One of the problems with writing a memoir, if you are me, is that while you’re writing, all these memories come flooding back in a huge wave of cliches that come crashing on a sandy shore.
And this weekend was no exception.
Because this weekend I remembered that when I was in grade school, I had an issue with addition and subtraction.
Oh, don’t worry, I knew how to add, so 2 plus 2 was absolutely no problem (hold the Nobel!) but then for reasons that no one, including me, could understand, I’d increase the number by one, “just to be on the safe side.” I did the same thing with subtraction, so 9-2 would equal 6, because I wanted to be extra sure that I subtracted enough.
Unfortunately, mathematics had not yet caught up with my genius concept of “safety math” and every single problem I did in math was marked wrong, but I was convinced that my methods were fairer than the more common “2+2=4″ approach.
I don’t know how I surrendered to “conventional math” or, for that matter, how I graduated from the first grade. Wait. Unless my math moronism was the real reason my parents had to leave the USSR?