My cuppa tea

A massive congratulations to all our matriculants who passed their exams, and especially to those who achieved distinctions.

It’s no small feat. Twelve years of schooling takes its toll – on learners and parents, oftentimes on families.

The financial burden is only one aspect of it, but undoubtedly the most gruelling.

If you, as a parent, on top of this have a child in school who struggles to learn and keep up, perhaps doesn’t fit in and is even bullied, a school career can throw you and your child many curve balls.

How any of us remember school is determined by things like this.

I think it’s an absolute blessing when children enjoy school, do well and “just get on with it”, eventually receiving a good matric pass and proudly marching out into the world to forge their own way in the world.

I was a child like that, thankfully – despite one of my greatest stresses in high school being the dreaded M-word – maths!

I don’t remember being as “vrot” at it in primary school, but come high school, I was an epic fail at maths.

So much so that in Standard Seven (Grade Nine), practically at the 11th hour before final exams, a teacher came into our maths class and plucked five of us out in the middle of the lesson and plonked us into her “special” class.

I was already on lower grade maths … what was this now? Rock bottom grade?

This teacher (who we were all terrified of) was tasked with helping us pass maths that year (clearly our own teacher had thrown the proverbial towel in) and we had to go to our “special” lessons with her every maths class until the exams.

It quickly became evident that this was maths boot camp and you had to fit in or ….

In a class of only five of us, there was nowhere to hide from the onslaught of two year’s worth of maths knowledge being crammed down your throat in the space of a six weeks or so.

I think the only thing any of us took out of that “special” experience was accurate calculations on the number of times the chalkboard duster was thrown at someone or how many times the teacher said she’d “kill us dead” when we got something wrong (which was often).

At the end of it, I went out in a blaze of glory with a firm fail of 19 per cent for maths and went home and burnt all my maths books.

Needless to say, I dropped maths like a hot potato at the end of Grade Nine; I’ve never looked back.

So, was it me or was it the teacher?

I don’t believe you either get maths or you don’t. Anything can be taught, surely?

Although judging by the current state of maths in high schools, it would appear thousands of children are not getting it.

My two children were no exception – in grades eight and nine we wrestled with maths and spent heaps of money on extra lessons and study aids, only to discover if you just calm down you do eventually grasp enough to get you through.

Grades 10 and 11 were far better and, at last, maths released its hideous grasp on our family’s mental well being.

Only matric to go, girls. Mom knows you’re not going to be rocket scientists and that’s perfectly OK.

I burnt my maths books and, hey, I’ve done alright.

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