Either you’ve had it coming for a while, or you’re facing the brutal truth that sometimes life isn’t fair. Whatever the case, a math teacher from your past is out to get you.
Year after year, Ms. So-and-so gathered up the courage to don the best garb she could afford on a teacher’s salary, drive to school, and face a roomful of teenagers all dying to ask a single question: “Why are we learning this?” In this moment, nature’s most vain creations–high schoolers–become models of efficiency. Kids that craft the most elaborate, mentally exhaustive lies just to stay out past 10 PM suddenly won’t interpolate without a convincing thesis from the teacher.
Of course, every math teacher has his or her answer to this question. Some actually attempt an answer–engineer employment outlooks and average starting salaries, “because I’ll fail you if you don’t”, or some anecdotal illustration of math-in-real-life–but the best sidestep the question altogether. Mrs. Brown, my own illustrious math teacher, preempted our reticence with a passionate retelling of her life story every year. There were awkward moments, sure: we were never sure we needed to know the details of her divorce and whether or not her grown children really appreciated her. But we never asked, “why” when she transitioned to trig. We had been converted from spectators to participants in her life story; by the time math was at hand, it was way too late to put on the brakes.
Passion, not facts or statistics or logic, proves a point. Until an audience is personally invested in what you’re saying, it’s just one side of an optional debate. But presentations are not Debate Club. You’re not up there to hear yourself speak; you’re there to get results. If you don’t make room for passion–and I mean a lot of room–then you’re going to face a math teacher’s revenge. They may not ask out loud, but everyone in the room will be thinking, “Why are we learning this?” Avoid the question, start with passion, and you’ll be amazed at their willingness to follow along.
