Mama Knows Best

My math teacher handed me a paper. Ten problems covered the page, each one increasing in how to tediously calculate areas of different shapes. This wasn’t my future, this was a punch in the gut.

“I can’t let you into an accelerated class, but I can give you extra work if you desire.” That was not what I said. I had been asking for weeks now to be put in an algebra class, not some stupid sixth grade addition class. It was maddening. I knew I was better than this. “Unfortunately, we have no way of putting you in an advanced class. Quite frankly, I don’t think you’re ready for it.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. I wasn’t ready for it? When a student asks for more work because their bored, teachers should be delighted, not ready to shoot down the students enthusiasm. The most frustrating part was how clearly wrong everything was. I’m only in sixth grade and I can tell my teacher was incompetent. I have only been alive for twelve years and yet this specific issue was as clear as daylight. Was there something wrong with me? “I don’t want to do more work, I just want harder work,” I choked on my closing throat. My upper lip started to feel wet. This wasn’t even close to how I wanted this conversation to go.

“I’m sorry, but this is all I can offer.” Bullshit at its finest. School is the one institution that can help cultivate skills, and offer a class like algebra. The “Mama Knows Best” mentality was insane. The teacher made eye contact, almost sympathetic. It really did feel like every adult looked down at their students rather than looking at them. Not being treated like a human being sucked. Shoulders slumped and head down, I left without taking the extra math problems he offered. When I entered the hallway there was complete silence. School ended ten minutes ago and everyone was already on the bus heading home. I stayed after school to make this stupid request, and now I had to call my dad to give me a lift. My walk of shame led me down the stairs and to the main lobby where the other sorry saps waited for their parents to pick them up.

Part of me always felt bad asking for my father to pick me up after school. I needed extra help with practically every subject, so I would often bother my teachers right after classes. School work was all I cared about. Good grades meant less waves at home, so in the end it was worth it. It’s hard to criticize the perfect child. Too bad the work I was forced to do couldn’t be more enriching. The way I saw it, if children are forced to work eight hours a day studying for no pay, why not make the best out of that experience? The answer: teachers don’t care if you want to make the most out of that experience. School wasn’t meant to help students become their best selves, school was meant to help reach the lowest bar. If you were a good student, there was no obligation to teach you. In a way, good students are just unpaid workers making a teachers life easier. All that free tutoring for friends and support to fellow struggling classmates was real work, but you were a student so that work isn’t recognized.

A red van pulled up to the side of the school. My ride had arrived. Exiting the double doors that didn’t quite fully open, I saw my dad in the drivers seat looking concerned. Undoubtedly he would give me a pity talk, which these days felt like they made my mood worse. If I was mad, it was for a reason. Chocolate sprinkles on vanilla ice cream was not a reason to get excited. That sinking emotion is always something I want to hold onto. To really feel something, anything, was a gift. “What happened? Did it not go well?”

Of course my dad was aware of why I stayed late this particular afternoon. Naturally, he could tell when I’m upset. Surely, from some quick deductive reasoning he could figure out that things surprisingly did not go well. “He offered me more homework.” I kept choking on tears. “I don’t understand why they won’t let me learn!” Once I finished the sentence I couldn’t stop from crying. It was a cruel and twisted system forcing students back, trying to kill a passion to learn. I had the raw emotion to make the world a better place and yet no where to cultivate that emotion. It almost felt like society was trying to beat me down, but I just kept getting back up. I didn’t want to be hurt, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Buddy I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.” Dad patted my back. “I don’t know why they wouldn’t put you in an accelerated course.” His hand rested on my shoulder making it obvious that we weren’t going to leave the school until I stopped crying. His attention was on me and I didn’t want that.

“I’m okay, really. Sorry, it’s just frustrating.” I sloppily wiped my dripping nose with my forearm and looked up. The bright sunny day could not have been more of a juxtaposition to my mood. My dad took one last look at me before putting the car in drive and exiting the school parking lot.

When we reached home, I set myself down at the kitchen table and started focusing on homework. As usual, my dad returned downstairs and back to the shop. I grabbed my good-for-nothing math textbook and opened up to the next boring chapter. Every problem in the damned book was worded poorly to confuse students. It was busy work, but rather than slowing down students by giving too many questions, it gave confusing questions that even teachers struggled with.

A couple of hours passed as the sun started setting behind the mountains that stretched across our view of the airport. I had finished my math problems (which were as right as far as I could decipher) and started doing French weekly assignments. As if it wasn’t enough to expect a middle school student to have homework in language arts, social studies, science, and math, a foreign language was really needed to spice things up. We learned so much about other cultures but ironically every teacher did a terrible job at describing American culture. We lived in the country, so naturally we should know the traditions of all fifty states, right?

Soon after I hulled out my French textbook, my dad appeared back upstairs ready to cook dinner. My time was dwindling in so many ways. I was lucky to have finished before dinner was ready. No more homework needed to be done. Just as I did every day, I would finish up dinner, hop onto my Gamecube and play Resident Evil 4, sleep, and repeat the boring school day. Every day I would wake up to my alarm, tell myself what a wonderful day it was, and act like this was the perfect life. It’s easy to forget your miserable when you keep lying to yourself saying your happy. At this point, I was the master at lying to myself. If anyone asked, I was as happy as could be.