Permanent Resonance
5/3/04 (#26)
Recently I enjoyed a sunny drive home with a friend, and the discussion turned to high school. We both agreed that the assurance from adults that "These are the best years of your life" is the most depressing thing you can possibly say to the average high school student. Feeling awkward, unsure, a sensation perfectly summed up by Kurt Cobain in his line, "I feel stupid and contagious"---and these are supposed to be the best years of one's life? If that was a school's motto, I would expect the suicide rate to be 35%.
There is so much learning going on at that time, most of it completely unrelated to books: dating, back stabbing, basketball, drinking, fear, ambition, lust, introversion, ad infinitum. It's amazing that amidst all of this emotional and intellectual upheaval we are able to retain even a few pages of so-called "book smarts."
Take for instance, Algebra. This branch of math is the perennial leader in any conversation regarding irrelevant information. I later learned that the primary purpose of Algebra at that age is to teach the brain how to think logically; it's not the particular equations that are essential, it's that you learn how to approach, wrangle, and master the methods of deduction.
Or in my case, it's how you learn to write poetry.
My Algebra teacher was Mrs. Brann, an oblivious woman who was approximately 74 years old and had apparently lost her passion for teaching sometime during the Kennedy Administration. (I was in her class during the Reagan administration.) There are a few teachers in my life who I recall as "disinterested", but none of them surpasses Mrs. Brann. In fact, "teacher" isn't even appropriate. Mrs. Brann was a presenter. The job was about the paycheck. (I'm sure teachers in the audience will find that irony quite humorous.)
Mrs. Brann was infamous in the school for her methods. She would present an idea, and if one of the students didn't understand and raised their hand to say so, she would repeat the instruction in the exact same phrasing. (This is tantamount to someone telling you they don't speak English, so you say the same English phrase louder in order to make them understand.) There was never another angle, there was never a better metaphor---there was the same explanation repeated until she would finally say, "We've spent enough time on this, we have to move on." Metaphorically speaking, I didn't speak English, and her louder explanations didn't help. During October of the school year, I began using her class time to write poetry and song lyrics. I washed my hands of mathematics in that course, and Mrs. Brann's only comment was, "Can you be a little quieter with that water?" I eked out an unearned C- in her class (she certainly wasn't going to keep someone back, lest she have to speak louder still), the lowest grade on my report card. The next year, by requirement, I took Calculus and promptly expunged all mathematical knowledge after each test. Again my worst grade, but finally I was free of all math curriculum obligations. Senior year would be higher-math free. (Now that gave me hope for it being the best year of my life.)
SAT time came around at the start of my senior year, and while I did not know my destiny at that time (a confusion I retain to this day), the SATs are an obligatory stepping stone to a variety of life's options. I took the test. It was surprisingly easy.
Weeks later, I would learn that my English score was 510, what a pundit might call "glowingly average". Yet on the math portion of the test, I scored a 670, a score which, at least that year, landed me in the top 2% in the nation. I was at once nonplussed (I hated math) and indifferent (I hated math.) I was glad to have the score lest I should choose the college path, but it meant nothing more to me than that.
Enter Mr. Godsoe, the head of the math department, a title earned despite seeming to be the youngest teacher in the department. I was familiar with him, as I had to pass his office each day on my way to this class or that, and I had always noted that he stood by his office door and talked to students between classes---talked to them, didn't simply humor or endure them. I had never had a class with him, so our paths had never crossed, and we never had an occasion to talk until the SAT scores came back.
One day he pulled me aside and asked me to make time for a conversation in his office, as he wanted to discuss those scores. Imagine how thrilled I was for THAT conversation. ("Gee, thanks. When we're done, can we discuss Algebra, too?") I tried to squirm out of it, and he good naturedly refused to let that happen. The meeting was set, and I showed up as scheduled.
He was very enthusiastic about my scores, and asked why I was not taking a senior math class. With stock high-school-senior apathy, I explained that I didn't like math. Not good enough---what didn't I like? "Well, mostly, the math part." Not good enough. He was going to force me to articulate why I could score that well on the SATs and have no interest in the subject.
First, I explained that I had received the easiest SAT test ever issued. To prevent cheating, there are many versions of each SAT test, and mine seemed to be a randomly generated collection of easy questions. I was not an undirected math prodigy; I was a very lucky test taker. He listened, but he disagreed. I might not be a prodigy, but my score was not a fluke.
Next I described to him my experience with Mrs. Brann, my frustrations with her class, and as I spoke, he exhibited a notable change in countenance. It was as if he could see a fish in the water, a really good catch, but in the mouth of that fish was a barbed hook trailing a broken line---this fish was not going to take the bait again. A more skilled angler might have been able to land it, and he was that angler, but it was no longer his option. He seemed to recognize that Algebra, Trigonometry, and Calculus were no longer tempting lures.
He was clearly disappointed. Yet we continued to talk about my middling English score, my plans for college, my interests. It was a really enjoyable conversation, and I recall leaving his office, walking the empty halls back to my partially missed study hall, the entire way feeling very positive about myself, a sensation that was not particularly common for a nerdy high school kid who felt awkward and unsure.
Looking back on this now, I see a complexity to which I was oblivious at that time. I had never had a class with Mr. Godsoe, yet he sought me out and took the time to intervene. He exhibited far more interest than the majority of my teachers ever had---interest in the subject matter, and interest in my relationship to that information. He is among the five most influential educators I have ever had, yet not once did I hear him speak in front of a class. That's an impressive impact from a single conversation.
I genuinely regret that I didn't allow him to talk me into senior math---at the time, I doubt he could have done it, but if he had, I could have taken a seat in his classroom and perhaps seen mathematics celebrated rather than merely regurgitated. I wonder how it would have felt to see Algebra in a passionate light.
But another reason for my regret is that it mattered to him, and I suspect that he dealt with more than his share of disappointment in that job. He stood to gain nothing from my decision, except to know that he helped me to see something very wonderful that I was having trouble seeing myself. 20 years later, I see that clearly.
To every teacher who reads this, a thousand thank yous with all of my heart. You could have a job with less bureaucracy and less stress, could make more money in another sector, and I'm grateful that you don't. I want my daughter to have a hundred stories to tell that feature a teacher who took the interest in her ability and her destiny. I'm reminded of a quote (slightly paraphrased here) from the late Michael Hedges, acoustic guitarist extraordinaire, on thanking his three most influential guitar instructors: "The first, for showing me a path toward passionate music; the second, for letting me choose my own path; and the third, for asking me why I was taking that path." Everyday you have an opportunity to positively impact a life, and don't despair if it seems that one or another isn't listening. You might be surprised to learn how much of an impact even one enthusiastic conversation can have. Thank you.
©2004 wpreagan
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