I've never been too great at math. I can understand and absorb everything in one class period and then forget everything by the time I am halfway through the semester. My performance at math always depended on how well the teacher explained everything. Clear instruction and repetition are great. I found that practice made me understand math better. But regardless of how much practice and studying I did, everything I've learned in one school year will vanish by the first day of summer. My grades are a reflection of how well the teacher got his or her points across, and sometimes some points made by certain math teachers don't get across. Although I've suffered through my fair share of terrible and fantastic math teachers, there was one high school Algebra II teacher who I will never forget. We'll call this teacher Dr. Scary-Math.
It was 2014. I have finally reached the high school label I've been waiting for: upperclassmen. With this label, your class schedule is basically a volleyball-- it can be tossed from one class to another. Sure you'll get placed in classes according to your credits, but you'll also get tossed in "filler" classes, meaning useless electives such as music appreciation and pottery. Thankfully I was placed in career path where all my classes are based around a GCC Marketing program (I did internships and extra classes around summers), which meant Junior year would be the last year for me to stay in school full time. This also meant that my Junior year would be the last year for me to take math.
From petrifying rumors and gossip, I prayed to whatever deity I knew that by the time I'm a Junior, I will not get Algebra II with Dr. Scary-Math. Well apparently deities don't care about your irrational fear of math teachers because my first class was Algebra II with Dr. Scary-Math. I was going frantic just as much internally as I did externally. I spent my first day back in school asking every friend I saw if they had Dr. Scary-Math for their first period.
First day of class, we got into our non-assigned desks and Dr. Scary-Math stood up in front, arms crossed, greeting us with a wide smile which I knew meant that the first semester would be terrifying. I sat in the back, near the door. We went through the syllabus and Dr. Scary-Math said that no teacher was allowed to print their syllabus in color. But what do you know? Dr. Scary-Math's syllabus was in color.
Fast forward to when we began "learning." I found that every rumor I heard was true. Dr. Scary-Math had favoritism. Every bright math student with an expensive calculator was a favorite. I had no calculator and all my quizzes scored 40s and below. (I wasn't the favorite.) The class pace was extremely fast too. By the time I can fully grasp and understand one problem, Dr. Scary-Math was already halfway explaining the next. My notes were unreadable even to myself.
I tried everything to pick my grades up. I tried tutoring through other math teachers, teachers who don't teach math, tutoring from college-access programs, friends, online, and the textbook. Still, I wasn't understanding anything. And it didn't help that majority of the class wasn't doing well either (except for the two students who had really expensive calculators).
Then I decided enough was enough and I mustered up the courage to ask Dr. Scary-Math for extra help. I stayed back during lunch and voiced out my confusion. Dr. Scary-Math then looked at me and said, "I went through your transcript and you got a high A in Algebra I." It's true because I took Algebra I with possibly the best math teacher to ever exist. Dr. Scary-Math then asked, "If you could do that, why aren't you doing well in my class?" Not knowing what to say, Dr. Scary-Math told me to stay in class and read the textbook. So I stayed and read as Dr. Scary-Math went out to get McDonalds.
Annoyed, frustrated, angered, and more confused than ever, I did what any rational student would do. I waited until the semester was over and begged the counselor to change my schedule.
My schedule finally changed AND OH MY GOODNESS my 40s were turning into 90s. Math started to make more sense. My poor, sad, bruised up grades were picking up and I swear I heard the GPA angels sing Hallelujah. Math became a comrade rather an enemy. I didn't stress, worry, or stayed up all night studying for tests and exams anymore. By the time Junior year ended, I left with a new found appreciation for math and an odd memorization of the quadratic formula. And I was no longer afraid of math.
Until college.
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