Battlestar Mathematica

For nearly two decades I have struggled. Struggled against a faceless, shapeless entity. It has, at times, taken various guises. It's been a long blond-haired woman, a short blond-haired woman, a dark-haired man, a gray-haired man. This entity has been tall, short, skinny, old, and young. Throughout its transformations one thing has remained a constant. It's unbridled, consuming hatred for me. The enemy I speak of can subtract, it can negate, it can add, it can multiply and divide at will. This is a battle of epic proportions. Math is its name and dividing me into equal parts is its game.

When I was a wee lass Math was just another subject to endure as I waited for the end of the school day. I treated it with ambivalence and that was the first of many mistakes. I didn't realize that at the age of 30, as I tried to finish my degree, it would come back with a vengeance.

In 8th grade I remember the first blow Math dealt me. It was a sucker punch to the gut. Miss T. (those who were there will remember this particular mistress of pain) had called on me to complete a problem on the board. Nervously I approached the inky blackness. The streaks of white on the board took on the forms of the Tolkien Ring-wraiths. The room was spinning as I shakily grasped the chalk in my awkwardly pubescent fingers. I was wholly unprepared for this battle and Math knew it. Pun intended...it had my number. It ended quickly. I failed and returned to my seat. The walk of shame.

The second encounter with my eternally-bound nemesis occurred but a year later. Ninth grade saw me put into what Math's minions termed as pre-algebra. This time Math sent someone who would finish the job. Mrs. F's reputation preceded her. She was known for anything from yelling at students to throwing textbooks. I prepared as best as I could. I suited up and rode in. What I endured that year I still cannot talk about. To this day I can only recall images of a snarling face and the screams, the screams still echo in my mind.

Now I find myself facing an old enemy. It seems determined to break me. It is one of about 5 classes I need until I can consider myself a holder of an English (with an emphasis in writing) degree. Math has evolved yet again into a middle-aged man from a country of unknown origins. Sometimes he sounds Arabic and sometimes I sense a mixture of Pakistani and Russian. It matters not where he comes from but that he too will try to layeth the smacketh down on me. It will try to square my root and hold my feet to the fire of truth tables. Math may have won the battles but this time I am determined to win the war.