Third Grade. I would sit in Miss Anderson’s classroom and try, really try to be a good student. I had the best of intentions. But we all know where that leads. She would pass out grey rectangle blank paper, a sure sign of a math quiz. Like some kids who hate broccoli or spinach, I hated that paper. I liked the lined paper, because I had fabulous handwriting and everyone commented on how nice it looked. I could tell a good story. But with math, I was in way over my head.
To make it worse, it was multiplication. I could not memorize those tables if my life depended on it. It’s still the case. A few years ago I had flash cards with the multiplication tables up to 12. Flash cards at forty-five years old and still no dice. I’d remember for a few days and then it would all go away, as if the neurons holding that information just disappeared into some black hole in my brain. Everyone says calculators have ruined us, but I believe you either have it or you don’t; I struggle with calculators too.
So I would panic as the grey paper went around.
Right across from where I sat was a bulletin board with rocket ships on it. The good old sixties and our Soviet paranoia had us all preoccupied with space. Our rockets started on the launching pad and as the weeks progressed we were to get closer and closer to the moon as our quiz scores rose. I never liked space. Too much grey and then there were all of Ma’s drunken questions, like “where does the universe end?” What kind of sadist asks an eight-year old questions like that? I would stay awake all night gripped in a sweaty existential panic over that one.
The first couple of quizzes were easy. Zero, one, and two times. But as we started to get higher, I started to panic. I never did like heights all that much. My rocket ship had no get-go and I lagged behind.
I became preoccupied with the personality of numbers. I would write them down, in hopes that their psychological profiles would give me some clues for the answer.
Zero. Good old Zero. I could relate to that poor number. All by itself, it meant nothing and even trying to multiply with something else mean nothing. But tack it on to another number and that number became more impressive. A little misfit with a hidden inner blessing. I liked to think of myself as some kind of facilitator just like Zero.
One. Oh boy, what an ego. Everything was all about One. But easy, because you could count on it just being the self-centered digit it was. Just give One what it wants.
I liked Two. Two just wanted to make everything nice and even so there wouldn’t be any fighting, generously doubling up whatever was there and making sure that no One was standing out in the cold alone. Two was a little peacemaker.
Three had issues. It didn’t want to be divided and of course, it was always a crowd. Three liked to cause trouble and the other numbers would put up with it because it was like a wayward teen that needed some guidance. You just had to cope with Three, hoping that it would grow into a mature, responsible number.
Four was another peacemaker, a close relative to Two. I always thought of four having a special relationship with Eight, who tended to be needy. Four kept Eight in line, like a guiding hand through dark times, a loyal younger relative looking out for its elders.
I liked Five, because even though Five was an Odd number, it worked very hard to keep things running smoothly. It was easy to see that Five would be the natural heir to greatness, someday possibly achieving the status of Ten.
I didn’t like Six all that much. Six was just trouble.
Seven was a big problem. Seven could not be trusted at all, and then of course there was that whole “Lucky” thing. I could see Seven going on to having a gambling problem, smoking too much and drinking with low-lifes in trailer parks. There was also the European Seven with the little line through it; like it was putting on airs and being better than all the other numbers. To make it stand apart from low-life, hillbilly Seven. All show. No tell.
As I mentioned before, Eight had issues. Insecure, it relied heavily on Four to get it through the worst of times. If numbers need medication, you knew Eight would be hitting the Ativan. Sad, really, because eight was so pretty.
Nine was a prick. A real bastard that had a chip on its shoulder because it wasn’t Ten. Nine had to make EVERYTHING difficult. I dreaded dealing with Nine. Nine was the worst.
And then there was Ten. Ten was the Holy Grail of the number family, kind of like a kindly old grandfather that looked out for them all and gave them large gifts. Everyone loved Ten. I loved Ten. Ten made life so easy. It was Ten that made continuing on with numbers a little better. I did have issues with Eleven, Thirteen and Nineteen, but that was to be expected. No one can be perfect like Ten. Especially if you have roots in One, Three and Nine.
By the time we had gotten through the Twelve tables everyone was pretty close to the Moon.Well, except for me. Derek Spencer, space geek, made it all the way to the moon. I hated Derek with his astronaut fetish and plans for the future.
I was barely off the launching pad and grateful when Halloween came and the bulletin board was changed to spiders and pumpkins and was no longer a nagging reminder of what a math Zero I was.
