside
listening
to
children
scamper
around
screaming
“GAAAAH!”
and
shrieking
shrilly.
Annoying.
They
were
disturbing
your
concentration.
And
worse
yet,
when
one
piercing
note
took
your
focus
away
from
the
calculus,
I
imagined
the
thought
flit
into
your
head:
I
wish
I
were
out
there
instead
of
here.
It’s
hard
for
me
–
and
calculus
–
to
compete
with
being
footloose
and
fancy
free.
And
everyday,
that’s
what
we
did.
I
don’t
know
if
in
your
final
weighing,
our
time
adventuring,
meandering,
running,
and
sometimes
stumbling,
through
the
world
of
calculus
came
out
more
significant
than
other
things
you
could
have
spent
your
time
working
on.
My
sincere
hope
is
that
although
there
were
hurdles,
days
of
unrest
and
ennui,
moments
of
high
elation
and
(sometimes,
possibly)
bitter
disappointment,
that
you
came
out
of
our
merry
band
of
calculus
feeling
like
you’ve
accomplished
something
significant.
Because
you
have.
Or
to
be
more
precise,
I
think
you
have.
I
would
like
to
convince
you
of
that.
You
came
to
our
room,
on
the
first
day,
newly
minted
seniors
not
sure
of
what
was
coming
your
way.
And
for
a
few
weeks,
while
we
tediously
(and
I
mean
tediously)
marched
through
our
understanding
of
limits
–
a
few
bootcamps
along
the
way
to
kick
you
into
gear
–
you
surely
were
wondering
whyyyyyyyy
?
I
probably
replied:
it’s
foundational.
Or
something
unsatisfying
like
that.
But
finally
we
made
it
through,
and
on
the
day
we
were
about
to
start
derivatives,
I
said:
So
you’ve
been
in
this
class
for
about
a
while,
and
you’ve
been
learning
a
bunch
of
stuff,
and
you
took
a
course
called
pre
‐
calculus.
If
that
be
the
case,
then
I
ask
you
to
answer
what
should
be
a
simple
question:
what
is
calculus?
And
I
got:
(crickets
chirping)
But
from
such
inglorious
origins,
a
powerful
idea
sprung
forth
–
we
could
find
the
slope
of
something
that
wasn’t
a
line.
And
that
slope
could
tell
you
almost
anything
about
a
function.
The
instantaneous
rate
of
change.
Increasing
or
decreasing.
Concave
up
or
concave
down.
Maxima
and
minima.
And
we
learned
to
find
this
slope
–
the
derivative
–
for
a
number
of
really,
really
tough
functions.
You
could
find
the
instantaneous
rate
of
change
of
3
(21)sin()1
x x x y x
=++
.
You
know
how
I
know
you
could
do
that?
That’s
a
question
from
one
of
your
assessments.
We
found
a
few
applications
along
the
way.
Some
physics,
some
optimization
problems,
some
related
rates
this
and
that.
But
for
me,
and
hopefully
for
you,
you
started
to
see
how
powerful
the
calculus
was.
Simply
from
knowing
the
equation
of
a
function,
you
could
know
almost
everything
your
heart
might
want
to
know
about
it
1
!
1
Fine,
so
maybe
your
heart
isn’t
mathematical,
and
it
might
not
want
to
know
such
things.
But
if
that
be
the
case,
I
still
plead
that
your
brain
might
be
curious.
From
nothing
–
literally
drawing
a
few
secant
lines
–
we
had
built
this
huge,
elaborate
superstructure.
At
the
end,
we
had
just
barely
enough
time
to
find
the
volume
of
some
beautiful
figures
(that
aren’t
cubes
or
spheres),
and
the
length
of
some
curvy
lines
(not
just
boring
straight
lines!):
In
our
time
together
you
got
all
intimate
with
functions.
When
we
did
derivatives,
we
used
the
fact
that
if
you
zoom
in
(an
infinite
number
of
times
)
to
a
part
of
a
curve,
it
looks
exactly
like
a
line.
We
were
looking
at
an
infinitesimal
part
of
the
curve!
When
we
did
integrals,
we
broke
the
area
we
were
looking
for
into
an
infinite
number
of
small
rectangles,
with
infinitesimally
small
bases.
We
were
adding
together
an
infinite
number
of
infinitesimally
thin
rectangles!
All
of
calculus
is
founded
on
these
two
ideas.
We
acquired
a
global
understanding
of
functions
by
understanding
them
locally.
Infinitesimals
are
the
support
structure
holding
it
all
together.
You
came
into
this
class
knowing
algebra.
You
come
out
knowing
calculus.
I
hope
you’re
proud
of
what
you’ve
accomplished.
I
want
you
to
know
that
I
am.
I
wish
I
could
say
that
I
was
the
best
teacher
for
each
and
everyone
one
of
you.
I
wish
I
could
say
that
I
have
convinced
you
to
love
math,
or
at
least
appreciate
it
a
little
bit
more,
than
when
you
entered.
I
wish
I
convinced
you
that
math
isn’t
about
natural
ability
and
isn’t
about
being
smart
and
isn’t
about
algebraic
manipulation,
but
instead
that
it’s
about
curiosity
and
dedication
and
the
ability
to
work
through
frustration
for
that
amazing
feeling
of
accomplishment
when
you
have
that
breakthrough.
But
I’m
a
realist
on
this
front.
I
know
that
I
probably
haven’t
succeeded
on
all
counts.
But
if
you
felt
just
a
little
,
even
once,
that
you
had
an
true
“ah
hah,
woooow!”
moment,
hold
onto
that.
Because
that
is
what
math
is,
when
taught
right.
It’s
hard
for
me
to
end
this,
because
it
means
that
it
is
over.
You’ve
had
many
teachers
this
year,
but
I’ve
only
had
a
few
classes.
It’s
hard
for
me
to
let
go.
My
senior
year
English
teacher
wrote
me
a
letter
at
graduation
–
in
response
to
a
thank
you
note
that
I
gave
him.
I
re
‐
read
it
every
year
around
this
time,
and
look
for
new
wisdom
to
impart
to
my
senior
students.
But
each
year,
I
end
up
citing
the
same
quotation
I
was
born
not
knowing,
and
have
had
only
a
little
time
to
change
that
here
and
there.
This
quotation
by
physicist
Richard
Feynman
was
in
my
thank
you
note
to
him,
in
reference
to
the
ideals
he
lived
by,
the
ideals
that
I
aspired
to.
In
response,
he
bequeathed
to
me
E.E.
Cummings:
To
be
nobody
‐
but
‐
yourself
in
a
world
which
is
doing
its
best,
night
and
day,
to
make
you
everybody
else,
means
to
fight
the
hardest
battle
which
any
human
being
can
fight
–
and
never
stop
fighting.
I
offer
both
of
them
to
you,
because
their
sentiments
have
not
grown
stale
from
when
they
were
first
uttered
by
their
authors,
to
when
my
English
teacher
and
I
exchanged
them,
to
now
when
I
offer
them
with
you.
I
hope
you
succeed
in
winning
both
of
these
battles:
always
learning
about
things
which
keep
your
curiosity
about
the
world
alive,
and
always
resisting
the
insidious
hands
of
conformity
in
order
to
stay
true
to
yourself.
I
see
them
as
both
sides
of
the
same
coin.
Mr.
Shah
,
I
hear
your
internal
dialogue
whinging,
these
are
so
idealistic.
Hey,
I’m
just
sayin’:
it’s
possible.
Always,
Sameer
Shah
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