The number one reason adults don’t return to college is math. Most of them have jobs, many have families, and college isn’t typically free, all good reasons. But the number one doubt in the eyes of 29-year-old community college students is the ability to do math.
Enter Mr. Nelson. A retired professional, Mr. Nelson worked as a tutor at the community college. When a diffident math student showed up in counseling during registration, the counselor walked them to Mr. Nelson, who would pull out a blank piece of paper, and write a math problem at the top. “Can you do this?” he’d ask, sitting down.
If that problem was a breeze, Mr. Nelson had a second, more challenging one. If the student just sat there for a while, Mr. Nelson had a follow-up designed both to test the student’s math acumen and give them reassurance. After about ten minutes of providing problems, Mr. Nelson would stand up and say “Math 115” or the number of the math course the student should take.
And he was never wrong.
* * *
The floor of the local hardware store was fairly worn everywhere, but there was a special indentation in the linoleum that led to the service counter in the back. With great regularity, especially on Saturdays, homeowners would bring used grocery bags filled with rusted, torn innards of toilets, vacuum cleaners, garage doors, and more, and march straight to the counter, where Dale awaited them.
Dale solemnly unwrapped the bag’s booty, flipped over each part a couple of times, and headed out from behind the counter. He’d periodically throw a question over his shoulder—“Hoover?” “Kenmore?”— until he arrived at just the right spot in Aisle 6, or 3, or 13, pulled three items off the pegboard in front of him, and handed them over, along with the reminder “WD-40 is in Aisle 9.”
* * *
I had just spent more money for a suit that I loved than I had any real business spending, living off of one income, with a small child at home. The excitement of having something this nice almost made me forget how nervous I was buying it, until the salesperson said, “OK, so now we go see Frank.”
Nattily dressed in his own right, Frank had shocks of grey hair on either side of his bald pate, grey half-spectacles perched on his nose. He draped my soon-to-be-suit over the display case, sighed, then quickly produced about a half-dozen ties in his right hand.
As I saw the ties, my competing thoughts were:
- I can’t afford the suit, let alone a tie
- Is he insane, none of these ties go with this suit
And then he flopped them on the suit, one at a time, each one melting harmoniously with the fabric, bringing something different but wonderful out in the pattern. I could only afford one, but I wore that tie until it was threadbare.
* * *
This is why I insist counselor graduate programs teach counselors a separate course in college counseling. Knowing how to register for the SAT isn’t college counseling; knowing what Berea College and Curtis Institute of Music have in common is; so is knowing the three things to do when a college waitlists a student, and the four things they never write about in a college essay.
College is the mighty expensive suit students buy to dress themselves for life, and you’re Frank. Life is the game students need to add up, and you’re Mr. Nelson. And Dale can look at your bag of parts and make something new out of it.
Can you?




