I stare stunned as, on the
blackboard, the professor writes a scientific formula that stretches into its
third line of squiggles and numbers. He spews incomprehensible narration of
what sounds like chemistry, physics of light, and astrophysics.
Was this science course listed
as non-prerequisite? I must complete a single science requirement this last
semester for my M.A. in Economics. When I graduate in three months, I will leave
my husband, take my two babies, and move to the city where the jobs are. Without
a science course, I’ll lose my investment of four years and money I can
ill-afford.
At the blackboard, the
professor explains how to measure the temperature of a mass of compact matter
called “a star” based upon its thermonuclear fusion, and then shows how to
extrapolate in the process how old this star is and how many eons will it live
before its supernova nucleosynthesis. The kinematic viscosity is helpful here,
and don’t forget the hydrostatic equilibrium, of course.… No science prerequisite?
When I signed for Cosmology, I thought of Astronomy. I could already point out
the Great Dipper and Orion, but would flaunt new expertise about constellations
at a beach party on dark summer nights….
At recess, I stop at the
professor’s desk. He is munching on a sandwich.
“Professor, this class was
listed specifically as one with no science prerequisite.”
“Do you have high school
math?”
I nod.
“Well then, you have all the
background you need.”
I point at the blackboard. “Not
this—”
His hand waves in dismissal.
“Cosmology is fun.” He gulps coffee from his thermos. “Trust me. You’ll be
okay.”
After everyone has written
their names on the yellow legal pad, introductions are made. Of the over thirty
students, I am the only one who is not a science teacher, a Brookhaven nuclear lab
worker, or an engineer taking this “safe” course for a graduate management
degree.
Before next week’s class I
verify that none of the university’s other science classes is listed with no
prerequisite. They must all be worse than this Cosmology business. Besides,
this class is scheduled in the evening, off campus, closer to my house. It’s
difficult to pay for a babysitter and gasoline these days when my husband is MIA,
yet suing for custody of my babies, and my legal fees have already depleted my
parents’ savings.
I can only switch classes in
the first two weeks of the semester. It’s now or never. My entire future is on
the line. Therefore, when in the second lecture the professor explains why
Einstein’s Law of Relativity does not apply to cosmos, I plant myself in front
of his desk at recess. I wait until he passes around the yellow legal pad for
all to sign attendance.
“Professor.” My eyes filled
with tears. “I don’t know why Einstein’s Law of Relativity works on our Planet
Earth. How can I figure out why it
doesn’t
elsewhere? This class is for scientists.”
“High school math is all you
need,” he repeats.
“If I don’t drop out today, I
won’t be able to get into another course.” I place in front of him the printout
of the school program. “Can you suggest another one for a lay person?”
“Look.” He picks something
caught between two molars. “I believe that if you just sit in class and listen,
you’ll get it.”
I am certain that if I lay in
the river for months I won’t turn into a crocodile. I shake my head. “No way.”
“I’ll make a deal with you,”
he says. “If you just show up for all classes, I’ll give you a B.”
Just like that? “What about
the quizzes and the semi-final and final exams?”
“You’ll get a B. Just for
attending.”
Maybe it doesn’t look good for
him when people drop out, but I am willing to buy the arrangement. Off the
hook, I take a jaunty jig to my seat.
For the rest of the semester,
I ignore the two multi-choice quizzes in which I fail, followed by the mid-term.
I also do not attempt to decipher the formulas the professor scribbles on the
blackboard. I am light-years away from caring what happens to helium at 40,000
degrees Fahrenheit or calculating the velocity of matter gravitating toward a
nebula (what’s that?) by converting the heat volume to light units. Or perhaps,
the reverse deduction? Oh, yes, all these pieces of data also tell us how old
the star is. Or is it a planet? Calculate it all, please, with your high school
math. Did I mention distance? It can be extrapolated from this data if we also
add the color of the light of a given star because it can be deduced from its
electromagnetic spectrum….
That is Cosmology. The science
to top all sciences because it includes all of them.
I show up every Wednesday at
seven in the evening and sit down to doodle. The only thing I learn is that
quantum mechanics and molecular physics are also incorporated into the formulas
on the blackboard. It doesn’t matter, really. I will get a B. At recess, I sign
my name on the yellow legal pad, then leave and go home to my babies and to study
for the other classes I must complete. Actually, my home is no longer “my
home,” as I have escaped domestic violence, and we now sheltered in someone’s
basement. Soon, I’ll finish this semester and begin a new life far from here.
Three weeks to finals. A judge
with an unabashed dislike of women wishing to liberate themselves grants me
only twenty-five dollars a week for the three of us. If not for the kindness of
strangers, we’d starve. I polish my resume and start applying for jobs.
I stop at the professor’s
desk. “Remember our agreement?” I ask. “I don’t need to do well on the final. I
get a B.”
“Oh, no,” he replies. “The
agreement was for you to sit in the classroom. You left every week at recess.”
The hair roots stand on my
head. A split second later, the blood drains from my temples. “You can’t do
this,” I whisper. “I can’t graduate with less than a B.”
“Sorry. That was the deal.”
I begin to hyperventilate.
His sympathy must be genuine
because he says, “Look. If you get an A, I will ignore all these failed quizzes
and the mid-term.”
“An A?” I blurt like a dimwit.
“I’m giving you a new deal.”
I walk away in a daze. My
celestial fantasies of a life outside the doomed marriage is sucked into the
kind of black hole the professor talked about, some mass so compacted that
nothing escapes from it, not even light.
There is no choice. I must get
an A in Cosmology as if my life depends on it, because it really does.
I go to the public library and
plant myself in the children’s section. I begin reading first-grade books about
planets and novas and black holes. I study the colorful pictures of the
expanding universe and read about stellar dynamics and galaxies and what they
are made of. Junk, really, clouds of particles and gasses—hydrogen and helium
mostly—that under high pressure change from one chemical composition into
something else whose density can be measured using luminosity and temperature.
Equipped to put it all in some
context, I move to middle-school level books. I should be able to learn
material suitable for a ten-year old, even a fourteen-year old. The Big Bang
theory; the Hubble telescope; white and red dwarfs; isometric theory; gravitation;
black spaces; nuclear fission. Artists’ renderings are very helpful. I begin to
get it. Presented in a way I can understand, the material piques my curiosity. Suddenly,
I even enjoy it. Coming out of the library late on a moonless night, I look at
a pinprick of a star in the sky and know that I am staring at history: this
light left its source eons ago, but only now it reaches my human eye here on
earth. How awesome is that?
I am soon in the library’s
high school science section, then check another library to make sure I cover
all available easy books. I have no idea what material was taught in class; to
be on the safe side I read everything.
By the end of an intensive
three weeks, I close the last page of The Encyclopedia of Cosmology, having
read every value in it. To my bewilderment and surprise, I comprehend it all.
The transcript of my grades
arrives. Scared, I hold the envelope in my palm. I’ve already moved my family.
I glued stickers of galaxies and constellations on the ceiling of my babies’
new bedroom. My lawyer guaranteed the first two months’ rent, uncertain how I
would pay it. I’ve taken the first semi-decent marketing job offered. The
unknown, the responsibility, and the fear bear down on me so much that I’ve
lost the grip on who I am.
I open the envelope.
Cosmology: A.
In the decades that have
passed since my last exam, I’ve stared many times into the depth of the Milky
Way. I know that our galaxy is merely one of hundreds of billions other
galaxies, but rather than feel small, I feel victorious: I explored the
farthest reaches of our vast, ever-expanding universe and came out a winner.
# # #
Author Talia Carner’s heart-wrenching suspense novels, JERUSALEM
MAIDEN, CHINA DOLL and PUPPET CHILD (and
her upcoming HOTEL MOSCOW) deal with social issues. Please check www.TaliaCarner.com
My new novel, HOTEL MOSCOW was released in
June with a great party, in which the ice sculpture was as much of a hit
as the book.
It is hard
for us to imagine the misery of life under Soviet totalitarian regime. It is
even harder to grasp the nightmare of waking up one day to a world where all
laws have been obliterated. While bewildered Russians struggled to learn new
survival skills in new market economy, the corruption and brutality of the
former Soviet regime was now imitated by thousands of mafia groups. HOTEL
MOSCOW tells it with an inside view. As one reviewer wrote, “HOTEL MOSCOW
taught me lessons about humanity, about what we, as people, are capable of.”
The most exciting part of publishing
a new novel is my many speaking engagements. After years of toiling away at my
keyboard in solitude, now comes the time when I share my passions with others.
I don’t do “readings,” but rather talk about the background issues of the
novel. Please join me in the coming weeks and months at the many events already
scheduled in NY, NJ, CT and MA. (In August I’ll publish the travel schedule to Detroit, Pennsylvania, Boston and others.)
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