Educate me

I have a ten-month-old grandson (and another grandson on the way), and as I watch him crawl and make new sounds, it’s sometimes overwhelming to consider all the time and effort he (and his unborn cousin) will exert on their way to adulthood.

All those years of school lie ahead, and what will these two boys learn? Will school be a joy or a sorrow? It made me reflect on my own educational history.

What do I remember? Very little, as it turns out.

In kindergarten, I loved the sand table, and I hit Jeanette when she stole my barrettes.

In first grade our teacher read us a book about a person who nodded and shook their head instead of saying yes or no. I didn’t know the difference between the two, and I was lost throughout the book. Not an auspicious start for someone who loves words and books.

In second grade, we started the SRA reading program, and I was dismayed that reading felt like a race.

In third grade, our class made butter. We studied Hawaii, and we had a luau. A cute boy gave me a pencil.

In fourth grade, I worried about having to sit in the lunchroom until I ate all my food. I’m not sure that the threat was real, but the big kids made it seem so.

In fifth grade I cried in class when I didn’t understand math.

So, let’s say a stranger looked over the above list. They might surmise that I couldn’t get along with others, and that I was not ready for first grade. They might also assume that I wasn’t going to make it in America without a competitive spirit. The stranger might decide that I was anxious, and that maybe I should have repeated fifth grade math.

Stranger, I didn’t seem to be ready for anything that most of my peers were. I was either born in the wrong time or the wrong country. I’m a Ferdinand in a pasture full of charging bulls, but at the same time, I am often anxious, and these days, who can blame me? Aren’t you anxious?

In truth, I was a dutiful student and a crackerjack memorizer, thus, my disaffection for math. Yeah, I could memorize the times tables, but story problems? Stories, to my way of thinking, should not be ruined by math.

Why didn’t the math textbook just say, “We are going to give you a highly hypothetical situation that will never happen in real life, and we are going to add some completely unnecessary numerical detail to confuse you.”

“Forever after, you will break out in a sweat anytime you hear someone mention that Buddy is going 55 mph at 3 p.m. and is trying to get to Newport by six o’clock. Buddy has four watermelons and six dozen eggs in his car.  Fern, also departing at 3 p.m., is driving 80 mph and has three dresses and eight pairs of shoes in the backseat. When will she arrive?”

To this I say two things.

1. Highway Patrol should have stopped Buddy. Clearly, he’s dealing in black market eggs, and he should be taken to jail. The eggs should be given to the local food pantry. Also, the stupid problem didn’t specify where these food items were located. In the backseat? On the floor of the front passenger seat? In the trunk? Location matters when you’re transporting watermelons and eggs.

2. Fern will arrive in Newport at 11 o’clock. She will have been stopped by Highway Patrol for going 80 in a 55 zone, and she will have had her license revoked. She will then walk to the nearest bar, get drunk, and hours later, call an Uber to take her to Newport.

Sadly, she will have nothing to wear to her niece’s wedding the next day, and she will be hung over, BUT she will meet a tall, muscular man who can’t take his eyes off her and doesn’t care that she is rumpled and disheveled. Or hung over.

Fern will no longer feel the need for speed in her car because Tall Muscular Man — well, you get the idea.

Now, that’s the kind of story with a problem I can solve.

Joan Zwagerman doesn't like numbers interfering with her imagination.