A wide spot in my imagination.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Report Cards

A brown manila envelope arrived in the mail three days ago. The slightly lumpy package contained my report cards from the 1st grade through college. My mother found them somewhere in my parent's house, decided that she and my dad no longer needed them, and mailed them to me.

Opening that package, and unexpectedly seeing every grade I was ever given, was a strange experience.

I noticed a trend: Math is not now, has not ever, probably shall never be my "thing." For the past couple of weeks, I've spent more hours than usual poring over finances at church. Summer is a traditionally "low income time" in congregations, and the Finance Committee has begun planning for next year, both of which require numerical attention from me. So, I've focused more time than normal on accrual statements and on profit and loss statements and on liabilities deducted from balance sheets rather than on expense sheets and on reconciliation reports and on actual-versus-budgeted figures. It makes my head hurt.

On my second grade report, my teacher made notes three out of six grading periods about my "regrouping" work in math. My head hurt then, too.

My seventh grade report cards are first where I wrote my own name in cursive. My handwriting is messier today, and the letters are "loopier," but basically the writing looks much the same. At what age are our traits -- handwriting or character -- set?

My 10th grade report showed a class I don't even remember taking. The teacher's name jarred only the slightest of memories.

My elementary and middle school reports cards were all hand-written. My high school and college report cards were computer-printed.

The elementary school I attended no longer exists as of this very week. Students started attending there in 1959. This week, when school begins, those students will begin their school year in a new building at a new location with a new name. I wish them well.

1 comment:

  1. For reasons that remain inexplicable, my handwriting has morphed into that of an elderly person...a revealing encephalogram.