My relationship with math has been complicated. 

My earliest memory of math is a mimeographed sheet of paper with a grid on it, labeled 1 to 12 on the top and left side. We were supposed to memorize the multiplication table well enough to fill that sheet out in a minute or two, with a timer ticking as we scribbled in the answers. I see the point—we would know it so well that we wouldn’t even have to think about multiplication when doing more advanced math problems.  I didn’t practice enough at home, and even now I  get bogged down in the middle of the 7’s and 8’s (I’m beginning to see a pattern here; I wasn’t wearing my eye patch faithfully then either). I didn’t pass the first few tries, so I had to go into a little office at the back of class to take the test alone, a straggler. Eventually I did pass, but my relationship with math was starting to feel uncomfortable.

In middle school, I was in a good place with math. I enjoyed it, class was fun, and I got the hang of the slide rule. I met a friend in class, and over the next few years, we spent hours on the phone doing our homework together, even when our mothers picked up the extension in the other room and ordered us to hang up. We got our problem sets done, but we also listened to music, talked and laughed about events and crushes, and just hung out over the telephone wires. I wonder if our mothers appreciated how easy we made their parenting when we were tethered to the phone; even though we tied up the single line in the house for so long, they knew exactly what we were up to and we were never late for dinner.

In geometry, when Mr. Camp had us come to the board to do proofs, that my feelings about math got more complicated. All my life, people have loved the fact that I turn a deep shade of red when I’m embarrassed—and not just because I do something dumb—I turn red when I feel singled out or put on the spot, or really, I turn red about almost everything. Apparently people who don’t have this trait think it’s hilarious and they love to point it out. Of course, that makes me blush more, which, apparently is even funnier. 

Because he found this phenomenon so endearing, a friend of mine whispered around the class to laugh when I finished my work on the board one day.  I turned around, ready to hear from the teacher that I had done the proof right, and instead the whole class began to laugh. I was confused, and of course, I turned  a brilliant shade of red. What did I miss? What was the joke? My red face must have been funny to see, but my sense of ease in math class took a hard hit. I pretended to laugh too and sat down.

It was just a joke. I had good friends in the class. My proof was probably ok. Maybe the friend who did this would have gotten a good laugh out of it if someone did it to him. I know moments like this happen to almost everybody in their childhood. At a high school reunion, I asked the jokester why he pulled that prank on me, and he didn’t remember it. He was sorry, but not that sorry; I’m sure he had  no idea what a lasting memory it would be for me.

I kept taking the next math class because it was the expected path, and most of my friends were doing it. By my senior year, I was taking calculus, and each quarter, my grade slipped lower–along with my motivation. It wasn’t working for me to memorize the formulas and grind out the problems. Calculus requires, I guess, some deeper connection with the concepts, and I wasn’t feeling it. The fact that I finished the year—and took the Advanced Placement test and got a passing grade—is so unbelievable to my friends and family that it’s my secret weapon in a game of Three Truths and a Lie (oops, it’s out there now!). 

In college, I put math behind me and never looked back. It was humanities all the way for me.

There is one teacher at Berkeley High that may have made a difference in my math experience if I had been in her class. She is so excited about everyone exploring the wonders of math, especially the ones who come to class feeling like they can’t learn it. I’ve heard her telling students and parents alike, “Yes! You can do math!” Her love for math is contagious.

At back-to-school nights, I visited her classroom a few times when one of my kids was her student for AP Calculus. As the parents took seats, she passed out a problem to solve. She planned for us to spend the 15-minute period discovering the concepts with her enthusiastic coaching. She wanted us to see what our kids were learning and that we could do it too, but a sense of dread gripped me at the thought of being called on. I let the parents next to me work on the exercise and avoided eye contact; I was not going to put myself in blushing danger. Maybe if I was in high school, she could helped me connect with the world she was so enthusiastic about. Maybe.

It doesn’t matter; I don’t think we were meant for each other. My relationship with math is simple now. We have gone our separate ways.