The first class period, we didn't even do math. Mr. Frossard spent the entire ninety-two minutes telling us exactly what we could expect from the course. "Calculus," he began, "is a different kind of animal." He stood at the front of the room, his hands behind his back. He was not a very tall man. He wore squarish glasses and had jet black hair. Somehow, all the features combined to make him, in his green dress shirt, look remarkably like a turtle. He blinked before continuing, "Now, you guys have been in the top math classes all your lives. You are the top of the pile, the best of what this school has to offer." Several students turned and smiled nervously at their friends. "Having said that, " Mr. Frossard said, "I know that you may not be the smartest kids in the school, but you can do this." At this most people shared a look that communicated a common train of thought. So, we're geniuses, but we're stupid . . . .
Mr. Frossard then began to instruct us about the pool.
The pool is one of the most legendary parts of Mr. Frossard's calculus class. No, he does not have a kiddie pool in his classroom, and no, this is not a pool we are ever allowed to enter. In fact, we are warned most strictly never to go near its shimmering depths.
"There are those at this school who are swimming in the pool," Mr. Frossard explains, with the hint of a smile on his face. "They're playing water volleyball and drinking their little root beers and it looks like they're having so much fun. Some of them will tempt you. They'll say, 'Come on in. Don't do your calculus homework! Play with us instead!' At this, everyone laughs, not just because of this ridiculous analogy, but because Frossard assumes a high, goofy voice at this part. While they laugh, though, there's a change in his face. He's still smiling, but his eyes have taken on a gaze known only to calculus teachers and military leaders. A gaze that says he knows, only too well, that not everyone in this room will be coming back. With that look in his eye, he says, "But the moment you put one toe into the pool, you'll drown."
A few days later I come home looking, I'm willing to bet, quite a bit discouraged. I explain to my mom that having calculus as the last class of the day can do that to you. After a fair amount of procrastinating, I sit down to do my first assignment.
I pull out four pages: the "front notes." Then I pull out an additional five pages: more notes. I grab a notebook, a pen, and my calculus book, and begin.
I try it. I cross it out. I try again. I look in the back of the book for the answer and try to work it backwards. I fill a page with the scribbles of problem #1.When I run out of room on the first page, I give up and move on to the next problem. I get a hand on this one. I cross out some things, but mostly I'm moving forward. Excitement sparks in my brain as I finally get an answer. I check it in the back of the book. It's wrong. Fuming, I try again and finally get the right answer. Relieved, I start to work on problem #3 when I realize that problem #2 has a part b, c, and d. I lose myself in curse words.
Eventually, I finish. My assignment is seven pages long, front and back. It has taken me four hours to do this assignment, and I have homework for other classes I have to do. Exhausted, I stumble to my bed at two in the morning, wondering what on earth I've gotten myself into.
The tests speak for themselves. We get three sittings. We take the test in class, then we come in after school and try again, then again, before Mr. Frossard actually grades them. We're not allowed to write anything down in the room, but the class starts a ritual of assigning each person to memorize a certain problem and then having everyone stop just outside the classroom door after the test to write the problem down. These are then compiled into our own copy of the test. And yet, it's still something to be happy with when you score over 70%.
By the end of the first term, I've managed to scrape off an A-. This is excellent for this particular class, but I - like most of my fellow calculus students - am used to easy straight A's. So when a friend of mine sees my report card and taunts, "An A minus, Grosland? Come on!" I practically launch myself at her, fangs bared.
My class, which began the year with about thirty-four students, is down to twenty-six by the semester. And then things just get better. "Calculus is like climbing a mountain, "Mr. Frossard explains, "that just gets steeper the higher you go. And right before you reach the top, you're digging with your fingertips, scaling a 90° cliff face." It's the truth. This semester we have our Derivative Final, our Integral Final, and finally, the dreaded AP test itself.
As we get closer and closer to the AP Calculus test, a great weight sets down upon the students. I start waking up in a cold sweat, after yet another calculus nightmare. Several more people drop out, and the sign-up sheet for the AP test goes around in a grim silence that is sometimes punctuated only by hysterical laughter.
Four weeks before the AP test, we stop having assignments. Mr. Frossard instead uses class time to give us multiple-choice and free-response sections of AP tests gone by, in order for us to see what the test is really like.
I swear I hear jaws drop the first day. People start walking out of that class with wide eyes and shaky voices. Several decide they don't really want to take the test after all. But most students simply resign themselves to spending two to three hours every day pouring over the calculus book. (And I mean, pouring, as in sweat and tears.)
Mr. Frossard seems to get only more cheerful as the day for the test quickly approaches. "Now, you want to be careful," he reminds us. "They can void your test for anything." Yes, anything. If Mr. Frossard walks into the room, the tests are voided. If your phone rings during the test, your test is voided. If you use the wrong calculator, your test is voided. If you make any motion that could possibly be conceived of as a signal, your test is voided. If you leave the building during the break, your test is voided. If you cough, your test is voided. (Well, that last one might be exaggerated, but no one in my class was brave enough to test the boundaries.)
"Remember to eat a good breakfast," Mr. Frossard reminds us. "Get a good night's sleep. Don't stay up late studying. If you don't know it the night before, you won't figure it out before tomorrow." My family and friends are so glad when they find out the test is tomorrow, because that means I'll stop studying. It wouldn't be so bad if I stayed locked up in my room, but I keep spouting off random facts to whomever's around. "The derivative of inverse cosine is negative one over the square root of one minus u squared times du/dx," I recite to someone in my drama class. "The Fundamental Theorem of Calculus states that the integral of a function is equal to the antiderivative of that function. PerpenDISKular. ParaSHELL." I wouldn't be surprised if people were commonly kept from taking their AP tests by being sent to asylums.
The AP Calculus test comes. Students sit solemnly, listening to instructions on how to open your booklet correctly. We are reminded of the rules: No discussing the free-response portion of the test with anyone until 48 hours after the test, and no discussing the multiple-choice section of the test with anyone EVER. If we are aware of any infraction, we are told, we are responsible to report them to the Board of Testing Integrity.
I would have laughed if I wasn't so terrified.
It is a marathon. We are there for five hours, scraping the insides of our heads for the last crumb of knowledge pertaining to calculus. The multiple-choice section passes. The free-response section is almost over, and I'm stuck on a problem:
. . . yeah, I don't even want to talk about it.
But somehow, when I go back to class the next day, I have this new feeling inside of me that I've never associated with calculus: pleasure. I may not have aced that test, but I'm pretty sure I passed. And that counts for something. I can see it reflected in the faces of my classmates. More than the feeling of being survivors from a prison camp. It's pride.
I did something hard, inconceivably hard, but I didn't quit, even when the prospects were desperately bleak. I pushed myself to the limit and beyond, and discovered that I could take the heat. I learned something in this class, and I'm not talking about L'Hopital's Rule. I learned that when you do something that takes everything you have, you realized how very much you have to give. I learned that it takes getting a beating to realize how strong you are. I learned that when you do something that really challenges you, as long as you don't give in, it can only make you better. Yes, I'm broken and battered and bruised from calculus. However, I am anything but beaten.
So have fun in that pool of yours. I'm off to climb another mountain.
