Finished.

Kathleen Wilson

Math Tutoring

Baker

September 3, 2008

My Professor is an Alien
Dictionary.com defines mathematics as “the study of the measurement, properties, and relationships of quantities and sets, using numbers and symbols.” By age 15, I had come up with my own definition for math: “waste of time.” I had always excelled in math, which probably contributed to my lack of interest. I learned concepts very quickly and needed much less practice than the other students to master them. During the second half of math class, after the lesson had been taught and the other children were doing practice problems, I was sitting at my desk writing notes or doodling. In addition to not being challenged, I honestly saw little use for mathematics in my daily life. Sure, simple arithmetic was a necessary skill, but when would I ever need to calculate the sine of 30 degrees? I was certainly not anticipating a career in carpentry, so most of what I’d learned so far in high school math seemed utterly useless.

Upon completion of Honors Geometry my freshman year, I was introduced to the new and exciting world of Algebra 2. And by “exciting,” I of course mean “incredibly boring and intolerably pointless.” To me, Algebra was nothing but another class to endure if one wanted to get into a good college. Little did I know what awaited me inside room 115.

Ms. Wegner was a stout older woman with thick glasses and an unfortunate dye-job. Equally as unfortunate was her wardrobe. My 10th grade math teacher alternated her attire between brightly-colored pant suits with thick, square shoulder-pads and pastel flower-patterned skirts with Jesus-style sandals. Every once in a while she’d mix and match her suit jacket with one of her skirts. The resulting clash of colors and patterns was a seizure waiting to happen.

The only thing more disappointing than Ms. Wegner’s physical appearance was her teaching ability (or lack thereof). Not only was her lesson-planning poor and her style hard to follow, but much of the time what she wrote on the board was just downright incorrect. Despite her degree, I was convinced that the only matrix Ms. Wegner knew anything about was the one starring Keanu Reeves. While I think we can all agree that that Matrix would be a far more interesting topic to explore, most of the class was a bit concerned at our teacher’s apparent ignorance in algebraic concepts. They needed someone more competent to take initiative and lead the way to better mathematical understanding. I became their Morpheus.

To be fair, there were a few of us. About four, I would say, who stepped up in this time of need to help our fellow classmates. We understood the material despite the obvious obstacles, and were practically worshiped by the other students. This felt good. This felt very good. Each day we would sit through Ms. Wegner’s lecture while the rest of the class basically ignored everything she said. Once she’d finished babbling, we would re-teach the lesson to the other students in a way that was much more comprehensible, and correct.

The entire experience was incredibly rewarding, especially when test time rolled around. I’d never felt more appreciated in my life. It was then that I began to develop a true passion for mathematics in a way I never would’ve imagined. I looked forward to difficult chapters not only so that I could be challenged, but because I knew my classmates would come to me for help. I’d found my calling, and have been finding ways to help other students in math ever since.

My scholarly experience in writing happened over a much broader period of time. I began at a very young age, and perfected the art of writing through the feedback of teachers and fellow students. By second grade I had developed a successful and seemingly creative writing style: plagiarism.

My favorite series of books at this time was a science-fiction set by Bruce Coville. The first of the four books in this series was called “My Teacher is an Alien.” When it came time to write our own stories, I naturally adopted this idea and titled my first masterpiece “My Mother is an Alien.” To my credit, the title was slightly altered from that of my favorite children’s book, and the plot was drastically different. Plus, mine rhymed! It was brilliant. My classmates loved it, and my teacher encouraged me to continue writing. The next time we were asked to write a story, I decided to do as the great Bruce Coville did and started my own series. My second work was titled “My Father is an Alien,” and was an even greater success than the first. I continued on to produce many more ingenious pieces of writing, including “My Brother is an Alien,” “My Sister is an Alien” (though I did not have a sister), and “My Dog is an Alien.”

When third grade rolled around, I was eager for my first writing assignment. I’d waited all summer to spew my creativity onto paper, and I had some wonderful ideas. Unfortunately, third grade came and went without a single creative writing assignment. In fourth grade, the only writing we did was restricted to personal narratives and expository essays. My creative tendencies suppressed, they began to atrophy. My writing through elementary school and junior high became dry and boring, and I feared nothing could resurrect my artistic style.

Then, sophomore year of high school, something amazing happened. Someone amazing, I should say. Mr. Anderson was the best thing to happen to me in years. His assignments had hardly any guidelines at all and encouraged his students to write about anything they wanted. Anything.

Our first assignment was to write a letter. A letter about anything to anyone we wanted. It took me a while to come up with something to write. It’d been so long since I’d had such an open assignment. Other students wrote to their friends or their favorite celebrities. I wrote to my father, who’d passed away two years earlier. The paper I turned in had more emotion built into it than anything I’d ever written, and my love for writing had returned. I haven’t gone more than a few days without writing something since then, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.