My Battle with Math

Posted On June 20, 2020

“You just aren’t trying,” said my fifth grade teacher when I complained that I didn’t understand long division. That is what I remember as the beginning of my battle with math.

As I recall, my fourth grade teacher taught the class what we called short division. The answer was put above the problem. My dad did his division calculations the same way. If I’d have a problem with homework, he’d help explain it to me using short division.

Then along came long division, a new way of writing the answer to the same problem, along the side of the problem. It was confusing to me. When I tried to do it at home, my dad always said to just do the problem the way I was first taught. That worked great at home but not in school.

I know my fifth grade teacher was a very nice person, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t the right teacher for me. I would become pretty defiant when I got frustrated with the long division and my teacher was so mild mannered. He was really at a loss as to how to deal with me which led to him shouting, “You just aren’t trying.” My confidence in my math abilities took an immediate downward spiral which I never regained. I was sent to stand in the hallway several times due to my frustrated outbursts.

From fifth grade on, I’ve hated math. I went on to take Algebra 1 in high school and performed well. But Algebra 2 was an entirely different beast. To be fair, I have to admit that I had never had a male teacher until fifth grade and didn’t have another one until Algebra 2. I don’t know if their gender had anything to do with how I related to them, but it appears it could have.

I think what is more likely is that I’ve never been afraid to speak up for myself when I thought I was not treated fairly and that’s how I felt in those two classes. Everything seemed to be going fine in Algebra 2 if I tried really hard to do the work and I did. However, one day, the teacher accused me of disrupting the class by talking to a group of boys. He got after me several times. I was not talking, it was my friend, Cindy.

After several warnings, the teacher moved me to the very back of the class. I needed to wear my glasses to see the chalkboard from that distance and had left them at home. I explained this dilemma to the teacher and begged to be moved back to the front of the class as we were reviewing for an exam and I needed to be able to see the math demonstrations on the board.

Instead of complying, the teacher retorted, “Well, I guess you will just flunk this test then!” I was instantly enraged, jumped up from my desk, threw my book down and left the classroom slamming the door behind me.

That’s when utter panic set in. I was one of the “good kids.” I never got in trouble. My parents were going to kill me. What was I going to do now? I went into the principal’s office and sat down crying. The secretary, the mom of a good friend, asked what was wrong. I replied that I just wanted to see the principal. After a short wait, I was escorted into the principal’s office.

Our principal was a no-nonsense, likeable guy who I considered a strict disciplinarian. This was back in the day when he still could and did paddle students.

I explained my situation as stated above. He quietly listened and then started writing a note. The only thing he said to me was, “Go back to class and give your teacher this note.” I couldn’t tell whether I was in trouble or not. He sounded awfully stern. So, when I got in the hall, I opened the note. It simply said, “Let Leslie sit wherever she wants.”

Yes, I had won this battle!! When I returned to the classroom door, it had been locked. I had to knock on the door and the teacher opened it a crack and sneeringly asked what I wanted. I handed him the note. He read it and then let me in. He said, “I guess you will want to sit right in front with those boys,” to which I replied, “Yes, I do.” I’m pretty sure I was a bit cocky in my reply.

Every story has two or more sides. But that’s the way I remember these situations and I know for sure they reinforced my lack of self confidence when it came to math.

It wasn’t until college that I finally understood how to divide and place the decimal point in the correct place. I learned because I was placed in a special-help night study group by my accounting teacher.

I took Accounting 1 during my first year of college in 1974. Sixteen years later, I went back to college to get a degree in secondary business education. The first thing I remember the professor saying was, “As you remember from last semester’s Accounting 1, …” I thought, “Oh, boy, here we go again!! Of course I didn’t remember from Accounting 1!”

I was supposed to take another math class for my degree and was so nervous that I would never pass it. I met with my advisor and explained my fear of math. He said they had just the class for me. It covered all types of math with each type covered for two weeks. It was so a person could just get the general gist of what the type of math was for and an idea of how to do it.

I arrived to that class in a completely nervous state thinking I was about fifteen years older than the majority of the students and being clueless in front of them was going to be so embarrassing. The teacher looked the part of what I considered to be a complete math nerd (I know that is prejudicial, proving that’s how hatred of something can make you feel). I quickly took a seat on the very back row whereas, normally, I always chose a front-row seat. A few minutes later, in walked a young guy with hair down past his shoulders and an earring dangling against his shoulder. He was bouncing his head as if he could hear music no one else could. He sat right down next to me.

We said hello and then class started. Even though it was a class for people who hated or were scared of math, I was quickly falling behind and I could tell that the guy beside me was probably in the class by mistake as he was having no trouble. The second day, I blurted to my seatmate all about my problems with math. I don’t know what he thought of this older lady babbling on. All I know is that he proceeded to help my every single day of the class. The teacher, a female, was of little help but this guy was so patient and made it understandable. I passed the class only because the long-haired, head bobber with the swinging earring took pity on me. I will be forever grateful to him.

These eperiences greatly benefitted me when I became a high school business teacher. I had more patience with students who didn’t understand things when I could see they were at least trying. I had more patience when a student would have a frustrated outburst. I looked beyond outer appearances and noticed what they knew or didn’t know; how they could help others or shouldn’t be the one to help. I came to believe that some of the best teachers are those who experienced difficulty in classes themselves.

What I don’t understand is how my oldest daughter became a junior high math teacher and enjoyed it! If I hadn’t given birth to her, I’d wonder if we were even related! Not only did she teach it, but she was able to pass a very difficult math exam on the first try in order to teach math, as it was not her area of focus. And I’ll never understand why one of my very nice, fun-loving students, Amanda, became a college math professor. She just doesn’t fit my “math nerd” image at all.

I’ll leave you with two examples of my continuing math difficulties. Just yesterday, I was showing my son how to use a balloon mortgage payment site on my tablet. It was a ten-year loan and I asked my son what 10 * 12 was so I could enter the number of months for the ten-year loan. He quickly replied, “120,” without saying another word. Of course it is!!…………why did I ask such a stupid question? Being used to my lack of “math smarts,” my son didn’t even make fun of me or stare at me after my question. As he was driving off, I realized what I had asked him and texted him saying I knew what 10 * 12 was and I felt so stupid.

My other example was one my daughter and I will never forget. I was shopping for potting soil (or it might have been dog food). I found a bag but was worried that I couldn’t lift it. I turned to her and asked, “How much do you think this 40-lb. bag of potting soil weighs?” She calmly said, “40 pounds, Mom,” as she rolled her eyes. The eye roll made me realize what I had asked.

Can you relate? Is there a subject you just didn’t get? Can you look back and see where your troubles started? Hopefully, no matter the problem, you can now find the humor in it, as I do. I mean, really, “How much does this 40-lb. bag weigh?”!!