Here is my first offering, because Labor day and September bring back-to-school memories.
Some years ago I was a (politically correct) “returning” or “non-traditional student,” (read old person) at the local community college. I had taken five or six fun and easy courses, each rewarded with an “A” and a ratchet up in self-confidence. Finally I felt ready to take Beginning Algebra. Be impressed. This move demonstrated a bravery possibly equal to that of throwing myself on a live grenade, considering the fact that I had a math phobia and had managed to graduate high school innocent of even rudimentary contact with algebra.
That first day in class I realized that my peers, most of whom were less than one-half my age, had taken algebra before and just needed a refresher. This class was designed for them, not an algebraically uninitiated like me. The teacher blithely prattle on about formulas, equations, real numbers, natural numbers and irrational numbers. She wrote x-s, and y-s, a-s and b-s on the blackboard, instead of any of the aforementioned mysterious numbers and some of the letters were embraced by parentheses, which I had foolishly assumed were used only to cozy up groups of words. The language of algebra was worse than gibberish to me. I felt as if I was about to become an irrational number so at the break I swiftly exited, not for the scheduled ten minutes, but for good.
Next semester I took the same class with a different teacher. Same result, except this time I was able to delay my panic attack until class was dismissed. Devastated, I dropped that class too. But I had committed to earning a degree, which would be the first in my family of origin. No academic institution would award that coveted B.A. until I had passed College Algebra, which was four courses and a universe away.
Before the start of next semester I asked around: who was the best algebra teacher in the school? I made an appointment to talk with that awesome lady. I related my humiliating story and in anguish, asked, “Will I have to give up getting a college degree because I can’t do algebra?” She reassured and encouraged me.
I prepared for her class as if mounting an assault on Mount Everest . I purchased the text book weeks beforehand and perused it until it sent me and my irritable bowel to the bathroom. (I considered just abandoning it there for my every-morning bathroom read.) Later when I talked to my next door neighbor, who was trained as a teacher and was home-schooling her children, she agreed to help me with homework if I got stuck. Then I introduced myself and gave fair warning to the staff at the college math lab, where they provided free tutoring during school hours. The first day of the class felt like a long workout on a balance beam but I stuck the landing -- er, the first class and the second.
This wonderful teacher had a precise grading system. She awarded the usual zero to one hundred points for tests, of course, but also awarded one point each for every class attended, for each homework assignment handed in, and for each of a limited number of extra credit assignments. Together, the points totaled one thousand, a perfect “A.” As I looked at the syllabus with that grading system, an outrageous idea struck. Maybe I could get an A in this class to match all the others on my transcript: a very seductive prospect.
As the weeks went by, this possibility was nurtured by modest success. I did every homework assignment. I checked my own work with the answers in the book, and the few times I had to consult my next door neighbor it was because there was a misprint in the book. It was tough. Each homework session produced a relentless headache, which I figured was the result of newborn algebra synapses firing off furiously in my brain. One day I felt especially overwhelmed; I decided to skip class. No problem. Next week I was back plodding away, still reasonably on track for my A.
Now, about my obsession with grades: no one would ground me if I got a C or even an F, and no one rewarded or congratulated me for my As. But during my early years in school I was an under-achiever, and now I felt I had something to prove to myself. Those As, like potato chips, create a craving for more.
The semester wound down. Before the final exam, I checked my accumulated points and knew I had to get at least a 92 to get the coveted A. The exam was excruciating. I was the last person to leave the classroom. The teacher posted exam results on her classroom door, identified by the last four digits of the students’ social security numbers. I held my breath as I located my grade. 91. Mount Everest , ha! I had failed to reach the summit; I was nauseated; maybe I was suffering from altitude sickness. A sympathetic friend told me I should ask the teacher to give me an extra point. I considered it, but what stopped me was the memory of that one day I had skipped class. One day, one point. I got what I deserved. Two weeks later when my grade report for all my classes came in the mail, lo and behold, an A in Algebra, stacked sweetly in a column with the others. To this day, I wonder: did the teacher give me a pity A, or when I totaled class points, did I make a mistake in my math?
Now the moral(s) of the story, my takeaway from this experience: first, show up; if you’re afraid of the answer, ask the question anyway; always, but always, do your best; don’t be afraid to ask for help; persistence trumps brilliance.
Happy studying,
Sharon Sterling
