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Climax of Passion. Merry Christmas. Mr Schechter was solicitous: 'It's all right, I'm insured,' he said as he put some unbelievably painful antiseptic on my wrist. My mother took me to the doctor whose office was on the ground floor of our building. With a pair of tweezers, he pulled out a fragment of glass.
Using needle and thread, he sewed two stitches. He knew about stitches, because he was a cutter in the garment industry; his job was to use a very scary power saw to cut out patterns - backs, say, or sleeves for ladies' coats and suits - from an enormous stack of cloth. Then the patterns were conveyed to endless rows of women sitting at sewing machines.
He was pleased 1 had gotten angry enough to overcome a natural timidity.
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Sometimes it was good to fight back. It just happened. I had injured my wrist, generated an unex- pected medical expense, broken a plate glass window, and no one was mad at me. As for Snoony, he was more friendly than ever. But it was much more pleasant to work it out up here in the warmth of the apartment, gazing out through the living-room window into Lower New York Bay, than to risk some new misadventure on the streets below. As she often did, my mother had changed her clothes and made up her face in anticipation of my father's arrival.
We talked about my fight with Snoony. The Sun was almost setting and together we looked out across the choppy waters. I peered intently. T know,' 1 replied. Squinting, I had thought I'd made out a thin strip of land at the horizon on which tiny figures were pushing and shoving and duelling with swords as they did in my comic books. But maybe she was right. Maybe it had just been my imagination, a little like the midnight monsters that still, on occasion, awakened me from a deep sleep, my pyjamas drenched in sweat, my heart pounding.
How can you tell when someone is only imagining? I gazed out across the grey waters until night fell and I was called to wash my hands for dinner.
When he came home, my father swooped me up in his arms. On a Sunday in that same year, my father had patiently explained to me about zero as a placeholder in arithmetic, about the wicked-sounding names of big numbers, and about how there's no biggest number 'You can always add one,' he pointed out. Suddenly, I was seized by a childish compulsion to write in sequence all the integers from 1 to 1, We had no pads of paper, but my father offered up the stack of grey cardboards he had been saving from when his shirts were sent to the laundry. I 2 My Teachers started the project eagerly, but was surprised at how slowly it went.
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When 1 had gotten no farther than the low hundreds, my mother announced that it was time for me to take my bath. A mediator his whole life, my father intervened: if 1 would cheerfully submit to the bath, he would continue the sequence. By the time 1 emerged, he was approaching , and 1 was able to reach 1, only a little past my ordinary bedtime. The magnitude of large numbers has never ceased to impress me. Also in my parents took me to the New York World's Fair.
There, 1 was offered a vision of a perfect future made possible by science and high technology. A time capsule was buried, packed with artefacts of our time for the benefit of those in the far future - who, astonishingly, might not know much about the people of The 'World of Tomorrow' would be sleek, clean, stream- lined and, as far as 1 could tell, without a trace of poor people.
And sure enough, when the tuning fork was struck by the little hammer, a beautiful sine wave marched across the oscilloscope screen. And sure enough, when the flashlight shone on the photocell, 1 could hear something like the static on our Motorola radio set when the dial was between stations. Plainly the world held wonders of a kind 1 had never guessed. How could a tone become a picture and light become a noise?
My parents were not scientists. They knew almost nothing about science. But in introducing me simultaneously to scepticism and to wonder, they taught me the two uneasily cohabiting modes of thought that are central to the scientific method. They were only one step out of poverty.
But when 1 announced that 1 wanted to be an astronomer, 1 received unqualified support - even if they as 1 had only the most rudimentary idea of what an astronomer does. They never suggested that, all things considered, it might be better to be a doctor or a lawyer. But as 1 think back on it, there were none.
But there was no soaring sense of wonder, no hint of an evolutionary perspective, and nothing about mistaken ideas that everybody had once believed. In high school laboratory courses, there was an answer we were supposed to get. We were marked off if we didn't get it. There was no encourage- ment to pursue our own interests or hunches or conceptual mistakes. In the backs of textbooks there was material you could tell was interesting.
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The school year would always end before we got to it. You could find wonderful books on astronomy, say, in the libraries, but not in the classroom. Long division was taught as a set of rules from a cookbook, with no explanation of how this particular sequence of short divisions, multiplications and subtrac- tions got you the right answer. In high school, extracting square roots was offered reverentially, as if it were a method once handed down from Mt Sinai.
It was our job merely to remember what we had been commanded. Get the right answer, and never mind that you don't understand what you're doing. I had a very capable second-year algebra teacher from whom I learned much math- ematics; but he was also a bully who enjoyed reducing young women to tears. My interest in science was maintained through all those school years by reading books and magazines on science fact and fiction.