Two thousand sixteen is a rather curious number. Though it is not a prime number itself, it can be written as the product of three distinct primes, said explicitly as two times two times two times two times two times three times three times seven. It is also what mathematicians call a triangular number, which basically means if you were to arrange 2016 dots into a triangle, all three sides of the triangle would have equal length. And, perhaps most excitingly, when you add 2016 squared and 2016 cubed, you get 8197604352, which is comprised of exactly one copy of each of the single-digits numbers.
Growing up, what I thought I loved the most about math is the idea that the discipline of mathematics as the study of not simply this world, but any possible world. Math allows us a degree of abstraction so high that its theories extend beyond this world alone, becoming universal in the most literal sense of the word. After all, even an alien would obtain a result of two when adding one and one.
It has taken me the better part of the last four years to realize how wrong I was—admittedly, with a little help coming from NASA’s rejection of my application to become their next astronaut. Jokes aside, mathematics is not a group of disembodied theories, floating around in the ether. It is a discipline of, by, and for this world, not any possible one. Its theories, at any and all levels of abstraction, are grounded in the reality of this earth. The questions mathematicians ask are the products of the world around us.
This is true for not only my concentration here at Harvard, but for all of ours. Whatever we have studied, no matter how obscure or theoretical it may appear, connects to the environment in which we live. Whether we were anthropologists working in the refugee camps of Jordan or biologists collecting samples in the forests of the Pacific Northwest, we have bridged the gap between theory and practice during our four years here, scaling the walls of the supposed Ivory Tower to witness and engage with the world around us.
Many of us have realized, through our engagement, that the world is deeply flawed. That environment which prompts our questions has revealed itself to be a place of hate, pain, and injustice. Day after day we have glimpsed the ways in which people living an ocean away or next door have been stripped of their dignity, unprotected by human or civil rights.
As a result, it may feel as if this world is unworthy of our attention, that it is much more productive to turn our attentions to the abstractions of our minds. Perhaps there is simply too much injustice for any single individual to make a positive impact. This sentiment may even be morally justifiable, rationalized by appeals to our own ignorance and youth. Is it not the epitome of Ivy League hubris to think that we, a group of 21 and 22 year olds, have the answers to age-old questions? After all, isn’t it nearly impossible that the Class of 2016 has something novel to say about problems that have existed for millennia?
I’m not so sure.
Perhaps the way of approaching the issue can be found by remembering our first moments at Harvard. Looking four years into the past, it’s easy to forget that Harvard has not always felt like home. During my first months on campus, the question I heard most clearly from Harvard’s walls was, “Who are you?” It wasn’t a question of identity, so much as one of belonging. Who are you to sit in the classrooms Ralph Waldo Emerson did? Who are you to say you belonged to the same campus once inhabited by John Adams? Who are you to ask anything from an institution that numbers eight U.S. presidents among its alumni?
It is only once I heard my peers’ answers to these questions did I realize I too belonged here. Through their art, writing, and protest, my classmates affirmed their right to call Harvard their home, just as much as Emerson, Adams, or FDR once did. They taught me that no individual is unimportant. Moreover, my brilliant peers realized that this sense of belonging engendered the responsibility to leave a positive impact on this historic, beautiful campus. In addressing this duty, they offered ways in which Harvard could function even better as our collective home, moving this institution to become a more equal and just place. Their contributions mattered.
And so, rather than turn away from the broken world we see before us, I propose we make the world our home. Not in the sense of claiming it for our sole exclusive use, but rather in the sense of turning it into a place we care about, deeply and irrevocably. In the same way we’ve made Harvard our home over the past four years, we must spend the rest of our lives making this world a hospitable one, moving it closer to the idealized versions we’ve theorized in our minds. We must invest our time here, in this environment, for it is here we have the opportunity to make a tangible difference. This world, not any possible one, is one worth living in. This world is worthy of our love.