Looking out my Backdoor: The path math hath

Back when the earth was still cooling, back when I was a student at Harlem High, algebra was a high school subject. Now they start the kids learning simple equations in pre-school. Or near enough.

Up until algebra, I’d made A’s in math. Our algebra teacher was an aerospace engineer the year the field was overbooked, clogged, with aerospace engineers and those who could not follow that path, taught math.

Class consisted of Mr. X, or was it Y, ordering us to memorize the equations and work the problems. Then he gathered the boys in a circle at the front of the room and talked sports until the bell rang.

I’m the type of learner who wants to know why, to follow a to b to c to x. This man said, “That is not important. Just memorize the equations and work the problems.”

I’d sit at the dining table at home, brown paper grocery bags for scratch paper, penciled with numbers run amok, until I’d get the right answer. And I could show how I figured it out. But it wasn’t the way Mr. X+Y wanted. So I’d get my papers red-marked, even with right answers.

When I’d figure the answers to the problems my way, convert them to his way, all was well, on daily assignments. Then came the dreaded tests. I didn’t have time to figure, then convert. So I’d fail the tests. Didn’t matter that I had the right answer and there was my figuring on the page to support the answer.

From then on I was soured on math and avoided it when I could. I’m not saying the teacher was wrong. Maybe further on in higher algebra there was a reason to do it his way instead of the way I’d figured out how to do it on my own.

I am the first to admit I had a certain amount of stubborn resistance going on. That same stubborn resistance has landed me in quicksand, metaphorically speaking, but has also come to my rescue in equal part. Using it as a tool, I’ve learned how to do a lot of things.

Take sewing, for instance. A similar situation happened back before I’d moved to Montana. I was 9 or 10, joined 4-H, a great organization, my only year.

We had to make a fringed scarf and one other item I don’t recall. Grandma looked at the directions, frowned, said, “Why do it that way when it is easier and just as nice this way.” She showed me how. Made sense to me. Needless to say, I won no blue ribbon.

Maybe it’s all Grandma’s fault, my life, and all, even algebra.

OK. Nice try, but I know to own my own actions and reactions, dang.

Still on the subject of sewing, when the pandemic hit, my wardrobe was showing signs of wear, tear and shabbiness. I began to revise, revamp, rebuild and repurpose my entire wardrobe.

I’m living a pared-down life. I have a simple portable home sewing machine and a dozen spools of thread, scissors, the bare basics. I have no supply of fabrics, no patterns. I am creative. Once I have an idea, can see it in my imagination, I can usually figure out how to make it happen. You know, ab over c minus y equals x. I’ve made clothing from sheets and shower curtains. You’d never guess.

People know I love to sew. Several neighbors bring me mending. They also bring me, well, let Julie tell you. “Nancie gave me this piece of cotton. I’ll not use it. Maybe you can do something with it.” Just when I wanted a new tablecloth, Julie brought me that lovely curtain which made the tablecloth plus napkins.

Kathy brought me a traditional Indian (India) outfit that a patient had given Dr. Richard, her husband. I ripped the whole thing apart and created a lovely shirt plus a set of handkerchiefs.

So the other night lying in bed, I thought about a pair of jeans I’d bought online. I hate shopping. I know better than to buy clothing online. I have to touch, to see, to hold, to try on for fit. I dislike those pants.

That night I could see those jeans reduced to strips of denim married to another piece of fabric given me by Crinny a couple years ago, to have and to hold, I mean, to create a lovely blouse. I can see it. I can do it. I’ll let you know if I get a pass or fail. It’s all about math. Measure twice, cut once, I was taught.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].