I am not good at math. Math has made me cry on many occasions, but three particular instances come to mind.

1. Waiting for office hours outside my algebra classroom in junior high, realizing it was the first step in my journey of “Letters and Numbers I Don’t Understand.” I’m too young to feel this conflicted.

2. Walking back to my dorm in college after the final class of my last math gen ed, officially freeing myself from equations and theorems forever. Tears of joy ARE a real thing.

3. Eating a breakfast sandwich in my apartment, a full year after the end of my formal education, and finding out my high school math teacher died.

It was a text message from a classmate who endured trigonometry and pre-calculus with me. “Miss Gross passed away.”

Even five years after high school graduation, my friends and I still refer to her as Miss Gross, never Dora. She had a motherly persona that would make a first name basis feel disrespectful. And calling her by last name alone—basketball coach style—was out of the question.

“That’s not very nice!” she would object with a smile.

In a way, she was the math mother of the town. She taught all of our older siblings and even some of our parents. She decorated her classroom like a whimsical cottage, with every kind of butterfly you could imagine—holographic butterflies, 3-D tissue butterflies, a butterfly trim for her marker board, and clipart butterflies on her presentation slides. Despite teaching what I consider the most merciless subject, Miss Gross created a forgiving environment.

After every test, she gave us the option of correcting our work to earn additional points. At the time, I was grateful for any chance of increasing my score. Looking back, I am grateful for a teacher who cared more about my learning than the grade distribution.

Everyone knew when Miss Gross arrived at school because the first parking spot was reserved for her—by mandate or by courtesy I don’t know, but no student or teacher ever parked there. She veered around our halls on a mobility scooter, so you always heard Miss Gross before you saw her.

She attended our school plays and bought overpriced candles and chocolates from a slick catalog to support the band. When our sports teams performed well in playoffs, Miss Gross attached a small Bulldog flag to the back of her scooter and stole the show at pep rallies.

The thing about educators passing away is it makes you think about the most important things they taught you. Sure, I learned a lot about proofs and functions, but teaching math was her job—teaching more was optional.

I remember one semester Miss Gross recorded one of my test scores incorrectly online, giving me an 87 instead of the red 78 written on the top of my paper. I struggled with math tests (and quizzes and assignments and everything math related) so the nine points would have been a great cushion for my overall grade. I knew she wouldn’t discover the discrepancy because the tests were ours to keep. She had a physical grade book where she documented our scores, but no way would she have the time to go back and double check. She had hundreds of assignments to grade on any given week!

As much as I wanted to enjoy this advantage, there’s a reason for the saying, “nice guys finish last.” I couldn’t accept the unearned inflation, especially knowing how much my classmates and I struggled for the points we did earn. Reluctantly, I told Miss Gross about her error before class one day. I sat through the rest of that lesson feeling relieved for being honest, but also feeling nine points further from the grade I wanted.

After Miss Gross projected our assigned problem sets on the board (with the accompanying butterfly clipart), she asked me to stay after class.

When the bell rang and the classroom cleared out, I walked to her desk. Fanciful trinkets and marked up papers littered her workspace. From a file cabinet by the window, she pulled out her green gradebook to show me the misrepresentative 87. It was wrong there, too.

“I never would have caught the mistake myself,” she said. “So I’m going to leave the grade as is.” She nodded, sure as a sunset.

Miss Gross, you are an absolute saint, I thought.

“That was a very honorable of you, Connie. That is rare and I hope that sticks with you in life in everything you do when you leave this classroom. Don’t ever lose that.”

That was my gold star. Even when I failed miserably at understanding the hodgepodge of numbers and symbols that is the language of logic, I had that. I felt lost and confused many times in Miss Gross’s classroom, but that day I felt very sure.

 ***

Miss Gross,

Did you know a newly emerged butterfly can’t fly? When it’s developing inside the chrysalis, its wings are all shriveled up against its body. That doesn’t make for a very good butterfly. Probably not a great mathematician either.

But when it breaks free, the butterfly pumps fluid to the veins in its wings and like visual fanfare, it expands. Its tiny transparent scales catch the sun and reflect light in a rainbow of colors, a gem in the sky. You wouldn’t think a puny caterpillar could turn into something so beautiful, but it happens. It happens everyday when the sun rises and even on dark, rainy days like today.

I want to say thank you, Miss Gross. For looking at the caterpillar and seeing the butterfly.

You will be missed,

Connie