The problem with math "problems"

As Kurtz said in "Apocalypse Now"..."the horror..."

Most of you, I believe, would consider it a modest achievement of mine that after concluding three years of junior high school instruction and four subsequent years of a high school educational experience, I only received one (1) detention.

Clearly, that kind of model behavior is admirable and laudatory. How many of you, out there in readerland, can make a similar claim? The circumstances of my one, singular detention were, I believe, unjust, unfair, inexcusable, a travesty of American justice that somehow, through many years of thought, prayer, counseling and encouragement, I was able to shake off and live most of the rest of my life with minimal regret.

It could only be fate, destiny or karma that the regrettable occurrence of which I speak occurred where someone who was familiar with my academic prowess would expect such an event would happen. Yes, in a math class.

For some time now, as I’ve struggled to overcome and throw asunder the theorems, practices, diatribes, calculations, problems – you can say that again – the PROBLEMS posed to us in mathematical experiences; why, never was an ugly and unfair occurrence more accurately named than for a mathematics instructor to order his charges to tackle these PROBLEMS. Problems, indeed.

The harrowing moment of which I reluctantly speak of occurred in a Geometry class with a sadistic, heartless and utterly cruel instructor by the name – and I’m not making this up – of Mr. Richard Burpee. Yes, the image of perpetual indigestion hovered over that class like a low-hanging cloud and unfortunately for his students, Mr. Burpee’s appearance might well have been stereotypical of all math teachers throughout these United States.

Tall, awkward, blemished, thick glasses, uncomfortable manner, absolutely no sign of a sense of humor. Not to be unfair, other than those trivialities, I’m certain Mr. Richard Burpee was a fine upstanding American. Or so he would have liked us to believe.

I, however, strongly suspect that there was an inner deviance there, something that likely afflicts every mathematics instructor when confronted with an otherwise capable student who does not have a flaming clue what in the world they are going on about up at the board. They do not understand such stupidity – math makes perfect sense to them, “HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE THIS?”

On the day, the moment in question, Mr. Burpee, perhaps struck by a rare moment of humanity, decided to DEMONSTRATE a mathematical manner of thought, a perilous and risky concept, most would agree, since it seems quite clear to normal people that mathematical people DO NOT THINK AS WE DO.

Mr. Burpee stood at the head of our class, dark tie askew, ratty white shirt untucked on the side and explained he was going to show us “The Napoleonic Method” of measuring. Understanding that Napoleon had gone down in history for three things; being short, sticking his hand in his coat and losing the battle of Waterloo, this immediately seemed a questionable source. But who was I, a relatively NORMAL person, to question a theoretical mathematical wizard?

The “method” as Mr. Burpee explained, was to sight in a particular direction VERTICALLY, as in first, looking up the side of a wall or at a particular point on some tall vertical object like a tree, then immediately spinning your vision to a spot on the ground. The “focal point” – in other words – the very first place you look HORIZONTALLY – i.e. on the ground – should match the same distance you spotted up on the side of that tree or wall.

Like any reasonable American, I am now and always have been in favor of all sorts of theories, some applicable, some merely – and perpetually – theoretical. Which, you might think would endear someone with a mind like mine to a mathematic instructor. Au contraire. As I was to discover momentarily.

So to demonstrate the ill-fated “Napoleonic Method,” Mr. Richard Burpee thought the most effective way to show each and every one of his Geometry students how this high-tech concept was applicable was to count each and every half-inch sized squares on the classroom floor. He started at the front of the room, in front of his cluttered desk, and silently, counting to himself, took step after step across the front of the completely hushed – and likely puzzled – classroom. When he got to the student at the top right of the last row, possibly Rhonda Ryan, he turned and headed my way, seated in the very last seat in the very last row, immediately next to the door, a seat I chose in the event of possible fire or nuclear attack, allowing for a subsequent quick exit upon the joyous sound of the long-awaited bell.

Mr. Richard Burpee silently continued the count, it must have been five, six, seven, eight minutes of complete quiet, possibly the longest period of silence in a single classroom in the history of American Education.

When he reached my desk, at the almost-completion of his square-counting journey, ever cheerfully, trying to uplift the spirits of my classmates, I offered an innocent, jocular comment to my instructor.

“You missed one.”

And, evidently, it made him lose count.

Now it would seem to me that this kind of thing happens all the time in mathematical/scientific excursions of the mind. You conjure an idea, work out a few things, scrap it. You start again.

Mr. Richard Burpee, perhaps swayed by the tumultuous laughter that overwhelmed and absolutely uplifted his classroom from the deadening seven-eight minutes of silence, reacted negatively to my suggestion.

“DETENTION, NOGOWSKI. TODAY. AFTER SCHOOL.” His face reddened, his thick glasses steamed up as they perhaps had never been while solving fractions, he stormed back to his desk, slammed the math book sitting on top of his desk down ON his desk, oddly enough the same thought I had at that very moment.

 Happily, when I trotted to the Detention Hall at the close of the school day, the monitor for that session was my former English teacher, the delightful Iris Woods.

“John! What in the world are you doing here?” she asked, placing a hand across her chest in amazement.

I shared my story of my desultory experience with Mr. Richard Burpee and “The Napoleonic Method” and after she stopped laughing, maybe five minutes later, she dismissed me with a wave, taking off her glasses to wipe the tears of laughter from her eyes.

Despite this untoward experience, I somehow found the courage to take – as my final collegiate course – Topics In Contemporary Mathematics with the extraordinary Sister Marie at Rivier College.

“John!” she said, when I tiptoed into her class, a course I was supposed to take in my freshman year, four years earlier. “I wondered when you were going to get around to my course.”

She read the fear across my face, asked me what happened and I sorrowfully recounted the story of Mr. Richard Burpee, my unpleasant experience with “The Napoleonic Method” and the lasting scars I carried through the rest of my years in academia.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll help you.”

She did. Not only did I get an “A” in her class, I vowed never to utilize “The Napoleonic Method” again. Somehow, I thought, bravely, I can live my life without math. Since I never made much money as a sportswriter, then teacher, then author, I was able to do exactly that.