Best Math Class. EVER.

It's been a while since I had the time or mental capacity to post -- my apologies. I've been a little involved in college life, what with the Math final and the group project for Ethics, as well as the final paper for Ethics. The final paper, by the way, involved re-reading a lot of Plato, Kant, Aristotle, Needleman, Langton, popular media, in between preparing the PowerPoint presentation for class and the other two papers that are also due . . . Anyway, I turned in the ethics essay, all 13 pages, via the Internet late yesterday evening, just as my last spark of intelligence was flickering out for the night. This morning, I got a cryptic note from the Ethics professor: "Are you sure this is the final version?"

That's what's called an "Oh, God" moment.

Since I haven't written a successful argumentative thesis so far this semester, despite trying about eight times, no, I'm not sure. Despite the best efforts of the three professors who have been trying to teach me how to write this type of paper in three different ways and three assorted documentation styles, I've yet to write a series of coherent topic sentences, let alone a competent thesis or a convincing conclusion.

I really, really miss Strunk & White. Those guys were simple, sweet, and understanding, sort of like a supportive ex-boyfriend who doesn't crowd you too much.

On the bright side, I survived the Math final and so far, I have a 97 average in that class, which translates as an A for the transcript. This is the absolutely highest grade I've ever had in any mathematics class, going all the way back to Mrs. Bender's arithmetic in third grade. Professor Carol Overdeep made it clear and concise, so that even a confirmed math dyslexic like myself could do well. I'll be grateful to her for the rest of my life.

And someday I'll be grateful to my Ethics professor, too.

Brains Change

A friend from Seattle stopped by Saturday (hey, Karen!). Our chat made me realize just how much my brain has changed since June, when I quit my job and moved to Olympia to get ready for school. Nothing against working, but I'm beginning to believe that being in not-quite-the-right-job made me a little fuzzy. I wasn't learning new information on a daily or hourly basis in the last several jobs, and much of the intellectual stimulation was in the way of irritation, rather than discovery.

Being back in school after all this time makes me feel a little more awake. New information presented in new language keeps showing up every day, and my brain is running twice as fast as ever before to keep up. So far, this is pretty good.

(English majors, please note: the preceding paragraph is brought to you by "sandwiching," a concept that was breezily brought up in passing in ENG 203 last week.)

Another change is showing up in my spoken vocabulary: I no longer edit what I'm saying to make sure people understand me. If the right word, no matter how long, shows up in my brain during a conversation, I no longer need to mentally dig up synonyms. One of my classmates mentioned how liberating it is for her to be out of high school and in an environment where either everyone knows all the words, or knows how to get definitions out of online or paper dictionaries.

Some things about my brain have not and will not change, of course. I still have dyslexia, and the math gene simply is nowhere in my genome. Nonetheless, I'm finding new ways around these problems, to reinforce the techniques I've used over the years, so these handicaps don't have as much of a chance to hold me back.

Whatever is holding you back from doing what you really want to do, try ignoring it for a while. Imagine doing what you really want to do, step by step. If you're looking at individual steps, your handicaps may not be stumbling blocks after all, and the process of changing may make those handicaps much smaller.

At least, that's what my brain thinks.

Hobbes? Which Hobbes?

Mid-semester is a really good time to start facing down the facts. For one, I am not an intellectual. If some attractive man at a party starts a sentence by quoting Hobbes, there is a faint hope in my heart that he is talking about Calvin's tigerish friend, rather than the terribly serious philosopher. Usually, though, the extremely cute man is about to launch into a discussion of his personal political philosophy, based on a well-memorized paragraph that Hobbes published a long time ago in a very highly regarded (and rarely read) book. And while the charming gentleman may intend the discussion to be a vibrant exchange on political economy, he quickly finds himself in the depths of a monologue, while I mentally check my schedule for time to do the laundry.

I have further proof of my ranking just slightly below the top drawer of intellectual attainment: we had our first exam in Math and Modern Culture this week. My hard-working instructor says my test paper had "a few hiccups." I suspect charitable intentions on her part.

The problem with mathematics is that I started out my arithmetical career by trying to invest numbers with personality. For example, 7s were elegant, princely, and colored green, for some reason. Threes were cozy, gold, and a good number for pieces of candy from Aunt Martha's candy dish. Twos were red and romantic, like valentines, and 4s were spiky but prone to Victorian elaboration.

No wonder I find algebra somewhere between a challenge and a mystery. It almost makes me grateful for my Ethics class.