Most people who know me know that 1) I’m not a math person (I chose to major in English as a default since it was what I considered to be the “opposite” of math) and 2) that I HATE it with a passion.
I began hating math at an early age. I think it happened as soon as I learned to count to ten using my fingers (I have all ten), but my disgust for the subject only became more pronounced in the first grade. Don’t even get me started on regrouping. My evil teacher punished me for continuing to get the same incorrect answer by making me sit on the red circle during recess and watch all of the other kids play. Could it perhaps have been due to the fact that she was just a terrible terrible teacher and not because I was a terribly insolent child? I knew that bitch always had it in for me.
I can’t remember when it was we started learning about fractions, but I there was no way I was wrapping my head around that either. One day I brought my fraction worksheet home and fate had it that no one else was home that afternoon besides my dad. So I decided to ask him what the hell was on my worksheet. BIG MISTAKE. He started talking to me about multiplication tables and denominators and pieces of a bigger picture. So I gave him a blank stare and flatly said, “Appa, I don’t know WHAT THE HELL YOU ARE SAYING,” and then I walked out. Would it have been so difficult to just give me the correct answer?
That was the last time I asked for his help.
And that’s about the last bit of math I remember ever learning. God help my kids.