Spring 2023
Childhood can be a stressful time, in any society. I have 65-year-old memory that is as vivid as yesterday’s dentist appointment, and twice as painful.
It was fourth grade. Timed tests in math – 100 problems in 3 minutes. I remember forlornly clenching my pencil, defeated once more by the times tables as the numbers grew fuzzy in my head. When the teacher gathered our papers at the end of 3 minutes, mine had more teardrops than answers on it, and a boulder of shame pushed down on my shoulders, sat in my stomach. “Why am I the stupid one?”
That teacher wanted me to repeat fourth grade, but my mother protested, all the way up to the principal. “Kathy is strong in every other subject – holding her back would set back her education and her confidence.” (A battle already lost, Mother) She got her way, but math woes followed me doggedly for years. I finally dropped math after 10th grade, and good riddance. My counselor assured me that was fine – “Most girls don’t do well in the higher math classes anyway, dear.” The year was 1965. This time, my parents didn’t protest either. Did they buy into the “Girls vs Math” creed too? Or had they accepted my shortcomings?
My brothers would never have been permitted the same path, but I was allowed to drop math and take Music, Typing and French; for none of which I had any special talent. I still called myself ‘The Slow One’, particularly because my three brothers were so infuriatingly gifted in math and science.
I graduated high school with pretty good grades (all it took in the 60s was being quiet and doing the homework) , and went off to Humboldt State College, 20 miles from our home. As a music major, out of a lack of confidence and passion for any more academic subject.
In my sophomore year, I signed up for California’s “Junior Year Abroad” program, and – hallelujah – my parents agreed to pay for it. By April it was all set – I was going to Berlin, Germany for a year. In the spring quarter of that final year at Humboldt, I took the last General Ed class I knew I’d need to graduate after I came back. Introduction to Economics.
You know those moments in your life that no one could ever have predicted? Moments when a door creaks open and you just walk through, a pilgrim on the road to an unfamiliar Damascus? I loved that class.
It spoke to something inside me. Human nature can be quantified. Every choice we make is based on invisible calculations. Social ills like poverty, monopoly, racism and misogyny are results of economic structures that can be changed. Most enticing of all, economics teaches us to think at a societal level, not an individual level, and is therefore more logical and mutually beneficial than some inward-facing field like psychology. My imagination opened up; I could see demand curves shifting, feel the decline of marginal utility, intuit the efficiency of a more equitable tax system. Economics works the same way my brain works – creating a big-picture tapestry that is both emotional and logical. I could see history painting huge, dynamic murals of social movements.
Who knew I would show a talent at something? I ate it up, did more than the assigned work, and saw my confidence germinate. I went to my advisor, and wanted to know if I could change my major. Would I be able to finish an Econ degree when I came back from Germany? How many classes would there be?
He looked at my transcript and frowned. “You know Econ has a calculus requirement, right?”
Calculus. Isn’t that something the dentist takes off your teeth? No, I knew what it was. I’d seen my brothers fill pages with it. Damn. Would I never escape?
But still, I was thrilled to be going abroad. I would finally be truly on my own. I would figure out my future later. In August I boarded the airplane – my first ever – full of a sense of grand adventure and escape. Eager for adulthood.
I ended up spending fifteen years in Berlin. I paid my own way, working on weekends as a dishwasher, phone operator, factory worker, warehouse packer, hotel maid, nurse’s aide, envelope stuffer and English tutor. I even had one job packing – and occasionally modeling – mink coats for a fur wholesaler.
I struggled to learn German well enough to pass college classes in Business Law or Finance Theory. But I persevered, and I finally passed. As the semesters passed, my confidence began to grow. I finally signed up for my required Calculus class.
“If I can learn German grammar, I can do this,” I told myself. But no, I failed. It was too late to turn back; my whole definition of self depended on graduating with this degree. So I spent the whole summer studying math. Algebra 2, Trigonometry, Pre-calculus. I was 23 by now, maybe finally adult. Maybe finally better at abstract thinking. Maybe simply appreciative of the similarities between German grammar and math. Whatever it was, I began to understand math. And in December, I passed Calculus.
And I got to live all those years in Berlin, the walled city, the most exciting, creative city in Germany. My living costs were low – the student housing, student cafeterias, and public transit were all highly subsidized. My health care was free, and so was the university. I began teaching English to adults at night school, and easily supported myself.
I graduated in 1977, and married Amir soon after. Our daughter was born in 1978 and our son in 1980.
We were lucky enough to get a 2-bedroom apartment in the dormitory complex we already lived in. I remember feeling satisfied with my life. I think the word is ‘happy’. My confidence was healthier, I had dozens of friends, my marriage was loving, and I even got a job teaching at a college on the American military base. I only taught a few times a week; I was a young mother and wife, and Amir was earning enough to support us.
I taught Economics and Math.
Math?
Really? How did that happen? Was I converted? A new math devotee? Hardly, but competent enough, and proud of it.
So there I was, teaching Algebra to enlisted men at the American base on Clay Allee in the south of the city. There were thousands of US troops stationed in Berlin at that time, deep in the Cold War. I was pregnant, it was the depth of winter, and snowing. I had a morning class 3 days a week, and the young GIs signed up because, heck – it beat washing tanks outside at -5 degrees. The one officer in the class – a lieutenant – sat in the front, but turned sideways to watch and make sure that no one nodded off. If any of the men failed even one of my tests, they were back out in the snow. The Army understands from motivation. I had enormous sympathy for the ones failing. But I’d made it through that maze; maybe others could, too. Look, I told them, it’s pretty straightforward. First, outside, inside, last.
Wait, no – you multiply the firsts and middles and lasts, and then you add them, not the other way around.
Practice. Just practice.
No, one page is probably not enough.
LIFE AFTER WORK 