He pulls my exam from a stack, looks through the first three problems, commenting on my understanding of logarithms. He pauses on problem four, and silently flips through the remaining pages. I sit in a chair in front of his desk, one hand wrapped around the knuckle of the other, squeezing. I know to sit straight, lean forward, show interest, that I care. My Boston hat is titled back so the brim does not obscure my line of vision, or his.
He gets up from behind his desk and moves to the blackboard behind me. He puts problem four on the board. “Solve it.”
I swallow, take the chalk and being to solve the problem. I mumble the rules of logarithms to myself as I start, my hands moving against the air in a rhythm of memory before chalk meets blackboard. It is an integration problem, requiring polynomial division before u-substitution. I remember this one, and proceed swiftly halfway through before pausing. Something is wrong, somewhere. The function is incorrect. Is it the substitution? The polynomial? I’ve never been very good at polynomials, often forgetting a factor or missing completely. I move to an empty space on the board and start to factor again. Seems right. So is it the substitution? I work through that again. Nope. Something is still wrong damnit. What the fuck? My fingers reflexively curl into a fist and give a brief, hard punch to the board, the movement small but deliberate. If I do it again, and drag down swiftly, the skin on the middle knuckle will break just enough to a scrape and draw blood without bleeding all over his chalkboard.
“OK. OK,” he says. “Stop for a minute, step back and take a breath.”
I do as instructed, my jaw set, fists folded, arms crossed. I glare at the problem. There it is. The missed factor. I did factor it correctly, but left it out of halfway through the rewritten equation. I spring to the board, correct my mistake and stand back, admiring my work.
“Good. Very good,” he says, returning to his desk and motioning for me to take a seat. I do, flexing my fingers, bringing blood back to the tips and loosening the knuckles. I shift in the chair, my knee bouncing with rabid energy as he flips through my exam again. “You were doing fine until problem number four,” he says. “You had a B until problem number four.”
He hands me my exam. I look through it. He is correct. I got the first problem correct, missed some steps in the second and third. Stupid, simple shit. Show all work damnit. Show all fucking work. Stupid, simple shit. And then, halfway through problem four, I fucked up. The factoring. Again. Stupid motherfucker. I fucked up the rest of the exam. Stupid, simple shit, again. Show all work motherfucker. Stupid, simple shit.
“It’s not because you don’t understand the material or don’t know how to do it,” he says. “Tell me what happened just now, working through problem four again?”
I toss the exam back on his desk and shrug. “I got frustrated.”
“What was going through your head?”
“I don’t know. I just got frustrated.”
“Was the frustration all you could think about?”
I grip my knee, pinching the area around the kneecap until it hurts. “Yeah.”
I feel his gaze as he takes my exam, flips through it again before laying it on his desk and leaning back in his chair. “We can meet every week to go over the material, even if briefly to clarify, if that helps you. You get it though, so here’s what I’m going to suggest: I’ll write you a referral, and if you choose, you can set up an appointment at the Assessment and Consultation Clinic, see what they say, and we’ll figure out a way to loosen the frustration for you.”
“What’s your guess?”
“I’m not…”
I grit my teeth in frustration and interrupt. “I know, but based on your experience, what’s your guess.”
“Test anxiety.”
Test anxiety. My brain mulls the phrase, parsing for weakness. Anxiety is a made-up name for chemical imbalances in the brain best remedied by pharmaceuticals so you can function normally. Anxiety is a word used to to excuse poor behavior, failure and an inability to concentrate. I am able to concentrate, behave appropriately and have always been a failure. No drug will fix that.
“That is my guess, since you asked, but the Assessment Center will be able to tell you more.”
More. So I am missing something. What? I should know damnit. “OK,” I say as I get up to leave. My feet shuffle out and into the hallway, pausing momentarily to decide if the exit is to the left or to the right. I run my hand over the brim of my Boston cap, fingers gripping the front and pulling it low. Tunnel vision. I call home, words spilling out in disjointed sentences, the phrase “test anxiety” and the word “assessment” clear, pronounced. They are supportive as one expects parents to be.
Two weeks later, I stand in front of the three-story brick building at the edge of campus that houses the Assessment and Consultation Clinic. The testing is to last eight hours, a full day. I was able to schedule this on my lightest class day, only missing two lectures, and I count my blessings I won’t miss much as I fill out a packet of paperwork. I’m lead to a room by a friendly, portly man who will conduct the assessment.
We sit across from each other at a table, my hands automatically clenching themselves into fists. I force them open, rest them on my thighs, my right hand finding the sides of my knee cap and slowly squeezing as the assessment begins. I treat the questions as just questions, following the instructions not to spend too much time answering them, trying to write or say the first thing that pops into my head. He prods gently, repeating that there is no correct answer when I pause too long, rationalizing the best answer, arguing with myself over an outcome I cannot know. This isn’t calculus. There is no logical progression, or manipulation of numbers to produce a language I understand, a desired result. I do not know what result I desire from this. I cannot assume there will be a result.
We break for lunch, and I am exhausted. I am free to go but must return no later than 12:45 to resume the assessment. I wander campus aimlessly, though taking care to avoid buildings where I know I have class, or where people I know may be hanging out. I eat an apple, and down a bottle of orange juice from a convenience store before heading back to the clinic.
Answers come swiftly now, and honestly without hesitation. Argument and rationalization are tabled in favor of speed. I want out.
The final assessment is psychological screening, and then I am free.
I am exhausted. I go back to my dorm room, lock the door, and sleep through my first class the following day.
The following week I am called to review the results of my assessment.
Returning to the three-story brick building, meeting with the same friendly, portly man who conducted the assessments, I learn I am primarily an auditory learner, interpreting underlying meanings of speech by paying attention to tone, pitch, speed and nuances of speech unrecognizable to most. Later, this explains why I do well in music history classes, where exams are composed of listening to snippets of music, and then identifying the artist or performer, time period and the significance of the work. It will also explain my ability to accurately recall full scenes from TV shows and movies, obscure song lyrics, random parts of conversations most have forgotten and why everyone comments on how well I write dialogue.
I am also a kinesthetic learner, learning best by doing rather than passively absorbing. Later, this explains why I am good at demonstrating, documenting, editing and analysis. I work through things as described before tinkering and finding a more efficient method.
I score lowest on visual learning, which explains why art history was a struggle. Forced to memorize pieces of artwork, the artist, time period and one or two reasons why it was significant engaged the least productive part of my brain. I will avoid anything of a visual nature, though people will tell me I have an eye for color, and eye for design.
First, I must deal with calculus.