I teach developmental mathematics.
In the 1990s we would have called
it
remedial. In the 1790s we would
have called it cutting edge.
My students are the leftover
students.
I teach the prom queens who no
longer
have a kingdom. I teach the tattooed
and the pierced. I teach the veterans
who hold their pencils like
detonators.
My students are non-traditional
students,
students who have nine to fives,
students who leave my evening class
and stock the local Wal-Mart until
the sun rises.
In my class we factor, distribute,
solve,
and simplify. We do math that, for
many,
was done alongside puberty.
My students did not get it, or,
more often,
they were not given it. And so I hold
them by their mathematical hands,
and we walk into the world.
My students think they are stupid.
They have been told as much by
faculty,
friends, family, and every news
report that
compares America to China.
My students think that I am smart
because I can divide, multiply,
add,
and subtract fractions without so
much as
moving a pencil.
Other people like that I teach
developmental
mathematics. They say that I am a good soul.
They say that I should be lauded
for my effort.
I
think other people like the fact that I teach
developmental
mathematics, because
they
like the fact that they aren’t enrolled.
They
like that there will always be cashiers
at
Taco Bell and people to change their oil.
What
they don’t know is that one
by
one I am building a small army.
What
they don’t know is that the
prom
queen is about to find her crown.
What
they don’t know is that the
Wal-Mart
stocker just factored a trinomial
without
so much as moving a pencil.
We’re
all climbing ladders here.
My
money is on the ones who were never told to stop.
