"18/20, Good work."
She hands the paper to the group of guys sitting in front of me. The class applauds, this was a difficult devoir.
"17.5, 17, 17, 16.5..." The grades go down steadily. Oh well, I wasn't expecting a stellar grade. I know I should have done the Algebra portion and she the Geometry, but we didn't think it through. Maybe we'd get a 13.
"12, 11.5..." I begin to sweat. As long as we made the moyenne...
"10, 9.5..." She still hasn't called our names. This is bad.
Finally, there is only one paper left. And she doesn't look happy.
"Mesdemoiselles X and Y, please come to the front of the class."
The walk to the blackboard seems endless. Eventually, we stand there, trembling and on the brink of tears, facing a now-silent classroom of knowing stares and an irate teacher.
A long silence. Then:
"Eight. Eight out of twenty. What in the world were you thinking, Miss Archduchess? I know that you are worth more than a 3/10 in Algebra. You should have looked over Miss X's work, if not done it yourself. Better yet, you should have worked it out together. Miss X, your Algebra is truly terrible. Miss Archduchess, your Geometry is not much better. I am appalled. Both of you. I want this paper signed by both of your parents, and I want a reworked copy on my desk next week. Class dismissed."
I should have known better. Really, I should have.
I'm terrible at math. And it took me until my senior year of high school to realize that.
I thought it was my best subject, but I should have noticed the pattern: when certain kinds of thinking were involved, it became obvious that I did not understand Math. Not in the least.
The first sign was a 6.5/20 on a Geometry test in 5th grade. The teacher put it down to my recent illness, and aside from some snickering, no one thought the worse of me. In eighth grade, there was The Paper. When I handed it to Father to sign, I received a resounding slap. In tenth grade, there was the 73 on the Matrices test.
And, finally, Calculus. An entire year of terrible grades, homework that made sense and exams that didn't, late night lessons with Father, and his constant disapproval and disappointment.
I'm terrible at Math, and I know it.
But I also figured out in seventh grade that an object fitting the requirements of Poincaré's Conjecture would be a hollow sphere in which the inside and outside surfaces were joined in the fourth dimension. I once received a 136/100 on an assignment because I found the problems so fascinating that I kept going and made my own. I received a perfect score on the national Calculus exam at the end of twelfth grade.
I can't help but shudder whenever Calculus is mentioned, but I would gladly take a Topology class if I had the opportunity, intend to take an entire semester's worth of Discrete Mathematics, and find myself looking at data of biological functions in terms of their derivatives and sometimes integrals.
Mathematics and I, we have a complicated relationship. I fear them, dread them, despair in the knowledge that in ignoring them I may be digging my scientific grave. On the other hand, the titles of Math books and classes appeal to me like a choir of sirens, delectable in their familiar yet strangely exotic names.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and the median of a non-isosceles triangle was staring me in the face, taunting me.
She hands the paper to the group of guys sitting in front of me. The class applauds, this was a difficult devoir.
"17.5, 17, 17, 16.5..." The grades go down steadily. Oh well, I wasn't expecting a stellar grade. I know I should have done the Algebra portion and she the Geometry, but we didn't think it through. Maybe we'd get a 13.
"12, 11.5..." I begin to sweat. As long as we made the moyenne...
"10, 9.5..." She still hasn't called our names. This is bad.
Finally, there is only one paper left. And she doesn't look happy.
"Mesdemoiselles X and Y, please come to the front of the class."
The walk to the blackboard seems endless. Eventually, we stand there, trembling and on the brink of tears, facing a now-silent classroom of knowing stares and an irate teacher.
A long silence. Then:
"Eight. Eight out of twenty. What in the world were you thinking, Miss Archduchess? I know that you are worth more than a 3/10 in Algebra. You should have looked over Miss X's work, if not done it yourself. Better yet, you should have worked it out together. Miss X, your Algebra is truly terrible. Miss Archduchess, your Geometry is not much better. I am appalled. Both of you. I want this paper signed by both of your parents, and I want a reworked copy on my desk next week. Class dismissed."
I should have known better. Really, I should have.
I'm terrible at math. And it took me until my senior year of high school to realize that.
I thought it was my best subject, but I should have noticed the pattern: when certain kinds of thinking were involved, it became obvious that I did not understand Math. Not in the least.
The first sign was a 6.5/20 on a Geometry test in 5th grade. The teacher put it down to my recent illness, and aside from some snickering, no one thought the worse of me. In eighth grade, there was The Paper. When I handed it to Father to sign, I received a resounding slap. In tenth grade, there was the 73 on the Matrices test.
And, finally, Calculus. An entire year of terrible grades, homework that made sense and exams that didn't, late night lessons with Father, and his constant disapproval and disappointment.
I'm terrible at Math, and I know it.
But I also figured out in seventh grade that an object fitting the requirements of Poincaré's Conjecture would be a hollow sphere in which the inside and outside surfaces were joined in the fourth dimension. I once received a 136/100 on an assignment because I found the problems so fascinating that I kept going and made my own. I received a perfect score on the national Calculus exam at the end of twelfth grade.
I can't help but shudder whenever Calculus is mentioned, but I would gladly take a Topology class if I had the opportunity, intend to take an entire semester's worth of Discrete Mathematics, and find myself looking at data of biological functions in terms of their derivatives and sometimes integrals.
Mathematics and I, we have a complicated relationship. I fear them, dread them, despair in the knowledge that in ignoring them I may be digging my scientific grave. On the other hand, the titles of Math books and classes appeal to me like a choir of sirens, delectable in their familiar yet strangely exotic names.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and the median of a non-isosceles triangle was staring me in the face, taunting me.
3 comments:
I can't comment upon your science and maths but your command and use of the English language (which was an integral part of how I earned my living and about which I think I know a little) is such that you could be considering writing as a career.
You never cease to impress me!
I spent years taking science classes and my first job after college was at a research institution and all of it was for naught, in part, because I wasn't good w/ math. Oh, I'm ok with practical math and some statistical stuff but that's about it.
On the flip side of all that my wife was a graduate in math - so I watched and listened to the reality of numbers and even she wan't able to help me with my math-awfulness.
What I regret most about taking all the science that I did - was not one instructor or councilor took me aside and said, "Bill you stink at math maybe science isn't what you should be doing."
I'm having trouble making "I'm terrible at Math" come out equal to "perfect score on the national Calculus exam", but maybe I'm not so good at math myself.
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