One-path maths

How one moment creates an echoing wound

I remember being eleven years old, sitting in a unfamiliar maths class, minding my own business.

I moved around a lot during my childhood. For practically each year during elementary I found myself at a new school, new city. New friends to have to be made, new politics, new ‘difficulties adjusting and fitting in’.

I was never one for raising my hand, because past experiences had taught me that was a surefire way of getting shot down in front of everyone, as the new kid in class.

KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT. UNTIL YOU KNOW HOW THINGS WORK HERE, a voice inside would hiss at me, whenever the thought would even cross my mind.

But being eleven, and still hopeful of my place in the world, I raised my hand when the teacher asked for the solution to a maths problem she had on the board.

Looking back now, I can’t for the life of me remember what that problem was. But I remember everything else. Vividly.

I knew the answer.

Raise my hand or play it safe, I asked myself. And that internal voice was screaming DON’T DO IT, LISTEN TO ME, I’M TRYING TO PROTEC-

My hand shot up.

Teacher looked at me and nodded.

Mouth dry, heart pounding, I gave her the answer.

‘Wrong’, she said matter-of-factly.

No, I’m right, I thought. I’m right, aren’t I? I think I’m right. This is the answer. I’m right.

Raised my hand once more. Voice on the verge of cracking, I repeated the answer.

‘Wrong’, she stated again, harsher this time.

But I’m right, I’m right, that’s the answer, I know it, she’ll see it, just say it, speak up, just say it, just say why you th-

‘But Miss, it’s…’, was all I managed to croak before she cut me off.

Eyebrows raised, grimace on her mouth. ‘What don’t you understand? You’re wrong. Stop being stubborn-headed!’

It’s a different word she used, one that doesn’t translate well from Greek to English, Cypriot Greek, as a matter of fact.

My whole being instantly shrunk to a pinpoint. A vortex into nothing. Cheeks flush, mouth full of cotton, eyes unblinking. Frozen. Tense.

The children laughed.

They laughed at me. I felt everyone’s eyes burn my face, turning it red hot. Piercing my vulnerability and exposing me. Felt naked. I felt shame.

For the rest of the school day, I… I wasn’t really there, I think. I can’t recall a single thing after that. I was a ghost, floating aimlessly, trapped inside my head.

‘Stubborn-headed’.

I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU THIS WOULD HAPPEN. I’M JUST TRYING TO PROTECT YOU, BUT YOU NEED TO LISTEN TO ME. WE NEED TO WORK TOGETHER ON THIS. The voice inside was echoing through my brain, relentless.

Later that day, back at home, I looked it up. Even asked my dad about it. Turns out, I was right. My solution was correct.

‘Stubborn-headed’.

Years later I figured out what the issue was. I’d arrived at the solution via a different method than what she was teaching.

But here’s what I didn’t know then. I couldn’t have known.

That moment in the maths classroom was more than just embarrassing. It was instructive. It taught me something I internalised without realising and carried with me a whole lot longer than I should have. I think it’s still with me to this day.

Because this kind of thing keeps creeping up on me, no matter where I am.

Sometimes, I have an instinct for what’s right. Don’t we all? A feeling, a gut reaction telling me this or that. But if you put me on the spot, I’m not able to defend my position, because that feeling is born from intuition and not logic. The dots are connected but I couldn’t tell you which dot led to which.

‘Stubborn-headed’.

That was the day the voice inside me got promoted to my Internal Editor. It wasn’t a typical promotion, there was no interview to assess fit. It was more of a siege, really. I’d relinquished control, and handed it the reins without knowing I was doing it.

I haven’t raised my hand since. Not in the rest of elementary, high school, university, or even work.

‘Stubborn-headed’.

Those words still echo in my mind whenever I consider putting myself in the spotlight, to debate my side of things. To push back on something. Whenever I spot a flaw and think about bringing it to everyone’s attention. Whenever I have something important to say.

And when those words become deafening, maybe I don’t debate or push back. Maybe I don’t point to the flaw. Maybe I keep what I wanted to say to myself. And let the moment pass.

Maybe I choose to protect myself from attack.

Because my Internal Editor sounds the alarm. STAY SAFE! Barks off commands to unknown layers of my psyche and forces my body to enter lock-up mode.

So, I keep myself small. Protected. I keep myself invisible.

You might’ve had your version of that moment. It probably wasn’t a maths teacher. Maybe it was a manager, a parent, a colleague, a friend. Maybe it happened so many times that it’s hard for you to point to one specific incident, it became part of the soundtrack of your life.

But somewhere along the way, someone told you that the way you got there was wrong, even though you actually got there. Someone decided your method didn’t count. Your instinct didn’t count. Your way of seeing didn’t fit the norm’s template, so it must be incorrect.

And so, you too stopped ‘raising your hand’. Second-guessed your gut when you couldn’t find words to justify it. Stopped defending your point of view.

You learned to translate yourself into something more… acceptable. Conforming. Rough edges sanded down to avoid detection and punishment.

That maths teacher was my earliest clear memory of being shown that speaking up carried a price. Of having to justify the way my brain worked to someone who’d already decided it was incorrect. It was also my earliest memory of my Internal Editor solidifying an iron-clad relationship with me that has spanned decades.

My Internal Editor made it hard for me to forget that moment. It still reminds me of it, full on movie in my head, 4K resolution, a pristine account of what happened.

So the alarm still sounds. Loud. My body still tenses, sweats, shakes. And many moments still pass with my thought still inside of them, unspoken.

‘Stubborn-headed’.

I know it better now than I did at eleven.

I can see it happening in real time, which is something. But knowing the name of what’s got you by the throat doesn’t always mean you’re able to thrust your arms upwards and outwards and break free from it.

I think you know exactly what I mean.

Somewhere in your history there’s a kind of classroom too. A room frozen in time. It probably looked different to mine. Maybe it was a boardroom, a kitchen table, a phone call that went sour. But someone, at some point, made it clear that your way of seeing things wasn’t welcome.

And part of you is still standing in that room. Still waiting for the laughter to stop.