GRE 'n Me

Raise your hand if you thrill at the prospect of taking standardized tests. Yeah, me neither.

Recently I had the dubious-- and what I hope to be unique-- anti-pleasure of taking the GRE or Graduate Ridiculous Exam. I’d managed to worm myself through two semesters already with a near-complete application—minus my GRE scores-- and could avoid it no longer. After nine months of procrastinating—eschewing, if you will— I finally buckled down and began studying. I was fairly confident I would earn the minimum score in the verbal section, because I can use the word eschew with reasonable confidence as evidenced above, but the math had me up nights, so I hired a tutor; a stranger I met at Starbucks.

He was an hour and a half late to our first session but incrementally arrived sooner. The book I’d chosen to shepherd us through this odyssey was not “The Princeton Review” as everyone had recommended, but it’s lesser cousin, “The GRE Test for Dummies.” I chose it because it was funny and written by three women. Who better to escort me through my tenth circle of hell than three funny women? The first time I cracked the math section of the book back in August, I read the word “integer” and burst into tears. What were integers? The word teased me with its familiarity and yet, remained distant, elusive. I knew I should know it but having not been in a math classroom since my junior year in high school a hundred and fifty years ago, I panicked. Then I cried.

Now it was April and I was cruising through the book. When I didn’t understand something, I dog-eared the corner of the page and had my tutor walk me though it. I carried the book with me everywhere and even wrote a song incorporating all the formulas—rhyming “isosceles” with “if you please”-- so that I could remember them on the big day of the test.

Then an unlikely thing happened; the math began to click. I didn’t just know that the area of a triangle was half the base times the height; I could reel off its ratios as well. Not only could I compute the total surface area of a cylinder, but it’s wily volume to boot. I learned the degree measure of an inscribed angle, exponents and reciprocals, and the FOIL method became my friend. I welcomed primes and composites into my world, and developed a crush on Pythagoras and Pi.

But the week before the test I panicked again. There was still so much that wasn’t making sense. I should have started studying sooner; I would never pass. I hated math’s guts and resented my brain for not understanding with the ease of my tutor and the three funny authors. Other brains could unravel these problems with the simple logic of untying a knot in one’s kite string, but I just picked and stared then wanted to throw it down and go inside and play hearts.

I emailed my friend, Steve Simon, who is the Chief Poo-Bah of All Things Mathy at Oxford University in England—not his real title. I told him that I felt that math was mocking me and asked him to tell me something about her to make me like her; some embarrassing fault, perhaps, to make her seem vulnerable and therefore likeable. I also asked him why x to the zero equals one, just for kicks.

Steve wrote back that I shouldn’t feel threatened; “everyone fights with her,” he said. Math was a benevolent but tough mistress; “a goddess of such beauty that no Cleopatra, no Charlize Theron could ever hope to compare.” He wrote, “…she is fair and loving and when you uncover her secrets and understand them fully, she will reward you and smile upon you.” But he also concurred that she doesn’t give up her secrets easily. “Would anyone respect her as queen of the sciences if she were easy?” Spoken like a true math geek. Apparently it was the process that I had to embrace. He recommended that I think of math as a series of elegant puzzles, “an entertaining game, like Boggle.” He warned me not to attach my future worth to my math score and added that Einstein had math troubles, too.

So, armed with a balsa-wood clad memory for all the formulas I had to keep straight, I headed into the belly of the beast. The testing center was like a day trip to the pentagon. I had to present two forms of ID and sign a dopey contract promising not to aid or abet cheating, then put all my personal property—including jewelry and water bottle—into a locker. I was photographed then asked to empty all my pockets and pat myself down front and back. I pulled an elastic hair band and three throat lozenges from my front pocket and was told I could take in the hair band and one tissue, but had to leave the lozenges. Some jerk with a fake cough had clearly ruined the party for the rest of us by scribbling, “the area of a circle is pi R squared” on the inside of a wrapper and now I would have to quell my sore throat with my own spittle as balm. Oh, what sweet metaphor for life! I thought and stopped myself from shaking my fists at the heavens because I was pretty sure the test center’s fascist gatekeeper wouldn’t think it was funny. It was a very unfunny place.

The test room itself had all the creature comforts of a bank vault and housed a warren of cubicles, each with it’s own monitor and keyboard circa 1992. Although I came out of the starting gate raring to go, the creeps at GRE central sucked the wind out of my sails by making me take a non-optional, non-paid demographics survey for the first twenty minutes, then I wrote my two essays, took the verbal—yes, I knew the opposite of glib was not bourgeois—and finally arrived at the gnashing teeth of the math section. My pulse raced; my eyeballs tensed. I resigned to consider this foray not a waste of time, but a practice test. With seven minutes to go, I made a mad dash to solve functions and subtract like radicals. I didn’t belong here. I was a radical, too. The daughter of artists, I could fake tap dancing better than math, and math knew it. But I pressed on. I was a lousy tap dancer and terrible at math, but by golly, I was no quitter.

The clock ran out and the two and a half hour test of stamina, recall and misery was over. I opted to see my scores in the seconds that followed and was stunned to see the numbers. I made it! Not by much, but I had beat the minimum score. Shocked, I looked and looked again, silently intoning the numbers the same way I read no parking signs before turning off the engine. Then I began to cry-- silently. I couldn’t help it. I felt such relief. I was careful not to interrupt my fellow test takers, and used my tissue to mop the flow, but had to take a moment before getting up to exit. Seems this had been a bigger deal than even I had thought.

I sent my scores to my graduate school, which has now officially accepted me with the caveat that I take a summer math refresher or two. I emailed Steve at Oxford, thanking him for his Lord of the Rings-like advice and he congratulated me in earnest. He even took the time to explain to me why x to the zero equals one. I understood his elegant explanation more than I would have before, but its beauty still eludes me. Yes, I can look at octagonal paper plates at a birthday party and know that the average measure of one of their sides is n minus 2 times 180 over n. But I don’t. And I could eyeball a can of baked beans on the shelf and compute its volume, but I won’t. I’m going to give math some space for a while; a little breathing room will do our relationship good. Sure, it was nice getting reacquainted, I suppose, and I’m happy to see her thrive. But I’m doing just fine without her. And I’m content to read the labels.

Regrets

Why sleep
when I can write?
Sleeping's for sissies
I always say.

But I don't mean it
I know I should try
and would if I could so
out goes the light.

Then all my regrets
come bumbling in,
turn on the light and
make themselves comfortable.

Uninvited, one leans
on the empty pillow
facing me
with snide eyes

A couple more
begin to sit
at the foot of the bed
without decorum

I have to shift
my knees, feet quickly
An elbow jabs
me in the back

While others hover
with bad breath
and look at me
expectantly

Now who's the sissy?
one seems to chide
Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda
the introductions go

They think they're more
entertaining than they are.
Don't you all have
a bus to catch?

Don't you have
somewhere to be
at three-eighteen
in the morning?

Shove off, bubs.
I have work to do
and you weren't so special
to begin with.

So Badly

The following is not a song about my ex. That would be too easy, too obvious, and frankly, he doesn't deserve to be enshrined in song and you, dear reader, deserve more. I will say, however, that my life has been long and a heart can be crushed in all manner of ways. So be mindful not to assume. Because when you assume, you make an assu out of me.

Hit it, Monty.



First I recognized its shape
the color, make and model
The first three letters cinched it and
my breathing slowed to shallow then I

peaked in all the cafes
I was mindful of my crusty, healing heart,
it’s depth and scope
This town’s too big for both of us

(Chorus)
I hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
then I wanted to so bad, so badly

Hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad

A block away I saw you
You looked good, were stepping lively
I slowed way down to watch you
then I willed you to please turn around

I hoped you’d fall in a sewer grate
of piranhas and hot lava then-I
scaled it back-to just piranhas
‘cause deep down I’m forgiving

You didn’t turn around cause you were
chatting with someone, she was a blonde

(Song stops)

Singer says to accompanist, “It’s always a blonde.”
He answers, “Pretty much, yeah.”

(Song resumes)

You smiled while you were talking
Your life is clearly perfect so I
hoped you would be eaten alive
by a boa constrictor

Then I dialed it back to just maimed
by a fire breathing wart hog
with rabies and bad dandruff
‘cause deep down I’m forgiving

I walked into the café
then spotted where you’d just been sitting
Your seat was still warm
You seemed so close but were so far

I ordered what you would have had
if we were still together
Then I changed my mind and thought fuck you
and ordered a BLT!

(Chorus)
I hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
then I wanted to so bad, so badly

Hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad

Hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad

Show Time

This past winter I had the pleasure of seeing three performances: the Shanghai Circus, a delightful display of feats of strength, balance and derring-do; Savion Glover, a delightful exploration of percussive tap dancing to live flamenco music; and the Queen of Spades, a delightful slog through a four-hour Pushkin opera at the Met.

In all three cases, I had to surrender. The shows had no heady dialogue to follow in order to occupy my mind. I had to take off my coat and stay a while, acknowledging to myself that in order to get the full effect of the entertainment experience, I had to completely immerse myself and let it wash over me. It meant turning off the cell phone, turning off my brain and giving over the controls to someone else until further notice. It meant begging off the scheduling nymphs and list fairies and allowing awe and wonder to scramble up from where they’d been bound and gagged, waiting patiently to see the light of day again. In all three cases it worked, and as I relaxed and let go, I was dazzled.

Pushkin was up to his same old melodramatic tricks at the Met but with a compelling avant-garde flair. The depth and scope of the vast stage’s starkly compelling sets elicited gasps from the opera-goers around me each time the curtain was raised, and the costumes’ design and palette thrilled the fashionistas in the audience with their modern take on an age-old winter wardrobe. I read the summary in the program and then decided to leave the LED narration off and float through. The story line was simple enough to explain to a stranger in one subway stop and because this was Pushkin I just assumed that everyone would either die of consumption or a broken heart, but that they were sure to suffer madness on their way there. I was right, and since the opera clocked in at about the same length as a flight to Phoenix, I cozied-in and, once again, surrendered.

The Shanghai Circus was mind blowing. It’s performers showed such nimble control, such deft coordination, that my son and I found our selves unable to decide which act impressed us most. Was it the strongest man I’m likely ever to see; able to support and balance his own body weight in impossible, one-armed ways? Was it the mad, multi-ball hand juggler or the whimsical foot jugglers; passing balls to each other in Dr. Seuss fashion? Naturally I was attracted to the plate spinners, whose ability to multi-task-- spinning twelve plates on twelve sticks with each hand while moving and grooving-- spoke to the mother in me, and the eerie, science-fictiony, high-pitched hum they gave off was mesmerizing.

Savion Glover was mesmerizing, too. Having discovered the percussive seduction of flamenco, he teamed up with the equally mesmerizing Carmen Estevez of Spain. The daughter of a jazz drummer father and a flamenco singing mother, she drummed and sang with the cool, detached rasp of an aloof femme fatale while Savion-- two feet away on a tap platform—listened and let her music soak into his every pore until his head was so wrapped up deep inside the music that and only his tapping feet remained free. My mom and I watched—along with the flamenco guitarist nearby-- like voyeurs to a flirtation. Carmen played and sang as Savion hoofed and tapped and together they wound and weaved not so much a story but an experiential journey, like when you felt your way through the woods with your eyes closed, on a dare, when you were young.

During intermission, my mom told me about a Tap Happening she went to with Dad back in the 1960s at the Dixie Hotel on W.43rd (now the Hotel Carter, named
the dirtiest hotel in the US for 4 years in a row). Metal folding chairs were set up down in the basement and a record player sat in the corner. As my parents sat in awe, Howard "Sandman" Sims, Charles "Honi" Cole, Jimmy Slyde and Chuck Green tried to best each other; walking to the record player one at a time to put the needle down on the song that would take them to that place where body and imagination paired up and left the head in the dust. Mom said that tap had gone out of style at the time, but these guys just wanted to get together to keep it alive, to see old friends and to work their craft with nothing but camaraderie and fun as their goal. Having grown up seeing these greats on the big screen, Mom and Dad were blown away.

During the second half of the show, I thought about the plate spinners and opera singers and wondered if they’ll ever get together someday in a basement, just to catch up with old friends and show each other what they’ve still got. I thought about how much fun they would have without the pressure of a theater crowd and itchy costumes and marveled at the sight of them smiling and laughing it off as plates and notes were dropped. A lifetime of hard work and show times behind them, I pictured the plate spinners teaching the opera singers that it’s all in the wrist, and the opera singers giving voice to the muted acrobats.

Then the lights came on and the show was over. It was time to put my coat on and head back.