Yesterday I called JayWon. She is staying in Washington D.C. this summer, taking a slew of summer courses trying to backfill her cumulative credit hours. For some reason, Howard requires one hundred and twenty eight credit hours to graduate, which means three more courses above and beyond the typical undergraduate load of five courses per semester. Frankly it sounds like a scheme to get parents to pay for a ninth semester. She is also struggling to satisfy her math requirements. I've heard that a lot of parents are now actively helping college students in their assignments. My girls have been in college for four years now, and I've done two or three proof reads of some essays that they've written as freshman, but that was my limit.
It's sink or swim time.
Math has been a very big part of my relationship with my eldest daughter, going back to elementary school. I was big on making sure the kids got a good foundation of both math and reading. The reading end of it was a cinch. JayWon has always been very verbal. She said her first word (i.e. “Ducks” ) at seven months and was reading books by herself at the outset of kindergarten. Math was an entirely different story. Bricks are easier to teach.
We would do the standard parental due diligence. Go over the times tables, do flash cards, watch PBS children shows, purchase "educational" games at Toys-R-Us. Nothing stuck. She would master some quadrant of the times tables one week, and have virtually no recall two or three weeks later.
Our earliest fights were about math. Determined to drill stuff into her head through the twin tactics of mind-numbing repetition and total immersion I would ask her to cite times tables when we were driving someplace. JayWon is a classic alpha female and nothing if not argumentative and stubborn.
“How much is seven times six?”
“The same value I told you yesterday.”
“Which was…?”
“I forget. Give me a hint.”
“That’s ridiculous. I ‘m not going to give you a hint on something so basic. In fact I wouldn’t know how. Just give me direct answer, please.”
“Thirty five.”
“How in God’s name did you come up with a number like that? We’ve gone over this stuff a thousand times.”
“Thirty eight?”
“Stop guessing.
“Forty eight, no forty four. How about thirty seven?”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong, and wrong. You’re running out of numbers. Try again.”
“Thirty eight.”
“You already guessed that.”
“I give up.”
“No you don’t. You NEVER give up. You’ve got to at least try.”
Dead silence.
At which point I pull over the car, pull the emergency brake on, and turn off the engine.
“Why are we stopping?”, she asks.
“Until you get this right, we’re not moving.”
“That’s dumb.”
“No it isn’t. This is important.”
“Why is seven times six important?”
“Because.”
“Why?”
“Will you just think about it carefully and give me an answer. I have other things I’d like to do today.”
By this point things have escalated. This is no longer about times tables. It is about who is the parent. We sit there for forty-five minutes until a cop passed us. He put on his flasher, pulled over, and slowly walked to the car.
“Okay.” I said to JayWon. “Let me do the talking here.”
The officer bent down and looked at both of us. “License and registration, please. What seems to be the problem here?”
“Seven times six.” JayWon replied loudly.
I intervened and convinced the officer that we were lost. JayWon almost wet her pants laughing as the cop pulled away.
That was more than twelve years ago, and frequently this episode comes up in our conversations about her current struggles in school.
“The days of me bailing you out are long over. You’re twenty-one years old, kiddo. Do the math.”