Monday, March 5, 2012
Or at least it used to be.
This column originally appeared on Brookline Patch in March 21, 2011. It has been updated and is running again in response to a recent push by local educators to get parents involved in math initiatives. I used to do well in math. I have an (unfortunately) very distant memory of getting A's in elementary school math. But that was a long time ago, before two plus two stopped equaling four. It starts out innocently enough. I’ll be making dinner, screeching James Taylor into the spatula, minding my own off-tuned business, when I hear IT. The eight words that bring instant alarm and dread to my gut. “Mom, I need help with my math homework.” How hard can sixth grade math be? I was eleven when I graduated that particular grade. I can do this. I…
Monday, January 23, 2012
One 42-year-old woman. Two twelve-year-old boys. Could there be a greater cultural divide?
In her book, Letter to my Daughter, Maya Angelou writes about a dinner party she attended on her first visit to Sengal at the home of a famous actress. As Angelou observed her opulent surroundings and the elegant guests milling about, she noted they were all—every single one of them—carefully avoiding the luxurious Persian rug so beautifully laid out in the middle of the floor. Not one person walked or stood on it. Angelou became appalled for her fellow guests. She could not believe her hostess could be so discourteous as to place an object above her guests’ comfort and convenience. Angelou (never the wallflower) acted. She stepped right onto that rug and proudly “walked back and forth several times.” The guests, who were “bunched up on …
Monday, December 19, 2011
Our cup-holders runneth over.
I caught God looking at me. He wasn’t being sneaky about it; He was hanging out right there in the passenger seat beside me as I drove up Beacon. Every morning on my way to work, I pass an elderly gentleman who stations himself at a busy intersection of Beacon Street. As the cars stop at the light, he patiently weaves himself between them, slow and hunched over, one hand gripping his cane and the other shaking a large plastic cup in a jingling plea for monetary support. He’s there, dripping in the pouring rain, and there still, bundled up in countless layers of clothing on the coldest of winter mornings. For three years I’ve driven by him, but I’ve never helped him. Not because I’m not a good person, I am. I AM. In truth, I’ve always …
caro
11:00 am on Thursday, March 8, 2012
OMG Adrienne, you make me laugh! more ›