Bigger 7 or 9?

Out of all the whole numbers in the world of mathematical tabulations I’m told the 7 is the most feared. Why? Because 7 ate 9! Putting that ravenous story of whole numbers aside the number 7 and the number 9 was directly responsible for getting me beaten unapologetically one day in 1963 in Glendale Arizona elementary school. That was of course before the number 9 was consumed by the number 7.

We were in class and working on math. I’m thinking it was early in the school year when the teacher asked me which numbers on the chalkboard was bigger? The 7 or the 9? I was puzzled because I honestly was thinking bigger. You know like which is bigger a school bus or a VW Bug? Everything got really quiet as I tried to come up with an answer.

As I was sitting there at my desk I took my two fingers and tried to measure by sight if one number was indeed bigger. I heard the kids in class start laughing. I told the teacher the most honest answer I could come up with. I answered the teacher after a long wait. “They both look to me to be the same size.” The class started laughing again.

I wasn’t trying to be funny but give a sincere answer. That’s when things unraveled. The teacher grabbed my arm in a rage and said, “Get up!” She dragged me outside and to the side of the building and gave me a beating with her right hand. Back in those days teachers were authorized to paddle or spank kids.

This was no spanking. Spanking is too nice of a word. This was a beating. The teacher threatened me not to tell my mother or she would kill me. There was no worry there. The last thing I wanted to do was tell my mother. Because my mother would have helped her dig my grave. The last thing I needed was those two to partnering up.

Of course I was crying and scared to death. She dragged me back into the classroom. I’ll never forget the atmosphere in that classroom when I came back in. It was like they all just witnessed a hanging in the old West.

I looked up to heaven and said a quick prayer. “Dear God in heaven please don’t let her ask me that same question again. Cause I honestly believe the number 7 and 9 are the same size.” All I can say was God was listening and had mercy on me because I don’t think I would lived through another beating.

You know that harsh discipline did nothing for me. It didn’t make me any smarter but I think it worked wonders on the teacher. It was like a therapeutic session for her to work out all that anger and frustration of trying to teach incredible stupid kids. Years later when my son became a teacher I told him how much trouble the number 7 and 9 got me into.

He looked at me shockingly and said, “Dad is that what she asked you? Which number was bigger?”
“Yup, that’s what she asked.”
He said, “Dad that was not your fault. She should have asked you which number was more!”

For the first time in decades I realized I had been unjustly beaten rather unmercifully back in 1963. You know that’s been 62 years ago and I still feel bad about what happened that day. I will always hold a grudge against the number 9 because he could have been just a tad bigger on that blackboard. It serves him right to have been eaten by the number 7.

Now if you’re wondering if this was some made up yarn. I wish it had been but it unfortunately it’s a true story.