Ah June….. the month of school years ending, graduations marking transition from child to adult, and summer vacations beginning. Who doesn’t still feel chills and filled with hope when hearing Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out”, even though high school is further back than we’d care to admit? Nostalgia turns to curiosity when I start to think about what I have retained from my formative high school years.
We all recall teachers warning students to learn this now because we will need it more than our teenage selves realize once we’re out in the real world. For me, that was a successful method of motivation so that I wouldn’t be left behind once I entered this “real world”. It motivated me to achieve honor roll every report card and I still think of my high school GPA as part of my life’s resume.
Studying facts to remember for an exam is one thing, but how many of us manage to send that knowledge to long-term memory, where it will wait patiently until someday in the future when the situation calls for it? I’m thinking back, what did I remember that I’ve never actually needed, and what did I need that I couldn’t remember?
I recall liking sentence diagramming in English class. There was something therapeutic about it. The organizing and categorizing meshed well with my self-diagnosed OCD. Drawing out how the noun related to the verb, attaching their adjective and adverb, and nestling in the prepositional phrases – it all made so much sense. Unfortunately, I have yet been asked to perform one as an adult.
Spelling, on the other hand, was my nemesis. I have memories of homework papers waiting for me in the morning with my mother’s red pen marks circling all the misspelled words so I could correct them before turning it in. This was reinforced “in the real world” my first year working when my manager pulled me aside to tell me that, if I was going to misspell something, at least commit to it and misspell it consistently throughout a report. Apparently my theory that, if I spelled it one possible way each time it came up then one of them was bound to be correct, didn’t go over well. I quickly learned to write messy for the words I wasn’t sure of, so no one would really be able to tell if it was spelled right or not. Once documentation went computerized, I finally broke down and got a desk dictionary so I could double check myself. (To this day I still have to re-look up all the same words, no matter how many times I’ve already done it. Damn you “rhythm”.)
Math class provided us with geometry angles and algebraic equations. Remember listing out proofs for measurements of a triangle’s lines and angles? I used to love that. Now I look back and think my younger self must have been a genius since my current self now thinks it looks hieroglyphics. And remember factoring out polynomials? Ah those felt good. Until it moved on to algebra 2 with its vexing word problems.
My father, a math wiz, and I still remember a project when, even after hours of trying, neither one of us could figure out how much Mrs.Klein weighed after consuming “x” amount of calories on “y” amount of days and doing “z” amount of exercise. I finally handed it in having drawn pictures representing all the variables in each word problem to show I understood the questions and at least tried to figure them out, even though I never could come up with the correct answers. (I did end up with a “B-“, thanks to credit for at least trying.) Current me thinks Mrs. Klein should have told the world to mind their own bleepin business because she can eat whatever the heck she wants to.
I wish “rate”, “base”, and “percentage” had managed to plant themselves a little bit firmer in my memory. My husband will ask “what percentage profit will that be” or “how much interest will we have to pay on that?” I get frustrated and tell him to go find a calculator. Truth is, I’m really only frustrated at myself. I used to know this stuff. I secretly write out the formula. “Ok”, I tell myself, “if R x B = P” then “R = P divided by B”. Just coming up with that much has left me exacerbated, because I wanted to come up with the answer before he did. I start to question myself. For all the hype about gaining experience as you get older, maybe we really are the smartest we’ll ever be on graduation day. Is it all just downhill from there?
I realized in history classes that rote memorization wasn’t my thing. I think back to nights I fell asleep at my desk using the inside of a history book as a pillow. It’s not that I was tired going into it, but paragraph after paragraph filled with endless names and dates would begin to blur my eyes and I think my brain would just turn off in self-preservation mode.
Even science classes threw in memorization with the periodic table and how many thousands and billions of miles away this planet is from that one. My husband, on the other hand, is like a walking Wikipedia. I swear sometimes he makes up numbers when he’s talking about things just to sound smarter than me. I call them “butt facts”, though they always turn out to be true. Bear in mind, he’s the sweetest guy I know, but I still hate him a little when I want to be the smarter one in every instance.
Geography was another challenge. I remember maps hanging on the back wall of the classroom. I still shudder at the dread of being called on to walk those daunting steps toward it, not knowing what place they would throw out to find. For young people who havn’t traveled much yet, locating countries on the other side of the globe seemed a tall order. Even now, I’m embarrassed to say, Al Roker and his weather maps have been my best learning tool in identifying the states in our own country. The more I write this, the more I worry for my brain.
French class with Mr. Battiste was probably one of my favorite high school classes. He made learning French fun. I’ll never forget him awarding me “La Prix Bon Jovi”, for missing my only day of school in order to wait in line all morning for Bon Jovi tickets. (Back when concert tickets cost $12.50 and once a show sold out there was no internet to find them for yourself.) I still have that cardboard plaque, by the way!
Ironically life came full-circle when my hubby and I traveled to Montreal to see Bon Jovi. During the drive we shared stories about learning French in school and realized we had 8 years of it between the two of us. What could be better – seeing Jon Bon Jovi in person AND getting to finally use our French in the real world!
Fast forward to the drive home. (The concert was inspiring perfection, just in case you were wondering.) In the city, places politely accept both American and Canadian currency, though it is not their preference. We had received some Canadian change back, but the rest of what we had was all American. Both of us were hungry and decided to stop at a diner in a small town along the road back toward home.
We walk in and see their print-only menu up on a sign above the counter. “Uh-oh” we both thought as we looked at each other with concern. “Maybe we should have brushed up on this French thing before we came.” I was hoping for pictures on the menu, since my French is much better when accompanied by visual aids. We suddenly realize that we require a question and answer format to be successful. For example, they would say “what is your name?” and we could reply “Je m’appelle…….”, you get the drift. Without prompting I can only ask them “where is the bathroom” and tell them that my dog is black and white. None of these are helpful when you are hungry.
It’s now our turn at the counter and my husband recognizes “pommes frites” so we at least both can dine on french fries. Fortunately hamburger is a pretty close translation so we sneak through on that one. The only drinks I can remember are milk and coffee, but don’t like either of them. Luckily they have a soda machine I can point to as I pantomime drinking from a glass like we’re playing charades.
They ring up the order and as the husband pulls out his credit card they do not reach for it. We can not understand what they say to us after that, but we do recognize the head nod “no”. Apparently this is a cash-only joint, and with Canadian currency at that. He remembers there was an ATM a few buildings down that he could run to, if they would just wait a moment. As our faces turn red, we look back and realize a large line has formed behind us. We try to explain our situation in our best English language with French accent. He tells me to wait there. It’s a bit impossible to make small talk with them, so I just make an apologetic face to all those glaring back at us.
In the end, he was able to get Canadian currency from the ATM, I got my hamburger and pomme frites, and we sheepishly ate while wondering if all the other diners were talking about the silly Americans. (We’re both pretty sure they were using much stronger words than “silly”, but we tried to think positive and eat quickly.)
As we got back into the car, we realize that things didn’t quite go according to plan. “We were much more smooth in my imagination”, I tell him. What would our French teachers think? We’re both a little relieved they will never have to know. Or maybe it could be like poor Mrs. Klein, and they would at least give us credit for trying.