Fog seeps in over the dunes; the moon, in its weak attempt to outshine the sun, lingers in the

sky. The wavesif you could even call them wavesslowly eat at the miniscule shore. I sit at the top of a small outcropping overlooking the barely-beach, waiting. Ive been anxiously waiting for this slow summer day, anxiously awaiting this small reunion with friends I have gathered over my eighteen years of living in the tight-knit, often unnoticed suburb of Alameda, California. As I watch the ocean creep up the bank and gradually overtake the winding, maze-like patterns in the dampened sand, I cant help but dread the day I will leave this place. Sure, Santa Cruz has its beach and boardwalk, its forest fortress, its sweeping hills and plethora of nature, but its nothing like this sad, deserted, yet comforting beach of my childhood. I sit and look back at what has brought me here, the experiences behind these friendships that have driven me out of my summer hermithood. Something, some greater force, compels me to spend this last stretch of July with the people who have accepted me, despite the superficial social norms of a modern-day high school. As strange as it may sound, only one place in Alameda has affected me in such a way that leaving it was almost harder than leaving my own house. What place is this, you ask? It is Alameda High School, Room 202, Home of the Great Craig Friedman. To me, this place is my home, in the truest sense of the word. It is where my heart lies, where Ive spent time with my most cherished friends and absorbed some of my fondest memories, referring to it as home rather than taking it for granted. As in the case of Steinbecks Muley Graves, leaving was against my will; I was attached, bound, connected to this place. It was more than a classroom; rare to find in what most think of as an institution, lied my happy place, my sanctuary. Unlike Muley Graves, however, staying put was not a matter of choice. Id had my chance, taking the full spread of

calculus, but as a graduating senior, I no longer had the opportunity or sense of security I once possessed. My calculus journey was over. Part of me, yearning to stick to my roots, to maintain my connection to this safe haven of integrals and derivatives thought like Muley: Ill be aroun till hell freezes over. There aint nobody can run a guy name of Graves outa this country. (Steinbeck, 45) I was hooked and I planned to stay that way. There would be no steering me from the Yellow Brick Road of my calculus adventure. Odd and obscure as it may be, this place had changed my life. For this reason, I have no shame in proclaiming my love for Alameda Highs AP Calculus program. Weird, right? Not really. Even as a junior with a bruised ego (courtesy of my failing AP chemistry exam score), I was no stranger to the land of AP exams and accelerated math classes; that was old news. Perhaps the title of AP Calculus AB was a little dauntingokay, a lot daunting. With the previous years nightmare-of-a-math-class, I was unmotivated, unwilling, and most of all, unprepared for what I thought would be the most drab and difficult course of my high school career. Walking into that classroom, that 202 looming above my head, I had no idea what to expect; the first period of the first day of school is always a journey. Of course, the moment the bell rang, I learned that this class would be anything but boring. How could I have been so wrong? First off, there are Mr. Friedmans mannerisms; he isnt just cheery, hes eccentric. Anyone stepping into that class, oblivious to math as he or she may be, can instantly tell that the man is passionate about calculus. More than a teacher, Mr. Friedman is a comedian, a friend, a guardian, even. Sure, the first year was mostly just our class soaking in the silly way he said the phrase, Two pi, or the way he would make sounds as he drew parabolas on the overhead, the weird stories hed tell us to help us memorize key concepts, but the next journey, AP Calculus

BC, would be the defining moment of my special attachment to, not only the classroom, but the people, as well. For most kids my age, AP Calculus BC is not a course in high demand. In fact, many probably skip over the AP calculus courses altogether. However, if everyone had the opportunity to participate in a class like that of the affectionately nicknamed GCF, I am positive that many would forego their free period for a shot at the Lagrange Error Bound and Eulers method. I admit, it was not really the concepts that attracted me to the class, but Friedmans unique style of teaching. I am not entirely sure what this is comprised of, but something about that class had such a wonderfully familial vibe about it. Our class of 25 students, extremely small compared to the overflowing classes of AP environmental science or AP English, had a gloriously diverse mix of educated young men and women from all demographics, rare for our predominantly Asian community. With The Great Craig Friedman at the helm, even our motley crew, combined with his other section of BC, made our way to becoming the first 100% pass-rate class in the district. Our class, the rowdier of the two, never seemed to stop having fun, and that is what made me feel so at home, even in the abstractoften confusingworld of calculus. About a quarter into our senior year, I knew calculus was my favorite class. Despite my horrendous academic slump in sophomore year, I was rather good at keeping my senioritis at bay. In fact, I wanted something more than the education I was receiving; I wanted to give back something to the class that was making my senior year so memorable. In the previous year, a classmate of mine had, on a whim, created a Facebook page for another iconic teacher in our school: one Dr. Phil Dauber. After reviewing its success (based mainly on silly quotations made by the doctor himself), I decided to try my hand at a tribute to my mathematical maestro. It really wasnt so hard to put it up. In class, I actually asked Friedman about his aspirations as a child

and many other miscellaneous facts to add to his Biography section. Id been keeping tabs on some of his more frequent sayings, and even taking down some of his lengthier exchanges with myself and other students in my class. But soon it was so much more than a fan page. I became the GCF. Posting from that page, many thought they were actually speaking to the man of mystery, himself. A bit of very light identity theft (with Friedmans full disclosure, of course) soon showed me another side of being a true participant in the course. Maintaining that page and transcribing some of the most candid moments of our AP calculus experience (who knew those even existed?) gave me the sense of giving back Id craved. Doing The Great Craig Friedman justice became one of my favorite pastimes in those flying, fleeting last months of my senior year. Soon it was more than a joke, it was a hobby. I posted synopses of weekly quizzes (or quizzles as Friedman would call them, his enthusiasm oozing in a WWE-style battle cry, pumping us up for the task ahead), extra credit review sessions, and even encouraging messages to my darling pupils when it came time for the AP exams. Only a few of my classmates knew it was me behind the page, and I didnt mind keeping it under wraps. Becoming Friedman and helping out my classmates just felt so wonderful. On another side of the spectrum was the ongoing rivalry between second and third period BC calculus. Never was there such a feeling of camaraderie in my class (especially with a class of such unique and outstandingand Id be remiss if I did not include the word clashing personalities), than when we would argue with Friedman about which class he loved the most. Maybe second period was likeable but third period was the fun class, always cracking jokes, a few of the boys holding a daily Banana Club outside the door, and some even playfully graffiti-ing the many surrounding whiteboards with a cartoon likeness of the aforementioned Dr. Dauber. Of course, we never let this unabashed enthusiasm distract us from our studies and, for

the most part, our test scores supported our argument that, despite the chaos our love brought, we were still learning what we needed to learn. By the end of the year, we all knew where we stood and let go of the constant battle. Instead we focused our efforts on something more important. If there was anything for which our classes came together and worked as a team, it was to make Friedmans dream of a 100% pass-rate, a reality. And that we did. In a high-level class such as this, a dynamic like ours is unconventional, unheard of, frowned upon, really. But to imply that Friedman had no control over our chaos would be a disservice to our Calculus Gandalf. Even with our frequent outbursts, incessant and seemingly unnecessary rounds of applause, we all held Friedman in highest respect. Our cheers of CHECK! and intentional mispronunciation of the name Euler were not acts of defiance, but indicators of our engagement with the material and Friedmans outstanding teaching skills. Calculus is, in all due respect, a typically boring subject, but for someone to bring so much life to it, to open our minds to a distinctively creative and humorous approach to obscure concepts such as derivatives and Riemann sums, is quite a feat in itself. Part of Friedmans brilliance is, indeed, his quirky personality. Sure, there are the great orators, the masters of PowerPoint, the rulers of demonstration; regardless, there is none quite like The Great Craig Friedman. Just as there exists The Seal Beach Way, there too exists the AP Calculus BC Way. Our class, one of the lesserknown gems of the AP department, is neatly tucked away, accessible only to the mathematically elite. The same way Seal Beach is (or was) the last little unspoiled beach town in Southern California, AP Calculus BC is the last, yet most gratifying, stop on the journey of Alamedas accelerated mathematics program (Humes, 70). Like Humes Seal Beach, our family of dedicated students was underappreciated, sometimes misunderstood. Now, in a similar fashion to Seal Beachs urbanization, AP Calculus is no longer reserved for the mathematically-dedicated

seniors, and ambitious, grounded juniors. Our years of hard work and perseverance are disregarded; AP Calculus now has open enrollment. The years of specialization and preparation are no longer required; the small convention of a recommended calculus summer course offers little comfort. What was once a reward is now simply another badge on an AP hoarders chest. Nonetheless, my Calculus Hero remains in his cozy classroom, teaching new generations of students the fundamentals of the wide and wonderful world of calculus.