Mathematics has never been easy for me. I remember counting on my fingers under my desk, long after I should have known better. I remember hour after hour trying to memorize the times tables during long car rides. And even now, I don’t attempt to balance my checkbook; I just hope that the bank knows what it’s doing.

But it is with shame and regret that I write about the following. The year was 1961 or ’62. Another year of school was soon to begin. I went to a private school, which shall remain nameless due to the fact that the following evidence could be incriminating to me. I was placed in Algebra II. We were each given a brand-new algebra book. It was beautiful. The cover was bright red and felt good to the touch. Its pages were smooth and cool, and they gave off the wonderful smell of new paper. I loved how shiny and colorful they were. I loved my new book and I was filled with hope and promise, thinking that perhaps algebra would be easy this year. Maybe this time I would understand.

For a while I did OK, but before too long, I felt my confidence begin to slip. The book didn’t seem so welcoming anymore. Homework was returned with large red X’s. I was too shy to admit to my teacher that I didn’t “get it,” so I would come home and sob to my parents that it was too much and that I couldn’t stand it. My mother couldn’t help — she hadn’t learned math using the “new math.” My father couldn’t help because he was fast talker with little or no patience. He would talk fast and hard and then get angry when I didn’t understand. (I think perhaps, he didn’t get it either but was too proud to admit it.)

The day came when my frustration reached the boiling point. I don’t remember what we were learning — time and selective amnesia have removed all memory of that. I vaguely remember that once again my Dad had failed to make the homework clear. Frustration was everywhere. Doors were slammed. Screams were heard. Finally alone in my room, I did it — I MURDERED ALGEBRA! Lifting my pencil high over my head, I brought it down swiftly towards the open book. With all my strength, I plunged the graphite pencil lead deep into the once-beloved pages of my book. Deeper and deeper I stabbed until the blood of Algebra flowed out of the book and my tears and rage were spent.

For the rest of the year, I had to make sure no one was around when I opened the corpse of my book. Its pages (now maimed forever) stuck together when I tried to turn them. The hope and promise were gone. I was defeated and Algebra was dead for me.