A few months ago, I attended a parent meeting at Elias' elementary school. Six Title One teachers discussed the county's recent transition to the Common Core Curriculum. That night's meeting specifically focused on math. Essentially, they were reviewing with the parents what math concepts they would be teaching the first graders and how they would be teaching those concepts.
These teachers patiently explained that Elias, my first grader, among other students, would be learning the basics of algebra and geometry. It's better to start them early, they insisted. The teachers also mentioned algorithms. They sprinkled their conversation with this word as if I should know what it meant.
I'm a college educated woman with a bachelors of science degree. I had no freakin' clue what an algorithm was or how Elias was supposed to understand. But I was too embarrassed to ask for a clarification, fearing I would be the only parent in the room who didn't understand. The fear and awe that my first grader was going to be smarter than me by the time he got to the fifth grade loomed large in my heart--my bachelors degree be damned.
Here comes the flashback: In the second grade, my math teacher was named Mrs. Rose. She was an African-American woman with buck teeth and there was a gap between her two front teeth. She tottered around the classroom in four inch heels because she was a petite woman (even with the heels on). She always wore very sensible, professional pant suits in subdued colors--navy, brown, or black.
She was teaching subtraction. She wrote a problem on the chalk board--something like this:
2001
- 1996
Mrs. Rose expected us to solve the problem in our head. We were not allowed to count on our fingers or use a scrap piece of paper.
I remember raising my hand to let her know that I didn't understand. That I couldn't do it. She explained the concept about borrowing from the neighbor number and carrying the one and so on.
I still didn't understand. Or maybe it wasn't that I didn't understand per se. Maybe I understood it in theory, but couldn't do it in my head without counting on my fingers or writing it down on paper. (Quite frankly, I still use my fingers to figure out addition or subtraction problems. Forget the multiplication tables. I've since forgotten those. I digress.)
Anyway, I didn't understand. I don't know how many times she explained it. I don't remember. But what I do remember is this: eventually, Mrs. Rose asked "What are you? Stupid?"
Yeah, she said that. Out loud. In front of the entire class.
I shrank in my seat. I told her I understood when I didn't. All these years later, my eyes fill with tears remembering this incident. My gut twists with shame. Embarrassment.
Mortified. Still. After all these years.
This memory whooshes back to me while sitting in a tiny chair designed for a first grader, listening to six Title One teachers say things like "we want your kid to learn basic concepts of algebra, geometry. Algorithms. The Common Core curriculum will better prepare your student for life beyond school."
Yeah, sure I understand. What am I? Stupid?
Those same Title One teachers went on to explain that it is vitally important to not influence your child's attitude toward learning. If you hated math as a kid--don't let your kid know it because they will mimic that behavior. They will learn to hate math too.
Yeah, sure I understand. What am I? Stupid?
Every time Elias struggles with his homework, I have to bite my tongue--literally--to prevent myself from agreeing with him that math is stupid. Instead, I tell him that he must use his brain to puzzle out the answer. That it's okay if he doesn't get it right the first time. Erase it and keep working it out until he gets the correct answer. Even if it takes 100 times.
That word stupid--it's banned at our house.
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