A Lasting Division

Despite a complete and utter lack of skill in mathematics, I have been able to keep my job as a business manager, where I have been entrusted to crunch numbers all day long. Clearly, the board of directors is unable to see the truth, and are equally as happy to have a warm body in my seat as I am to have a regular paycheck and enough free time that I am able to periodically pursue more worthwhile personal interests while still being paid for my time.

My difficulties with math began at an early age. In the second grade, I was assigned to the least-desirable second grade teacher possible. After I’d spent an entire summer praying that I’d be matched with a cute, young teacher, I got the news that I’d been paired with Mrs. McK, a woman who was as old as she was grumpy. She was seldom seen without her ketchup-red knitted sweater vest, a look she believed to be paramount to her image as a teacher. Her gruff attitude indicated that she’d been vomited on by elementary school children one too many times, and she was simply holding out for retirement while spewing her vile temperament.

The bright point of each week was when I’d be rescued by the adorable young student teacher whom taught the gifted-talented program. Once a week, I’d be taken with three boys from my class to an upstairs classroom, where we were allowed to think outside the crayon box and even experience computers, with the hope of sparking our already-present genius. Mrs. McK happened to be absent on a gifted-talented day, her replacement inconceivably horrible, a woman smack out of the ‘Thriller’ crypt that was so popular at the time, with polyester pants and a smell to match. I’d plugged through the day, knowing that any moment, I’d be rescued, and with any hope, this would come before the day’s math lesson.

As the clocked ticked closer and closer to 2:00—my hour of reprieve—I grew more and more anxious. Where was she, this savior of a student teacher? I imagined her soft blonde hair and smooth skin beckoning to me, her outfits and shoes far trendier than any elementary school teacher who had graced my room, her personality as sparkling as any Miss Congeniality winner.

As the clocked ticked to 2:00, the unfortunate choice of substitute got up to teach her math lesson, which was to be on division. I smiled smugly to myself, knowing that I would not be dividing anything that day, except maybe the time I spend on my special projects and computers. I did not take out paper or a pencil to prepare for the lesson. Why would I? I was gifted-talented, after all, and I did not need this instruction. I felt it best to leave such a mundane task to those less gifted-talented students left behind in the classroom.

Barely into the lesson, we were interrupted by the shrill ring of the classroom telephone. The ring of the telephone is never a good sign in any classroom; it signaled that a student was likely being called to the principal’s office to serve penance for some crime that she thought had gone unnoticed, or that your grandmother was dead and your mother was waiting to collect you in the office, or perhaps that a bomb threat had been called in and the classroom needed to evacuate. However, the news of this call was far worse than any of those options combined. Our gifted-talented teacher had not arrived that day, leaving me and my cohorts to the regular classroom instruction of the substitute who could give a rat’s ass if we were properly educated or not—she was old enough that by the time we were running the country, she’d be long dead.

She announced the news to us, and resumed her lesson. My heart was thudding in my chest, with a raw feeling coming over me. Sure, I was gifted-talented in some subjects, but certainly not math. I suffered from some math-related disorder, I was sure, and I was thrown into a complete panic attack by even the thought of crunching any numbers, single or multiple. My mind raced, thinking of all the reasons that I could muster to get out of this.

My heart pounded as my eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. In the quiet of the room, filled with eager elementary students delighted to be learning about division, a sob escaped from my throat. I cried huge tears, fraught with emotion and fear: doing division was not an option for me. I simply could not do it. I had been rendered incapable by my math-related disorder, compounded by the disappointment that I was not being singled out for my special class that day. Didn’t these people know that I was above this? As a child who had shown such promise at such an early age, it should not have even been necessary for me to be subjected to such a lesson.

It was no longer possible for the teacher to ignore me. My sobs filled the classroom, as my classmates gazed on, stunned and horrified. Who breaks out crying in the midst of a math lesson, besides a severely misguided child? The teacher tersely addressed my crying, asking what was wrong, while giving me a look of consternation that I have since realized indicated that she knew that I’d be a failure in life, not even capable of being a cashier or a drive-thru attendant.

Through my tears, I told her that I could not remember how to divide. It simply would not come to me. Her eyes narrowed as she sternly told me that it was my problem to figure out how to resolve this problem. My friends in the classroom gave me a sympathetic nod as all eyes went back to our math workbooks, mine now stained with tears. As a gesture of good will and friendship, my boyfriend Clayton—a quiet young man typically dressed in a yellow button-down oxford shirt with coordinating sweater vest—passed me a note. It read, “You will be my first wife.” I sniffed through my tears, happy to know that despite my math-related disorder, I could still find a husband.

Throughout the years, I have blamed my mathematical incompetence on this teacher. How dare she undermine my fears, especially when as a girl, she should’ve been encouraging my interest in math and science? Where were my parents’ tax dollars going, if not to fund the salary of this woman who was entrusted with the task of education tomorrow’s leaders, not leaving them sobbing in a pool of tears and snot, no closer to being able to do long division than a turtle with an abacus? I limped through my remaining years of school, where passing a math class with a C was a major accomplishment. It all fell apart when freshman year in high school, I failed second semester of algebra. It was, of course, not at all my fault. It never is, especially when you are a freshman. I attempted explaining to my mother that this teacher was near retirement, but for some unknown reason, he upheld overly high standards, including making it to class on time and turning in homework assignments. My social development was far more important than this class—after all, in the real world, what would be valued more: algebra or networking skills?

Unfortunately, the only recognition the algebra teacher gave of my budding networking skills was a trip to detention, where I was able to meet students who might not have necessarily been in my crowd, either then or in the future, unless my future included a brief rendevous with incarceration. He also crowned me with an F, the first of my life.

A great misfortune of the public school system was its insistence that I complete an algebra class for graduation. I had spoken with adults through the years, and never once had an adult agreed that algebra was a worthwhile subject utilized on a daily basis, if ever. However, bearing in mind that life would be difficult for someone without a high school diploma, I was enrolled in the freshman algebra class as a junior.

Believing that it was the freshman students who were flawed—not me—I obligingly attended every day, avoiding conversation--or even eye contact--with anyone. Sensing my overall discontent—and perhaps the simple fact that I needed it to graduate and my failure to do so would reflect poorly on him and the school district overall—the teacher eventually provided me with his laptop and a specialized algebra program that was to allow me to work through the lessons at my own pace. He allowed me a desk in the hallway, ideal for my lazy tendencies, as it was away from the prying eyes of the freshman and the watchful eyes of the teacher.

Each morning, he would bring me out to the hallway and set me up with my program. I would pretend to work for as long as necessary—at least as long as I could hear the lesson begin inside the classroom—and then I would find better uses for my time, including harassing younger students with threats of physical violence by my boyfriend, and solitaire. The final consensus? I’d wisely taken the class as a pass/fail option, and I passed.

As a business major in college, I quickly realized that if I were to ever graduate, I’d have to take, at a bare minimum, statistics and calculus. Rather than face the inevitable jokes about needing eight years to earn a four-year degree, I opted to change my major to journalism, thus opening the door for me to knock off my mathematics requirement through a course offering called “Math for Everyday Life”, though it is debatable how much was learned in this class, as my checkbook still hasn’t been balanced in years, and if it comes to calculating a percentage-off discount in a store, I scramble in my mind before looking to my shopping partner for help. Fifty percent off I can manage on my own. Thirty percent off or seventy-five percent off? Not so much.