BY MITCHELL ROSEN
MARRIAGE AND FAMILY THERAPIST
There is a sickening feeling that comes over a person when they are in a class they know is over their head.
Although it has been 40-plus years, I still remember sitting in Algebra 2 at Taft High School, staring out the window because I had not a clue what the teacher was saying. After class I would trudge home, open my math book and attempt to understand equations that made no sense when the teacher explained them. I was resigned to get all passing grades and one F.
It made sense to me at the time. I would do really well, get all As and Bs in my other classes and retake algebra over the summer. I became consummate at hiding my homework, quizzes and test grades from my parents. When my father would ask, "So how is math going?" I would look him straight in the eye and lie: "Fine. Tough sometimes, but I'm getting it."
When my midterm progress report came home and revealed a 53 percent, my parents knew I was less than honest. I hated lying to them but was not ready to accept I was required to take a class I could not pass no matter how hard I tried. I was toast and there was nothing anyone could do.
My father tried tutoring me himself. My dad was a math whiz and even though it had been decades since he'd taken algebra, he was a CPA and a savant at math. It was eerie. He could read any chapter in my algebra book, take a deep breath, then look at me and understand every nuance, every equation and every weird step necessary to complete the problems.
It didn't take long to discover having my own father tutoring me was a terrible idea. Finally one night about 1 a.m., my mom came into my dad's study and observed, with the eloquence only a mother possesses, "This is nuts. Mitch needs a tutor and it ain't you."
I got a tutor and hated him. He was nice enough, but seriously, I spent all day in school doing work, came home, did homework and then was supposed to be grateful to spend an additional hour studying the class I hated the most?
After failing the class, I got one more chance to pass it over the summer. Yippee. It was a disgusting class I was trapped in for four hours from 8 a.m. until noon, Monday through Friday, when the rest of my friends were at Pier 2 at Santa Monica beach with their boogie boards. What I learned that summer however, changed my life. I squeaked by with a C-minus and never took a math class again, but my parents made it clear there was no escaping (X-Y) + (X+Y) = Z. I moped and sulked and swore, but once it was clear I had to do the algebra whether I liked it or not, my life oddly became easier.
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