Math may not be racist, but it’s hard

This column is about math, but don’t worry. It is not about math being racist, because that is a noodle invented by some harebrained academics seeking peer attention.

Math is both an acquired, and a born, skill.

You can learn math — I somehow got through algebra and geometry — or you can be born with it. Like musical ability, art, or writing (my gift). 

My father, who never finished high school because he had to help to support the family, was a math whiz. One of his gifts, along with public speaking, and public service.

His grandson, Greg, inherited that gene+. Before kindergarten, as I remember, he could add numbers as fast as you could throw them at him. He and his older brother were both super smart kids and attended my academic elite high school — New York’s Stuyvesant. 

Their sister, my favorite niece, did not have that gene.

“Why am I the only Asian who’s not good at math?,” she used to wail. As you might guess from that, she is adopted but she is their sister in every nuance of the word. Adoption is a beautiful thing. 

Like Diana, I wondered why I was a Jew who was bad at math. Surely that would impair my non-existent medical and/or business career. The closest I got to medicine was a handwriting like a doctor’s.

Fortunately, I didn’t care about making money or sticking my hand into other people’s body parts. 

I took a shine to journalism early on, and journalism shined back. Yes, it was love at first sight.

I can’t say I never had a bad day in journalism — I have — and sometimes was placed in dangerous positions. 

Two stand out: The actor Rip Torn lunged at me with a cocked fist during an interview, and a bunch of Mumidiots confronted me on the street. (“Mumidiots” was the term I concocted for followers of cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal. It really pissed them off.) 

Where was I? Oh, math.

I guess I got my first checking account when I was 20, and that was a form of math. Poor math, combined with illegible numbers, led to a register that rarely agreed with the balance furnished monthly by the Dime Savings Bank.

I always thought “Dime” was about the cheapest name a bank could have. Get rich by saving a dime at a time?

Anyway, balancing my account at the end of the month was always stressful and usually unsuccessful.

But, as some say, I persisted.

For the next 60 years, if I was off 12 cents, I would struggle to find the error — sometimes math, sometimes transposing, sometimes misreading a 5 and a 6. They are practically identical, right?

Once I balanced the checkbook, I would celebrate with a smoke and a Jack on the rocks.

Aaaah.

For the last few months, the discrepancy has been several thousand dollars.

I think this is connected to a couple of new credit cards I got that don’t provide written statements. I get emails. Not having printed statements threw me off, now about $3,000. 

I have tried, unsuccessfully, to find the error. 

I can’t.

I could turn it over to my bank, and let them try to find the error. Or errors. That will be difficult. If I can’t read my handwriting, how can they?

And it will cost $75.

Given that my online bank statement gives me $4,000 more than my checkbook, why should I bother?

I’ve been staring at my statement for a week now. I just can’t bring myself to go through the endless checking process — which will fail.

But I just can’t abandon the checkbook and just go with online banking, which I can check every day.

What would you do?