I did the math (eventually)

This is not one of my classes at the old Coventry School. But it could have been. See that kid raising his hand? That was never me. And see that kid who's laughing? That was always me.
I have a grandson who’s in the second grade at a Cleveland Heights public school. I was in the second grade at a different Cleveland Heights public school in the 1950s. I had an experience in the second grade that—I’m fairly certain—was life-changing. My grandson will probably not experience that, because I was in school at the height of the Cold War.
Mine went like this (and I’ve told parts of this story before, but not the whole thing): One day, I was sitting in my second-grade class when a man walked in, someone I’d never seen. He was tall and thin, with a silver crew cut and wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a charcoal-grey suit. He conferred quietly with our teacher in a back corner.
One by one, the teacher called each kid to the back of the room to sit at a little desk with her and the man. She called our names in alphabetical order, and I’m “B,” so I was, maybe, the second kid to go and talk to the man. He asked me a bunch of questions, and he already had a Manila folder with information about me.
After a few minutes, he told me, “You’re good at writing and music. So, you’re not going to be good at math or science.” I think that was part of the Cold War mentality—and they were definitely partial to the math and science kids.
I thought it was strange, though, even at that age, because I was really interested in math and science. But I was 7, and he was The Man, and he told me I wasn’t. So, from then on, despite my interest in those subjects, I didn’t bother trying. I did work at writing and music, though.
From that point on, my math and science grades were terrible. I knew, from the time I was 3 years old, that I wanted to be a musician, and I started various music lessons very early. I started thinking less and less about going to college, because I knew I'd have a music career. Though by the eighth grade there was still a glimmer of interest in college, I knew that in the ninth grade I’d be taking this thing called algebra, and that sounded scary. So, one day that spring, I shocked my parents by asking if I could take algebra in summer school.
They assumed I was kidding. I said, “No. I want to take it for no credit. Then, when I have it next year, I’ll know it, and I’ll get a good grade in it.” They agreed.
So I took the algebra class. And I loved it. It reminded me of other things I love to do—like arranging music, which I was already dabbling in then. When you arrange or orchestrate music, you have to think horizontally and vertically at the same time. The parts all go along, in a line, horizontally; but they also have to all go together, at the same time, which means looking down the page (or, today, the screen) as you’re looking across the page. And that’s like doing crossword puzzles, which I also enjoy.
I found similarities in algebra, with its internal problems to solve while you’re solving the overall problem. It was like a game to me. So, I loved algebra. And I got an A in it—in summer school, for no credit.
Then ninth grade started, and that was the year they started using the New Math, where algebra was taught completely differently. And I didn’t understand one thing about it. And I never thought about college again. But that was okay—because I went directly into a music career, and then, in addition, a writing career. The Cold War man was right, all the way back in the seccnd grade. (Plus, once I quit high school, I found I could go to the library and read all I wanted about science, anyway.)
So that’s the end. Except there’s a little more. About 15 years after I left high school, I was dating a woman (to whom I’m now married), who was taking graduate college courses after work at Cleveland State University. I would go there and hang out in the student union, waiting for her, and then drive her home. After a while, she said, “Since you’re there anyway, why don’t you take a class?”
I looked in the catalogue and found one: Algebra. I signed up and took the class—which was back to the Old Math—and loved it, and got an A in it. Then I took two music courses—one of which I could have taught, and another that was slightly more challenging—and got A’s in those, too. And I left college with a 4.0 GPA.
So, what life-changing event might occur in my grandson’s second-grade year?
David Budin
David Budin is a freelance writer for national and local publications, the former editor of Cleveland Magazine and Northern Ohio Live, an author, and a professional musician and comedian. His writing focuses on the arts and, especially, pop-music history.