I slogged through high school aiming only to graduate, and that is what I did, in 1962. Three years later, I joined the Marine Corps. The recruiter promised me “eleven weeks of hell at Parris Island”. Of all the promises ever made to me in my lifetime, that was the most splendidly kept. My Drill Instructors, experts on the ways of hell, were meticulous in their attention to detail, and since Marine Corps volunteers were scarce in ‘65, my platoon celebrated 13 weeks of hell at Parris Island instead of a mere 11.
But the Corps also gave me the GI Bill, and that meant tax-free income to attend college. And so it was that the spring of 1973 found me gathering both income and knowledge, quarter by quarter, at the University of Tennessee in Nashville. My first year course selection included English Composition, Symbolic Logic, Journalism and Intro to Philosophy.
Having done well in those classes, I felt inspired in 1974 to enroll in a math class. I recall thinking, “I didn’t like broccoli as a child, but I do now. Maybe now I’ll like math, too.”
Sure I would. Of all the rules of algebra, my entire memory bank from high school consisted of a poor, but stout Dominican nun’s admonition, repeated repeatedly at a level of at least 97 decibels, “YOU CAN’T CANCEL WITHOUT MULTIPLICATION!” But my wife reminded me that algebra is simple. “The rules never change,” she said. “Learn them.” And so I did.
Aside from my night classes, I had changed jobs, aiming to cut my workweek from six days to five. The day of my math mid-term exam, was to be my first day at the new job. But my new boss surprised me with the news that his business was failing. “Go home,” he said. “I can find you a job quicker than you can.”
I went to the house unemployed, where Miffie, eight months pregnant with our third daughter, waited to ask how my first day went. “It was too short,” I told her. We talked, and attempted to stay calm with a quick game of Scrabble. I told her – and, through her, myself – not to worry. Even though we were without health insurance, savings and jobs, we would survive.
That night I took my math mid-term, and a few days later I learned my grade: a 42.
I approached the teacher, a man perhaps my own age, and explained how I had found myself jobless on the day of the exam. I pled my case: out of work, pregnant wife, no insurance, hungry children needing shoes. I had been, I told him, preoccupied. I asked that he consider my previous grades in his class as evidence of my algebraic acumen. “What extra work can I do,” I asked, “to maintain my 4.0 average?”
The professor eyed me curiously. “I appreciate your explanation,” he said, “because it had occurred to me that you might have been cheating up until now. I would say that if you get a 100 on your final I’d give you an ‘A’, but I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on you.”
“No, no, that’s okay,” I answered. Saying nothing more, the professor gave me the same blank gaze that I had cast, years earlier, at Lobster Boy in his tent at the state fair.
I completed my final exam with time to spare, and used those minutes to check my answerss for accuracy. About half-way through, I found a mistake. Grinning like a dog with gas, I corrected the error, stopped checking, and turned in my paper.
It was customary in those days, when the rights to grade and Social Security number privacy were routinely trampled underfoot, for professors to post grades opposite SS numbers on their classroom doors. And on that man's door I found posted my final exam grade, a 99, and my final grade for the quarter, a 'B'.
I was bitter at first, but the man had promised me nothing, and delivered what he thought I deserved. He'd said only that he would think about it. I got other ‘A’s during my college career, but this first 'B' makes for a better story.