When I first was admitted to Western Washington University, which feels like decades ago, I was given a basic math entrance exam. It wasn't anything special; all the kids got one. We all sat down in a lecture hall and scribbled in circles on a Scantron that was to only be the first of many. Afterwards, when broke into smaller groups to be "oriented" to life at Western, we were given the results of the test which was to be the determing factor as to what mathematics courses we would be taking.
The lady who was leading our group wrote our last names on the chalkboard in corresponding rectangles as to our results. One rectangle filled, then down the next, and the next...and next.
She finished writing and turned to face us, ready to deliver the next bit of important information about course planning, etc. I raised my hand.
"What happens if your name isn't on the board?"
She looked at me, briefly baffled.
"Parker."
Flipping through her papers, she found me, presumably in the "P" section, and brought out my sheet. Almost on queue, as if responding to a universally required stereotype, she looked down her glasses at the grade number written in tiny font, the image of every snooty teacher or professor now and likely millions of years in the future.
"Oh," she said.
This was the kind of "oh" that I would hear repeated later in life a few times. As in a response to my disappointing choices in interior paint colors. My failure to sign in at work on time. My mechanic expressing a moment of empathy before telling me I needed a new clutch. A very sad sound, indeed.
This was the moment in time before I learned about what remedial meant. From that point forward I would understand fully the meaning of this term. Which if fully understood from Western's point of view meant: class at eight in the morning five days a week, and no credit given.
It wasn't so much that Math 099 was so terrible. The first day we learned what a numerator and a denominator were. It was the principle of the thing. I would stare out of the window, imaging the students in the neighboring lecture hall discussing the mathematical curvature of an Event Horizon, or calculating the future stock prices of foreign raw materials based on a complex equation they had typed into their scientific calculators. When I turned my attention back to the poor grad student assigned to teach us, I found the class in a heated debate over the steps of adding fractions versus multiplying them.
And so history repeats itself. But like so many of history's repeats, this one is following on a grander scale. I am now attending Life 099. Eight in the morning, no credit given.
Well that's not entirely true. Tomorrow I start my attempt at a second Bachelor's Degree. Coincidentally, at eight in the morning. Tonight is a bizarre mix of Christmas and the night before a job interview. Somewhere between something tremendously exciting and potentially awful if I screw it up. The scariest thing about remedial math was multiple factor equations. The scariest thing about remedial life is the very real chance to do irrepairable damage.
I don't know what will happen tomorrow, or what will become of my second chance at higher education. I know that I've done it before and have the transcript to prove it. On the other hand, I know the consequences of an unchallenged mind, either sitting in a cubicle or perched on a ladder. I know the consequences of debt, both financially and emotionally. You'd think that my post-college experience would be a calming factor here, but it only adds to the heightened awareness of failure.
What I do have going for me is a bunch of folks rooting for me. I thank each and every one of you. I know that you've encouraged every discussion of moving ahead with my life and helped me dismiss any doubts that were preventing me from doing it. So tomorrow I surge ahead with you guys in mind. Or at least, in the words of a friend, I will "go backwards to go forward." Remedial Life indeed.
