Maths and Jonesy · Mon Apr 3, 20:40 by Eleri Straker
My sixteen year old son will tell you that I’m a fairly lousy mathematician, that I don’t know my vectors from my variables and unfortunately, he’d be right. Not that I’m a complete dunce, after all I do have a respectable grade at O level. It’s just that I don’t get it. I learned the ‘how’, I just never understood the ‘why’, or, more importantly, the ‘why not’. My husband, a proper mathematician (i.e. he can’t add up, but he can do the hard stuff) tells me of the beauty of pure mathematics, the elegance, the symmetry…but he may as well talk to a wall, poor man, because, as I said, I simply don’t get it. For beauty, symmetry and elegance, give me a Shakespearean sonnet any day.
The reason for my lack of understanding, is not, as my son would claim, my basic stupidity, but the way maths was taught when I was at school, which was sometime around the time that Noah was in his teens. We were taught the rules. How to do the sums. What techniques got you the correct answer. I was good at learning rules, so I used to get the right answers. But I never understood why.
Jonesy was a typical grammar school teacher of that era (60s and early 70s). He knew his subject and couldn’t understand why every student brought in front of him didn’t know and love it too. He had little patience with those of us lesser mortals who didn’t have his facility with numbers. Not that he was nasty or cruel like his colleague Shortman; he simply couldn’t understand the problem and consequently couldn’t help.
This was during the time when teachers wore academic gowns and while Shortmans’ gown used to create dust clouds as he prowled the corridors by trailing on the ground, Jonesy used his to clean the black board. So engrossed was he by his subject, he would frequently forget at which hapless student he had thrown the board rubber (in jest of course!) so he would wipe his calculations from the board with the hem of his robe. It made assemblies amusing, as among the gathered black robed teachers, Jonesy was the only one who resembled a badger with his white streaked gown!
No one feared Jonesy but we didn’t particularly respect him either. We respected his knowledge, but his inability to connect with the less talented mathematicians among us cost him our complete devotion.
But I remember clearly the day when I was in the fifth form when the light dawned. In preparation for the upcoming O level examinations, Jonesy had, as usual, put the class into pairs to work through practice exam papers. I was seated with my best friend Vic, who, as a natural mathematician, was an ideal partner for someone like me. The paper in front of us was the usual jumble of nonsensical words and numbers and I, as usual, didn’t get it. So Vic was patiently explaining to me, for the umpteenth time, the esoteric intricacies of quadratic equations or the like, when something strange happened. I understood. She was no longer speaking in tongues. Her words made sense and as I looked down at the paper, the jumble of symbols rearranged themselves into recognisable and comprehensible shapes. It was as if someone had flicked on a switch and light had flooded in. I’d got it! Before I could stop myself, I shouted out in total glee, “I understand!” Horrified at my thoughtless ejaculation, I glanced at Jonesy, expecting an angry tirade at my loudness, but he simply smiled. And the smile grew into a grin. “Oh good,” he said, “better late than never I suppose.” And without another word, turned and wiped the board with the hem of his gown.
Jonesy’s reaction to my outburst puzzled me for years. In fact, it took until I became a teacher myself to understand. The undoubted joy in his widening grin was not of amusement at a student’s inappropriate behaviour, but the joy of witnessing the dawning of comprehension, of knowing without a doubt, that a student, struggling to understand new and difficult ideas, has suddenly and completely ‘got it.’ It’s a wonderful feeling. And it’s why we do this job.
