A sane verdict on college algebra, and a hibiscus joint

Sometimes the news reports you read, see and hear provide a moment of amusement.

That was certainly the case recently when I read a story about college algebra and, later, another story about a misidentified plant.

Let's do the math first.

Many, many, many years ago, when I was in high school, I took a general math course and then an algebra class. Both were taught by Mr. DeSpain, who had a way of explaining numbers in a way I actually understood. I made decent grades, as I recall.

Then I got to college. I went to a liberal arts college. This meant that, no matter what your major was, you had to take a dabbling of just about everything the college offered, including foreign languages and mathematics.

I had taken Spanish for a couple of years in high school. Rather than continuing my estudios in Espanol, I though it would behoove a liberal arts college student to widen his horizons. I took French, probably because one of the French professors at the college was a tres belle mademoiselle.

I remember my study partner, Tom Coleman, and I spent hours struggling to translate the next French assignment (our mademoiselle had a thing for using novels as textbooks). We were always a bit surprised at how far off we were when we displayed our joint efforts in the classroom. Thank goodness our lives and livelihood did not depend in any way on the gift of gab en Francaise. Tom became a lawyer and congressman. I'd say his liberal arts foundation gave him a distinct edge.

But French isn't math, is it? Or, to be more precise, French isn't college algebra, a required course for every single student who enrolled in my alma mater.

My college algebra professor was not Mr. DeSpain. He was Dr. Something-or-other, and he was far more interested in letting you find your own way through the equations than he was in making sure you passed the course. As a matter of fact, college algebra was one of the so-called washout courses designed to shrink the number of upperclassmen and refine the student body to include only those deserving of the demagogic efforts of the faculty.

It was this experience with college algebra that convinced me I should become a journalist. Lulu, the milk cow on the Killough Valley farm over yonder in the Ozarks had already made sure I did not pursue farming as a career. Now it was algebra's turn to further direct my future.

Imagine my outright glee when I read a story in the Southeast Missourian the other day announcing that college algebra would no longer be a graduation requirement at Southeast Missouri State University.

My first thought was, "How enlightened." My second thought was, "Why did it take so long?"

Another story, this week, was about the couple in Pennsylvania arrested for having a marijuana plant in their vehicle. They were handcuffed for several hours until officers checked out their claim that the plant was a hibiscus.

This episode reminded me of a time early in my career when I was the news editor at a small daily newspaper in Moscow, Idaho.

Up the hill from the newspaper was the county courthouse, and the Latah County jail was in the basement of the sheriff's department. There were cells in the basement, and there was a window well to let in air and a bit of light. The window well was protected by heavy steel bars.

One day as I was going to the sheriff's department I passed the window well and noticed a vigorous plant growing up through the bars of the window well. A weed, I thought.

After passing the plant several times, it finally clicked. This was no ordinary weed. It was, in fact, Weed. Yes, that Weed.

I mentioned it to the sheriff, who laughed at the idea a marijuana plant would be growing outside the window of the jail.

Ha. Ha.

The joke, it turned out, was on the sheriff. The next time I went by the window well, the plant was gone.

Life is full of little connections. A story about college algebra brings back vivid memories of my own math challenges. A story about a hibiscus stand-in for Weed makes me laugh. And remember.

The older I get, it seems, the more connections, big and small, I am able to make.

I hope to make many, many more connections, dear readers.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.