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Remember the chair in his office? Sure you do- it had the historic scenes in green and orange and white and black, and the tight tight binding; you've never found another chair like that, although you've looked in many places. Whatever happened to it? You'd sit in it, and watch him at his desk, grading students' papers; draw on the blackboards; tell him (and yourself) that you were going to wind up at MIT, and watch him smile. He really thought you could, as your feet drummed against that chair, a couple inches above the ground. It didn't seem odd then; you could do basic math calculations with a speed that astonished teachers for your first several years of school - you heard "genius" far too often, although you weren't.
You'd look in the textbooks on the shelves, though, and see incomprehensible symbols- another language altogether. No one told you (you never asked) that eight year olds shouldn't really expect to grok Boolean logic at a glance; it was intimidating- and you were a very fearful child. You were withdrawing, anyway; things at home were spiraling out of your understanding; it got so that you'd eat dinner in front of the TV every night, avoiding the recriminations and shouting that always simmered when they spoke. Even at the end, when she isolated herself in the family room, you'd trudge down cellar, where the TV was; it took you years to understand how to converse while eating (and your table manners, alas, will probably never be the best.)
You flinch, when you think about school. About sitting with him the night before your freshman year began, discussing what your chances were for being valedictorian, and how that might affect MIT plans. You didn't know how to tell him that the homework was becoming stranger, more unfamiliar year by year; algebra was -barely- graspable; trigonometry wouldn't be. You avoided the unfamiliar like the plague- dealing with too many unfamiliar feelings and events as it was (moving van for her stuff on the lawn; tears, as she assured you she loved you)- school was just too much. By the first report card, the situation was clear- no valedictorians here. He'd sit down with you and your math homework, after dinner; he'd won the first Chancellor Award for teaching in New York State (given by Nelson Rockefeller); faculty and students alike sang his praises.
That made it worse, somehow, though; you felt like an idiot for not getting it as easily as you had in the beginning. Not that you were incapable per se (SATs: 680 math; 710 verbal), but you tended to skill your way through what you could, and avoid the rest; you'd already had to do too much forgetting, and concentrated academic effort would never be your forte. You turned around, and computers had leaped up from basic, kludgy old trash-80s to beasts beyond your comprehension; the programming languages made his math textbooks look easy- you avoided those, too. Stumble through college; stumble through life- you turn around, and you're 30, with nothing in the bank, few marketable skills... although, to be fair, you're probably -ack- a better person for what's happened to you. You don't have all that many close friends... but the ones that you have, you move heaven and earth for. When you were an admin, people would constantly whisper their problems to you; you still remember the girl who told you of the abortion she'd just had, and hope she's doing well. After the crisis hotline, it seemed almost familiar; in little ways, you do try to at least be an open ear for those around you, although you've never been shy about demanding your space. You sigh, and realize that you are damn near certainly a better person than you would have been, had life had the decency to follow your plans; you muse on how life is never fair (although individual people can be)... and yet, somehow, things tend to work out for the best. You sit on your swivel chair with the wheel that falls off constantly, and think about that other chair, and the you you never were.
You'd look in the textbooks on the shelves, though, and see incomprehensible symbols- another language altogether. No one told you (you never asked) that eight year olds shouldn't really expect to grok Boolean logic at a glance; it was intimidating- and you were a very fearful child. You were withdrawing, anyway; things at home were spiraling out of your understanding; it got so that you'd eat dinner in front of the TV every night, avoiding the recriminations and shouting that always simmered when they spoke. Even at the end, when she isolated herself in the family room, you'd trudge down cellar, where the TV was; it took you years to understand how to converse while eating (and your table manners, alas, will probably never be the best.)
You flinch, when you think about school. About sitting with him the night before your freshman year began, discussing what your chances were for being valedictorian, and how that might affect MIT plans. You didn't know how to tell him that the homework was becoming stranger, more unfamiliar year by year; algebra was -barely- graspable; trigonometry wouldn't be. You avoided the unfamiliar like the plague- dealing with too many unfamiliar feelings and events as it was (moving van for her stuff on the lawn; tears, as she assured you she loved you)- school was just too much. By the first report card, the situation was clear- no valedictorians here. He'd sit down with you and your math homework, after dinner; he'd won the first Chancellor Award for teaching in New York State (given by Nelson Rockefeller); faculty and students alike sang his praises.
That made it worse, somehow, though; you felt like an idiot for not getting it as easily as you had in the beginning. Not that you were incapable per se (SATs: 680 math; 710 verbal), but you tended to skill your way through what you could, and avoid the rest; you'd already had to do too much forgetting, and concentrated academic effort would never be your forte. You turned around, and computers had leaped up from basic, kludgy old trash-80s to beasts beyond your comprehension; the programming languages made his math textbooks look easy- you avoided those, too. Stumble through college; stumble through life- you turn around, and you're 30, with nothing in the bank, few marketable skills... although, to be fair, you're probably -ack- a better person for what's happened to you. You don't have all that many close friends... but the ones that you have, you move heaven and earth for. When you were an admin, people would constantly whisper their problems to you; you still remember the girl who told you of the abortion she'd just had, and hope she's doing well. After the crisis hotline, it seemed almost familiar; in little ways, you do try to at least be an open ear for those around you, although you've never been shy about demanding your space. You sigh, and realize that you are damn near certainly a better person than you would have been, had life had the decency to follow your plans; you muse on how life is never fair (although individual people can be)... and yet, somehow, things tend to work out for the best. You sit on your swivel chair with the wheel that falls off constantly, and think about that other chair, and the you you never were.
