I Wasn't Good at Math Until College, and Other Lies

I have a memory of myself in first grade learning how to add two-digit numbers. My teacher, the memory of whom still angers me, had me sit in the corner to finish my addition worksheet while the rest of the class sat with the librarian reading a story. It was this librarian's last day at the school, so I wouldn't see her again after she closed the book and bid farewell to the group of kids who loved her—including me. Stifling tears as I struggled to add 24+32, I asked myself why it was so easy for everyone else except me.

Looking back now, I know my teacher was at fault and not me. She had some vendetta against me—a then 7-year-old—and there wasn't much I could do about it. But that instance set in stone the idea that I wasn't good at math. Throughout the rest of my schooling I became used to missing nearly every question on math tests and quizzes; was asked by teachers to stay during recess to talk about my math grades; and they seemed so puzzled as to why I was good at everything else except math. The feeling of shame as everyone else scribbled down their answers within 30 seconds as I sat completely lost was burned into my self-esteem; I told myself that I wasn't good at math and would never understand it.

In eighth grade, I was held back a year in math. I failed my algebra class and now needed to be in a class full of eighth-graders who judged me and the few other freshmen who couldn't seem to manage graphing equations. The teacher I had was great though, and for the most part I understood her explanations—it was the most clarity I had in years when it came to numbers. I passed the class then advanced to geometry, and my self-esteem once again plummeted as I sat in my seat, staring at tetrahedrons, completely dumbfounded at what to do. It didn't help that my geometry teacher was a lifeguard on the side and didn't know how to teach. He would ask me to stay after class and asked me why my grades were so low and that I needed to "try harder"; I wanted to punch his sunglass-burned face.

I somehow managed to slide through geometry and into Algebra I. It was ok at first, until my panic attacks started and I had to miss two weeks of school. I was so behind and my teacher was frustrated that he now had to catch me up with all the missed lessons. Every day at lunch he and I sat together as he explained parabolas and the like—while my head was screaming "You can't do this! Math isn't your thing, don't you understand?" I again managed to slide by and went on to take statistics my senior year. My math teacher was very kind and knew her shit, so understanding the material wasn't all that hard. I graduated with a C, the highest grade I'd had in math since 7th grade.

As I enrolled into a local community college upon graduating from high school, I gulped when I learned I had to take a math placement exam. I was immediately given my results after the online exam, and was placed in elementary algebra. ELEMENTARY ALGEBRA. Upon looking at the school's math advancement sheet, I learned that that was two levels below the one course I needed to complete the math requirement for my major. I felt defeated and at a loss; how was I going to graduate as the math dunce I was?

But I was pleasantly surprised at myself once class started. My professor was this kind, dad-type who explained every little step he did down to the tiniest detail. Every time he finished a problem, I was actually following along. I was receiving 100% grades on tests and quizzes; and the students sitting around me thought I was a math whiz. It was hilarious—ME, the math genius. But it wasn't me suddenly being good at math, it was better instruction at the hands of a professor who knew how to reach his students.

It got better from there. I enrolled in the next tier on the school's math progression chart, Pre-Algebra. We had a lesson about word problems and I felt my self-esteem rescind; "Oh shit, now I'm fucked. Well, it was fun while it lasted." But as my professor explained to us simple tricks to getting through the sentences and constructing an equation, it became more and more clear. Word problems didn't have to be like those memes you see today; this time they were straightforward and like deconstructing a puzzle and refitting the pieces. I received an A at the end of the semester, just like last semester. My confidence was soaring.

That fall I enrolled at a 4-year university in San Diego and didn't take a math class for two years. In the spring of my junior year, I knew I had to begin planning my one math course I needed to take in order to graduate. I knew if I wanted to pass College Algebra that I needed to do it at my good ol' community college where the math professors taught exceptionally well. That summer I enrolled in an 8-week College Algebra course there, ready to take on my final math class.

On the first day of this class, a sweet older man walked into the classroom with a smile on his face. He welcomed us all and went around to each and every one of us to shake our hands and ask us about ourselves. After shaking the hand of the last student, he approached the front of the classroom and asked us in his Brooklyn accent, "Who hear tells themselves they're 'bad' at math?" Nearly every student hesitated, including me, as we raised our hands. The professor nodded. "Is anyone comfortable sharing their story of the first instance they felt they weren't 'good' at math?" After a few seconds of silence, a guy in the back raised his hand. He recounted a very similar story to mine, saying that his teacher told him he wasn't good at numbers, and he began getting so lost in math lessons that at some point he had no idea what was going on.

"Thank you for sharing. I asked for someone's story because, in my experience, it's always more or less the same: at some point in your childhood, you were told you weren't good at math. Now how do you think that affects your ability to actually do math?" We all sat nodding in understanding. "If someone tells you you're not good at something, you start to believe it and act accordingly. If someone tells you you're not good at expressing your ideas, you'll start to fumble your sentences and struggling to get the point across, because now you've made yourself believe that you're not good at expressing your ideas. I'm here to tell you that you are good at math, and you can do it. We're all in this together, and I'm going to do my best to rewire your brains to believe that you are good at this subject."

Nearly every student was grinning from ear-to-ear. He was hands down the best math teacher I ever had, and I'm glad he was the one I had to finish my math class journey. Every day of class he would talk to us about how we were doing, asked how the homework went, and would do harder problems on the board from homework that most of us struggled with. He was thorough, understanding, and knew how to explain mathematical concepts in the simplest way possible. By the end of the course, I finished with an A.

I tell this story to tell you that you are not what others tell you you are. I think back to first-grade me sitting ashamed in the corner and wish I could tell her that it's not me, it's the person who made me believe I wasn't good at math. Had I been guided through my misunderstandings at the very beginning, my journey through math may have gone quite differently. It was that instance—along with several instances—of being told and treated that I wasn't good at this subject that lead me to believe I didn't know how to do math. Why was it not until college that a teacher actually treated me like I could do it, that I was capable?

Be aware and conscious of the lies that people tell you. "You're not good enough" "You're terrible at public speaking" "You have no idea what you're doing starting a business" "Job interviews aren't exactly your thing"—whatever it is, really look into the truth. What authority does this person have in telling you this? Because you had one bad experience where the outcome wasn't positive, does that now make you incapable? Failure is a part of the growth process; we learn with every fall, trip, and stumble—then keep moving knowing how to correct and avoid those mistakes.

Little Zoë sitting in the corner, you are good at math. I wish someone had told you that sooner.