Algebra oh Algebra

If you've read other Wry Bread stories, you may recall that my dad was an electrical engineer. He attended MIT on a scholarship, and received a Master's Degree from Caltech. Mathematics was as much a part of his life as goofing off in school was of mine. 

If there was (or is it were?) any truth to Astrology (and if you think there was or were, the stars say this is the ideal time to contribute to a semi-retired pastor), Dad would have been born under the sign of the 'Cosine', and I under the sign of the 'Asinine.' But there were occasions when our two worlds collided.

One occurred with painful regularity every nine weeks in high school, when grades were sent home. In my experience, a class clown can slide by in English, History, Humanities, etc., but not in subjects such as Chemistry and Algebra, where success, I am told, requires neurons to fire on the left side of the brain. 

If you ask why those neurons don't fire in a class clown's brain, my working theory is that sometime during his pre-natal development, 10 or 12 microscopic clowns gain access to his blood stream by a process not yet fully understood. Arriving at the infant’s brain, the clowns emerge from a mini-car that appears much too small to accommodate them all, each clown carrying a tiny fire extinguisher. Running and jumping in comical fashion, the clowns quickly douse the entire left side of the infant's brain with flame-retardant before squeezing back into the mini-car and driving off.  The unfortunate result, which may not be evident for several years, is commonly called retardation, but I prefer to call it flame-retardation, to place the onus on the tiny clowns, where it belongs.

Those of you who did better in Science classes may have your own theory.

Thankfully, the chap who came up with using the letters A, B, C, D and F to mark one's academic progress evidently did not take into account that C, D and F (with very little prompting) can be encouraged to morph into the letter B. The letter E would have worked well too (perhaps best) but he skipped right over it and went from D to F. Unfortunately, this method of grade improvement, although quick and easy, does not ultimately benefit anyone who is not pursuing a career in embezzlement.

So sometimes, in a valiant (some would say foolhardy) effort to understand a particular algebraic concept, I would boldly go where few had gone before, into the lion's den itself---Dad's study. Perhaps I should explain that instead of seizing the opportunity to educate himself about German prison camps by watching Hogan's Heroes, or Cold War espionage by watching I Spy, or prehistoric man by watching The Flintstones, Dad would spend most evenings holed up in his small study. We were never quite sure what he did in there, but it was a safe bet that it involved equations.

Come with me for moral support as I, at the tender age of fifteen, knock with trepidation on the closed study door.

"Dad, can you help me with this Algebra problem?" I poked my head in.

"Of course, Russy."

As I recall, the problem had something to do with a certain A and B, (Alice and Bob?) who our teacher Mr. Button insisted were going to be fruitful and multiply with an X and a Y (Xavier and Yolanda?), who were both, for some reason, considered squares. The situation was expressed this way: 

(A+B) (x²+y²)  

The code letters, presumably to protect the privacy of the two couples, were unnecessary. We didn't know anyone named Xavier or Yolanda, and we couldn't identify Alice or Bob by just a first name.

You may be interested to know that Mr. Button was a tough, no-nonsense sort of fellow who had a habit of flinging chalkboard erasers across the room in the direction of class clowns, so I was motivated to understand Algebra not just to get a good grade, but also to avoid flying erasers.

I showed Dad the problem that had me stumped. He looked at the equation, then at me. 

"What grade are you in now?" (With 5 kids and several pets it was hard to keep track).

"Tenth."

Dad was aghast. "Tenth!  You should have learned this in seventh grade! What's wrong with these schools?  What are they teaching you?  What are they doing with all those tax dollars?" 

This shows some promise, I thought.  Let's keep the emphasis on America's failing educational system, rather than any particular Algebra student. But what followed was a twenty minute, sweaty-palmed, graphite-breaking tutorial on distributive and commutative laws with an occasional refresher on square roots thrown in. Dad was not satisfied if I simply learned how to solve a particular problem (which rarely happened). He wanted me to see and understand the beauty of the mathematical principle behind it. He wanted me to know why the problem could be solved by that particular method, and perhaps by that method alone.

Thoroughly confused, I would eventually revert to the protest of every right-brained student.

"Why do I have to learn Algebra anyway? I'm not going to be a mathematician. When am I ever going to use this stuff?"

If only I had known then, at the age of fifteen, what I have learned from over five additional decades of experience-----I would have made that argument more forcefully. With the exception of those rare occasions when I attempted to help my own children solve Algebra problems, I can confidently say that my once knowing the solution to (A+B) (x²+y²) has never benefitted me or any friend or acquaintance.

By this point, Dad was in his mid-forties, and already painfully aware that none of his five children was destined to walk in his polynomial footsteps, but he was still adamant that we should study Algebra. (Yes, I know it sounds wrong, but trust an English Major. It's "none of his five children was," not were. Think, "not one was.")

"It's good exercise for your brain," he would say. He graciously refrained from continuing, "and your brain is clearly out of shape." 

In a nod to you country music fans, I have put my little lesson on Algebra to the tune of the song Galveston, made popular by the late Glen Campbell. We should acknowledge that Galveston was written, not by Glen Campbell, but by prolific songwriter Jimmy Webb.  Unfortunately for all baby boomers, he also wrote MacArthur Park, which (you may recall) tells the tragic tale of someone leaving a cake out in the rain. This oversight drove the late actor/singer Richard Harris into such a state of desperation that he vocalized the tragedy as if he was having a kidney removed without anesthesia. The root cause of his pain, and the reason he didn’t think he could take it, was because it took so long to bake it, and he was convinced he would never have that recipe again.  Granted, this was in the sixties, long before you could simply Google™ any cake recipe you wanted. Nonetheless, I think we can all agree, it was a lot of grief over one spoiled cake.

But let’s get back to Galveston.  Feel free to sing along with your memory of Glen Campbell, unless there are any humans nearby.

Al-ge-bra oh Algebra, 

I was so afraid of failin' 

Talked to Dad, 

And there was wailin'

---Lost all self-esteem, 

When I was just fifteen.

Algebra, oh Algebra, 

I know there's no use in tryin' 

Cuz my neurons, they just ain't firin' 

Wouldn't wear this frown, 

If not for tiny clowns.

Algebra oh ALGE-BRA-A-AH,  

You're a class I must be cuttin'.

Bid farewell to Mister Button,

Rusty's out of here,

With chalk dust in his ear.

I couldn't understand much of what Dad tried to teach me. I knew that HE understood it, and I was assured it was true. But my mind couldn't comprehend WHY it was true. I knew Dad perceived things that were simply beyond my grasp. I would have been foolish to trust my judgment in mathematical matters more than his. If this is true with regard to my earthly father, whose understanding of all things mathematical was limited, how much more true is it of my heavenly father, whose understanding of ALL things is infinite?  When I am tempted to question God's dealings, I need only remember, "Algebra oh Algebra." 

…My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways,’ says the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts. (Isaiah 55:8-9)

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*Shipping and handling rates apply. Slice of cake may cause dizziness, dementia, diarrhea, death, and other bad things that begin with the letter D, which, coincidentally, was the grade the author sometimes received in Algebra class.