I blame my teachers. Especially my maths teachers. Yes, the guilty should be named and charged. They have left me with a love for numbers for which I am eternally grateful. In a way, they saved me. Well not physically; that would have been weird. But their dedication and motivation opened a door to something I was good at. And at times I needed to be good at something.
We moved about quite a bit as a family when I was growing up. After 7 years in a small town called Harrismith in the Eastern Free State (South Africa), we moved about between towns for the next 6 years. I therefore attended 4 different primary schools. Needless to say, I often felt like an outsider as I had to make new friends, get use to a new school and teachers. In addition, I was not good at sport then – something that a young boy can usually fall back on. Then Mr Wright entered the scene when I was age 11. For the next 2 years he was my maths teacher at Willem Postma Primary School (Bloemfontein). With a patient and calm approach he made the world of numbers accessible. I can’t recall how good my marks were, but I found confidence in it. Mr Wright was an older teacher and he made time to teach us about life and history. I was mesmerised when he told us about Napoleon and wrote in chalk on the black board, “Able was I ere I saw Elba”.
And then we moved again. At least by age 13 I was of bigger build and as part of the next transformation I gave up a heavy burden I was carrying since age 2 and a 1/2. I stopped wearing glasses. Before, everywhere we moved, I was taunted. Often I was the only spectacled child in class. I felt like a kid in glass. As if everyone looked through me. Fragile. At that point I have broken so many pairs (all by accident, I promise!) our medical aid stopped paying for them. So, I stopped, I just quit. I t was a win-win situation. And it worked for me. No more outer burden that automatically uploaded silly nicknames. No more the outsider for looking different. No more looking from the outside through lenses to what everyone else saw.
I don’t know if this helped, but suddenly I was selected for the first rugby team. I was also picked as flank and no more hard labour position as prop. Freedom at last! Did I change so much over one summer holiday? Did I suddenly lost weight with the glasses and increased my running speed? Who knows, but I was in a better space and this continued when I went to Kroonstad High (or secondary) School. Here over the next 5 years I had teachers that I will always remember (for various reasons). Mrs van der Merwe who somehow moulded our Afrikaans cerebrals into an appreciation for the English language. Mr Rossouw who kept our Afrikaans roots solid with poetry and essays, while Mrs Rossouw created a melody from our voices in choir practice. My dad’s science laboratory often filled with smells and sparks (were they all intentional?) and Mrs “Krappie” de Villiers’ attempts to bring Biology alive to me. And Mr Fourie’s hotdog sales during break were as popular as his Technical Drawing classes. He also coached our rugby team at the start of high school and we were a pretty decent outfit despite the hotdogs!
And then Mrs Gerber, later Mrs Sim, who shaped our mathematical skills. Looking back at all my schooling, she must win the price for giving the most homework. And that is apart from her extra classes prior to major exams. In retrospect I am grateful to her. Not only did it provide me with something that I could be good at and motivated a dedication to what is important. I believe that it shaped my mind in a way of thinking that is interested in patterns, in what is sensible and meaningful. At the time it influenced the suggestion that I should go into engineering, but I could never exclude the humanities and working with people. It must be great to design a bridge, but building relationships between people is much more satisfying. Working with people who suffered head injuries, might have difficulty with memory and translating the numbers from neuropsychology into meaningful constructs for their daily lives tick my own meaning box.
I do acknowledge the limitations of numbers and don’t regard myself as a numerologist of some sorts. I did not believe the Mayan prophecy that the world would end on the 21st of December 2012, although my world dramatically changed in 2012. Still, there is something interesting about specific numbers in one’s history and possible numerical intervals. But should I read more into it? Someone said that the average age for a diagnosis of a glioma for a male is 42 (or between late 30’s and mid 40’s). I had my first seizure a month prior to my 42nd birthday. Half this number and it takes my back to my age of 21 when my brother died. My grandfather, whom I am named after, passed away at age 85 (21 times 4 plus 1). Should I read something into these numbers and the possible repetition of 21? Should I be weary of age 63 when the next 21 year cycle comes to an end?
I don’t think so.
For now, I am with Douglas Adams. Maybe the amazingly accurate answer to Life, the Universe and Everything is 42. Nothing more. Just that. Where I am at.