i. +
I like to think that math is the first language I learned — one that neither Marathi nor English held a candle to — and it was no wonder, given how deeply entrenched it was in my childhood. “Dora the Explorer” seldom left our living room TV, and Dora taught me how to count better than she could locate her destinations. My first toy (and friend), a gray robot called “Kasey the Kinderbot,” had pattern-finding skills and dance moves that rivaled my own. Colorful fridge magnets of numbers made the biggest dent in my issues with object permanence, and, as an infant, I sought them out the most.
My parents taught me the first math lesson I remember. After long hours of work, my dad spent time kneeling beside the off-white kitchen fridge to demonstrate (in English and Marathi) all the intricacies of ordering numbers from one, एक (ek), to 10, दहा (dahā), a one year old should know — and I’d follow. My mom, baby steps away, was in charge of dinner and would look at us fondly as smells of hot oil and pav bhaji filled the air. As we’d do this daily ritual, my parents would banter and turn to exclaim “Good job!” to me each time I recited my numbers with no mistakes. This cramped one-story, one-bedroom house we created our home in, and their filial child who knew her numbers by heart, were testaments to the sacrifices my parents made to immigrate to the United States and their staunch belief in education.
ii. x
Math remained a constant in our lives. I became two, three and then five (age is a fickle thing for children), as well as a head taller and bespectacled, before my family moved. The house we lived in was much larger, matching the presence of math in my life. Thanks to my parents, Lego toys began to replace baby ones, addition worksheets took precedence over coloring books and I knew my numbers way beyond 10. Math turned from a simple love language to my parents’ grand plan to make me the next Indian child prodigy in the subject.
It made sense to me at the time. I was good at math and continued to work hard at it. My parents expected my success but also poured their energy into ensuring I could excel at math. I turned eight and began to participate in math classes and competitions as my parents grew busier with their jobs. When they weren’t instilling lessons and advice in me to polish my math repertoire, they worked days and nights to make a living. They made the most of building their budding careers as foreigners, aspiring to attain the American Dream. The money rolled in, but the time my parents spent with me on weekly math sessions was all the more meaningful.
These moments weren’t just about math; they were about sharing a bond. My dad would patiently explain the logic behind each step, his eyes lighting up as I grasped new concepts. My mom would cheer me on with every correct answer, her pride evident in her gleaming smile. These simple joys of solving a problem or the fulfillment of mastering a new topic became intertwined with the warmth of my parents’ attention.
iii. –
Soon, I was 13 and the epitome of what Indian parents feared the most: a bratty teenager. The onset of puberty brought about change and not only in the short hair, thick eyeliner and contacts I adorned. I was teeming with confidence, the scrappy kind that could later stem into spunk and five feet of attitude. It was the first time I saw a crack in the idyllic upbringing my parents sought to keep intact as a safeguard for my young adulthood.
The car rides to middle school became more akin to battles than compromises. I’d sit shotgun and plug in my earbuds to listen to Panic! At The Disco like the cool teenager I thought I was, ignoring the side-eyes my mom made at my new look and any possible implications it held. Car rides used to be moments of bonding with my parents with math at the center, practicing squares of numbers and how to multiply multi-digit numbers mentally. As adolescence reshaped my identity and interests, pulling me away from childhood routines, the regular math practice quickly lost its meaning. The first signs of this change manifested in our drives, which were originally bustling but now sat still and heavy, as insolence surpassed obedience. Suddenly, there was no point in having to commit the squares of countless numbers to memory or becoming a math multiplication whiz. This disconnect sparked daily arguments between my mom and me until one of us yielded, the bitter aftertaste of rebuke in our silence.
Looking back, creating number patterns with magnets on the fridge as a child was simple; it was a game of placing things where they belonged. But as I grew older, I realized that life’s patterns were far more intricate. The same parents, who would gaze at me adoringly for the high math scores or flashy prize medals I’d bring home, began to look at me with growing unease, flickers of disappointment clouding their eyes. The shift in their perception left me torn between reclaiming their approval and pushing further against the boundaries of their expectations. Our once-peaceful math-oriented conversations gave way to an uncomfortable silence, thick with unspoken questions about who I was becoming and whether I still fit within the vision they had imagined for me.
iv. ÷
The division between us grew as I entered high school. With advanced math classes and extracurriculars demanding more of my time, I drifted further from the childhood routines that once defined my relationship with my parents. The pressure to excel was persistent, but my passion for math started to wane. I no longer found joy in solving equations or proving theorems; instead, I felt burdened by the expectations that seemed to grow heavier with each passing year.
I could easily wax poetic about the strained relationship between me and my parents. Our conversations at the dinner table, once filled with lively discussions about solving math problems in my workbooks, became strained and sparse. I remember bursting out of full-blown arguments, tearfully exclaiming, “Why can’t you just accept me the way that I am!” There were parts of me that just felt too fluid and undefined, resisting the clear-cut precision math provided. These deviations, from how emotional and argumentative I was as the eldest daughter of immigrant parents to coming out unsuccessfully, existed in a space where cultural expectations and personal authenticity clashed.
My parents, sensing the changes, pushed even harder, not realizing that their well-intentioned pressure was driving a wedge between us. The same parents who taught me about love with math, that it can be special and all-encompassing, also taught me that love can be angry and cruel. It was the aching pains of disapproval, the mountains moved through my tears and the smallest shards of glass wedged under my skin.
Yet, math gave me its love when I thought I needed it the least. The same squares of numbers I resented committing to memory in car drives became a strange tactic to calm myself after arguments. I found comfort in affirming that 242 is 576, that 252 is 625 and so on. Other times, I’d frequent Digits, my favorite “New York Times” game (and the best one!), to cheer me up in those stagnant, pre-reconciliation moments.
Slowly making peace with math and understanding its intrinsic weaving in my life helped me bridge the gap with my parents. I had to unlearn the ego that came with thinking I was always right and put myself in my parents’ shoes. Part of being a parent comes with the unspoken pressure of instilling all the right values in your kids, the ones you wish your parents had taught you, to ensure they live their fullest lives in society.
However, this well-intentioned guidance often becomes a generational tug-of-war, especially for first-generation children. Our parents’ vision of what’s “right” is shaped by the struggles and triumphs they’ve faced, which can clash with their children’s evolving aspirations in a new cultural landscape. The challenge lies in bridging the generational gap, honoring our parents’ efforts while advocating for our own dreams and values.
To my parents, love spoke through deeds, not words. Math lessons were one such deed through which my parents showed their love — a means of helping me succeed academically. Shaping my behavior and guiding who I should love were further expressions of their teachings, though misguided at times. By molding my rough edges, they hoped to shield me from the harsher realities of society, those that went beyond the colors of our skin we couldn’t hide.
My parents’ approach to love was rooted in their upbringings and the tough times they faced as immigrants building a life in a new country. Coming from a collectivist culture that prioritized family over the individual, every action was imbued with deeper meaning. Love was not simply felt, but something you did — the risks you took and the tough lessons you imparted meant to forge resilience in your children.
For years, I struggled to see past their strict delivery. Teaching math and advising me on aspects of myself felt like heavy-handed methods stifling my identity, not expressions of love. Their motives stemmed from shielding me against prejudices they had overcome, but I was more focused on internalizing the hurt. I unfairly demanded respect without extending it myself.
The gap began to lessen as I learned how to connect with my parents without taking it personally. Conversations are two-way streets — I also knew I still had things I could teach my parents, but that came with the (small) price of meeting them in the middle. Now, my parents and I are open with each other and apologize with hugs and words. To my younger self, I wish I could have solved the puzzle sooner and realized that love’s profound geometries extend far beyond the limited shapes my parents and I had confined it to.
v. =
Now that I’m almost 21, I can identify that gap between the idealized upbringing my parents envisioned and the reality of our relationship. I recently had a conversation with my parents about my childhood versus my little brother’s. As part of this discussion, my dad told me, “With you, we were so focused on raising you to be brilliant, accomplished and a culmination of all the lessons learned from our childhood that we had no room left to give you love.”
Although I couldn’t say it at that moment, part of me disagreed. The love they tried to provide came from a cultural framework that often displaced emotional validation. It was as if my parents believed that by molding me into a model of intelligence and success, they could shield me from the struggles they faced in a new country. The approach, however well-intentioned, felt more like pressure than affection. The general rule of thumb was clear: excel in your studies, secure a prestigious career and emotional fulfillment would naturally follow. Yet, in the equation of success, the variable of emotional validation often went unsolved. So, taking the time to see where my parents and I each had fallen short helped move us toward something better.
I still roll my eyes at my mom’s comments about how I “really should learn my three-digit by three-digit mental multiplication,” but I do so with fondness. The struggles we experienced together were necessary for my growth, allowing me to find my path and passions, and taught me how to honor my parents’ sacrifices while challenging the expectations that were placed upon me. It’s especially made me a better problem-solver, and who am I to call myself a true math aficionado without solving at least one of life’s (many) problems along the way?
MiC Contributor Arya Kamat can be reached at agkamat@umich.edu.
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