How I Passed 7th Grade Algebra

I’ve never been good at math. NEVER. Once when I was complaining about math to my dad I accidentally said “math-magics” instead of “mathematics.” My dad, being the philosopher that he is, told me it was a Freudian slip. It probably was. The fact is, math is magic and people who get math should be called math-magicians.

With the exception of spelling (my other nemesis) elementary school was a breeze. I didn’t even have to try until I started 7th grade algebra and I wasn’t used to having to try. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, at the end of the first term I had a B-. I was mortified and this feeling of mortification led me to take a pen and change that B- to a B+ on my report card. It wasn’t the A I was hoping for, but better than a B-.

At the end of the second term I had a C. No pen was going to help me out of that, so I “accidentally” left my report card in my locker until my mom genuinely forgot to keep asking for it. I also decided it would be beneficial to swap math classes — same teacher just a different period. I switched from 4th period where I knew no one, to 6th period where I had a few friends. Having a good friend or two in class couldn’t hurt . . . right?

Wrong. By the end of the third term I had a D-. My mom wasn’t going to fall for the locker trick again so I decided it was time to tell the truth. I came home, handed her my report card and said, “Mom. Before you even look, I think I should tell you that I have a D- in algebra.” “Well,” she said calmly, “I guess I’m going to need to get you a tutor.”

My mom’s idea of a tutor was telling my older brother to help me with my homework. You have to understand, everything my brother does he does with the kind of gusto most people get after chasing one Red Bull with another Red Bull, but he doesn’t drink Red Bull.

When I was in 4th grade my mom asked my brother to explain to me why plants grew better under various colors of light. I had just finished a science fair project and didn’t really understand the results. I remember sitting in my mom’s office staring at a whiteboard that was literally covered in rainbow colored scribbles. I sat in that office with him for hours. He said the same thing over and over and over again. He said it faster and faster, with more and more arm flailing each time. I went to bed crying and confused. However, the next morning at the science fair I was able to regurgitate what he had said word for word and guess what? I won. Not because I understood the material. I’m pretty sure I confused all the judges with my new found scientific fast talking and arm flailing and they were just too ashamed to admit it.

So there I was sitting at the dining room table with my brother trying to explain algebra to me. He started with the problems I was struggling with the most — distance word problems. To do these, you had to read the word problem, pull out the variables and the values, and put them all in a little grid before solving. It was supposed to be SO easy but I always got them wrong. He showed me how to do it. I didn’t get it. He showed me again. Nnnnooope.

Finally he said, “Hmm. I think the problem is that you’re lacking a fundamental understanding of math.” Ya think? “In order for this to work we’re going to have to go back …” he continued, “waaaay back. Do you know how cavemen used to do math?” He spent the next 20 minutes explaining cavemen and how he believed they performed rudimentary math with sticks and rocks. I kid. You. Not. I spent the next several weeks sitting at the table with my brother while he spent hours explaining math to me. Not the problems I was working on — he was explaining MATH.

When he thought I was ready, we tried the distance problems with the little graph again. No dice. Exasperated he said, “Okay I’ve taught you the fundamentals. You can DO this! Just drop that stupid graph and figure it out by working through it.” I did, and guess what, I got it right. My brother was ecstatic, thrilled, elated, that is until I pointed out that solving that one problem had taken me an hour and half. “So what?” he said, “Math isn’t about speed. It’s about doing it right.” “Yeah,” I half heartedly agreed, “but how am I supposed to finish a 20 question test in the 1 hour class period when my average per problem solve rate is an hour and a half? I’m obviously not a math whiz but I’m pretty sure that isn’t going to work.” “Listen,” he said, “Just tell your teacher he’s going to have to wait for you.” So I told him, and he waited. He waited two hours after school, and then he waited through lunch the next day, and a few more hours after school, and another lunch, and then he finally asked, “Do you think all your tests are going to take you this long?” So I said to hell with it, handed in the test, and decided to let the chips fall where they may.

Never had I worked so hard to pass a class. I had put in the time, I’d come clean about my grades, surely I was going to be rewarded.

But no, I failed that stupid test. I failed it miserably and that pretty much sealed my fate. I was going to get my very first, ever in my whole life, big fat F. I went home I told my mom all my hard work had been for naught. I cried; she consoled me.

The next day I went to home room and received my report card. I pulled mine out and was stunned to see that I had an A in algebra, not an A-, not a B or a C or a D, and certainly NOT the big fat F I was expecting. To make matters worse, at the beginning of the year my home room teacher had agreed to pay us for our grades. He agreed to give us a $1.00 for every A, and 50 cents for every grade increment we improved between terms. For example he would give you 50 cents if you went from a C- to C, and a $1.50 if you went from a C- to a B-. So (doing a little math, but probably on my fingers) I realized I had earned $6 off that one grade — $5.00 for the improvement and another $1.00 for the A.

I had no idea how I got an A but didn’t dare talk to my math teacher about it. I just continued on with my day in stunned silence. Then it happened. It was the end of 6th period and I was packing up to go home when M walked in. Sweet, kind, polite, smart, oh so very smart, M. She was frantic and practically in tears when she went up to the math teacher and said, “I really need to talk to you! I just got my report card and I have an F. It’s not possible,” she went on, “I’ve turned in all the assignments and done very well on all the tests. Do you think my work didn’t get recorded correctly because I switched from 6th to 4th period at the end of the last term?” Our teacher was shocked, he agreed there was no way she’d failed and assured her he had just written her grade down wrong. He promised her that he would change her grade to the A she’d earned first thing the next morning.

Here’s the thing, M goes by her middle name. Her first name is Lis — just like mine. What were the chances that two girls with the same first name would swap to each other’s math periods at the exact same time, thus confusing the math teacher enough that he switched their grades? Again, I’m no math-magician but I think the odds are against it.

It was back, that feeling of mortification was back. I went home and told the whole story to my mom. “So,” she asked, “did the other girl get her A?” “Um, yeah.” I said. “And you have an A too. So both of you got As. Right?” she prodded. “Um. Yeah.” I said again. “Huh.” She said, “Well,” she paused, thought for a second, looked up at me and in a tired voice said, “Lis, if you don’t tell I won’t.”

Using a white-board, a 64oz Dr. Pepper, and a whole array of colorful markers, it only took me 6 hours to come up with the following equation —

z = .10 for the 10% chance that my mom didn’t catch that pen mark on the first report card. t = .05 for the 5% chance that my mom believed me when I told her I kept forgetting my second report card. q = .001 for the 1/1000% chance that M (aka Lis) and I would swap periods at the exact same time. r = .000,000,1 for the 1/1,000,000% chance that my mom would suggest I keep the grade. No harm no foul? and x = point a whole truckload of zeros 1 for the 1/bazillion% chance that 18 years later we would move into M’s childhood ward. And that her parents would sit on the row in front of us almost every Sunday as if to remind me of my little indiscretion.

Take all these variables and add, subtract, or multiply — whatever you’re in the mood for. Once you’ve solved it you’ll see that this equation, like the majority of my life, is completely irrational.

So my friends, not only did I pass 7th grade algebra, I aced it. And if you have a few hours and a distance problem I might even be able to solve it for you.