Early in second grade, one morning my homeroom teacher posted a sheet of paper on the wall near her desk with every student’s name scrawled next to a mark denoting where we stood in math. I glanced at it and noticed I was well ahead of my classmates -- so far ahead that the school planned to start me on multiplication lessons. That night, my father tried to explain this fancy new mathematical operation, using cucumbers slices to demonstrate his point.
I was lost at first, but I continued to be advanced in math throughout the next several years. Sometimes I enjoyed this innate talent, like when I could calculate my friends’ baseball batting averages in my head. But mostly I hated math; it truly was my gift and my curse.
Fortunately, I sometimes had Dad around to help me navigate my frustrations.
In fifth grade, as documented in my new memoir, Mom enrolled me in Center for Talented Youth math classes for a couple hours every Saturday morning. I did not mind taking these extra classes, because I had a sweet-natured, engaging teacher and I got to miss my regular Saturday morning Hebrew school classes. Math presented the lesser of two evils.
But when I started sixth grade, our synagogue, tired of so many kids skipping Saturday classes because of math lessons, baseball games, etc., rescheduled our weekend class for Sunday mornings.
This move thrilled my parents and their friends; they were guaranteed two more hours every weekend away from us, the perfect amount of time to leisurely go to brunch together. But my brother Michael, our friends and I were furious. Not only were we no longer able to miss all or parts of weekend Hebrew school classes -- even leaving a whole 15 minutes early was cause for my classmates and I to celebrate on our way out; kids sometimes danced as their parents furiously motioned for them to hustle out of the classroom -- now I also had to go to some type of class seven days a week.
That’s because my parents enrolled me again in the CTY math class for Saturday mornings – very much against my wishes. In addition to losing the escape from Hebrew School, my sixth-grade CTY class was not taught by the young, patient Maureen -- but by a male teacher in his 30’s or 40’s. He was much more stern and dry, assigning more homework. A lot more.
I almost immediately lost interest. One Saturday after class a few weeks into the school year, I intentionally left my binder behind in the classroom, at a Johns Hopkins University building in suburban Washington, D.C. I never thought about what may happen to my binder full of class handouts, homework assignments and other important items, left alone in a classroom sure to host other students before I would return the following Saturday. I could not have cared less. All I knew was I was not doing extra math homework that week, certainly not when I already had pre-algebra homework to do all week at school.
The following Saturday, my father dropped me off at the classroom at the start of class. My teacher noticed Dad’s presence, grabbed something off his desk and started walking towards us. He presented the binder, looking directly at us: “Hey Ryan: How did you get your homework done this week if you did not have your binder?”
I looked down; I could not come up with a good lie quickly enough to retort. I expected Dad to be furious; he had flown off the handle for far less than blowing off homework.
Dad turned and stared at me for a moment, not saying anything, then looked back at my teacher. He did not seem angry.
“This week please bring your binder home to get your work done,” the teacher went on.
I nodded.
At some point that week my parents called me upstairs to talk. Their referendum: I would no longer be taking the CTY math class.
Of course, I could not get out of Hebrew school on Sundays as well. Especially not with a Bar Mitzvah less than 18 months away. But around the time I turned 13, Dad became my math savior once again.
In seventh grade I was fried: School. Hebrew school. Bar Mitzvah tutor and practice. Playing on two basketball teams in the winter and two baseball teams that spring. Sharing a weekly paper route with Michael. Piano lessons. Diving into my new Spice Channel and mallrat addictions. I had little time left for schoolwork and my parents were often gone after school, working or caring for my ailing grandparents. This left me in charge of myself and my brothers, deciding on my own whether to do my homework. The results were predictable: My advisor sent home an academic warning and I once scored 46% on an algebra I test. I was sinking, fast, and needed help.
One night I had to study for another algebra test. This time I knew the material better and Dad volunteered to help.
It was rare for him to aid me with schoolwork, especially after the night earlier that school year when this radiologist kept babbling on about the intricacies of mitochondria and chlorophyll as we sat side by side at the kitchen table. “Just quiz me on the stuff in the book!” I bellowed, before tossing my life sciences textbook at him and dashing away in a huff.
But for one night while studying for that math test, we clicked. Even as I struggled to keep my eyes open as the time passed 10 or 11, he kept my attention long enough to make sure I keenly understood the material.
A few days later when I got home from school, he asked me how I did on the test. I pulled out the freshly graded exam and tossed it to him. His eyes lit up when he saw my mark. “One-hundred-and-three! Congratulations!” he smiled widely.
It was Friday afternoon, so I cared little about school and could not bother to express myself much about this test result. But as he skimmed through the test, I felt an immense sense of relief. And maybe some pride too.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad!
