Skip to main content

On Tutoring

 Through tutoring, I get a little taste of the narcissism of the teen years; I can see what my 2035 and 2036 might feel like. My student sends me screenshots of math problems, and I solve them, and there is no "acknowledgment of receipt," no note of thanks, no "got it."


I don't mean to whine; I really like my student, and I even like the mild craziness of these email discussions.

And, on the flipside, my student is incredibly patient with me. I consistently screw up my formulas; I label a secant as a tangent; I conflate opposite angles with adjacent angles. Sometimes, my clamminess seems (to me) like adequate grounds for termination, but my student is really gracious as she quietly corrects my mistakes.

I think we both breathe a sigh of relief when we can put math away and turn to "A Raisin in the Sun." Walter is denigrating his own neighborhood; this is just a sign of insecurity, and his rival knows it, and his rival indirectly taunts him about his weakness. I'd like to make a connection to Taylor Swift: "This is like when Jake Gyllenhaal would say, I need to go off and listen to an indie record that's much cooler than yours." But I let the moment pass.

At times, I want to stop everything and just talk about the Tony Awards. A set of "circle proofs" lands on the table: I want to ask, Do we really need to do this today?

But my student is focused and unflappable--and I try to learn from her.

What a gift it's been, every week, to FOIL, to check our computations, to pay yet one more visit to Clybourne Park.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more