It was 1968. At the time, I was a 13-year-old teenager with boundless energy, lofty dreams, and a natural aptitude for numbers that sometimes got me into trouble. I was studying at Secondary School Juan de Guroceago, a ‘Type C’ institution located in a neighbourhood called “Mario Briceño Iragorri”, a working-class area on the outskirts of Caracas, Venezuela. Although most people took two forms of transport to get there, I preferred to walk there and back; perhaps that daily exercise was what fuelled my audacity.

The day Math made me daring

In that second year of secondary school, my academic nemesis had a name: Professor Alemán. He was a man with a short temper and a pointed beard that seemed to accentuate his severity. My classmates feared him; I simply observed him. His teaching method was rigid, limited to following the CENAMEC (National Centre for the Improvement of Science Teaching) Guide to the letter. For him, what that book said was absolute truth, a kind of mathematical dogma.

^Pixabay.

One day, after a short exam (or ‘quiz’, as we used to say), the professor announced that no one had passed. I was completely surprised. I always did my exercises with a pen, leaving no room for error or erasures. When I checked my test, my calculations were flawless, but my results did not match the professor's ‘Bible’: the CENAMEC Guide.

Any other student would have hung their head in shame. But at 13 years old, justice was more important to me than prudence.

The next day, I decided to carry out the most daring prank of my youth. It was not an act of vandalism, but an intellectual rebellion. I summoned three maths and physics teachers from other levels, gathered two entire classes of students in the hallway, and called Professor Alemán. He arrived with his usual air of superiority, unaware that his pedestal was about to be shaken.

In front of everyone, I took the chalk and posed one of the disputed exercises. It was a classic riddle that went like this:

A man walks aimlessly and comes across a Holy Cross. The man asks him, ‘Double the money I have in my pocket, and I'll give you 1 VES (Venezuelan bolívar).’ The Cross agrees, the money doubles, and he hands over his VES. This happens a second and third time. At the end of the third encounter and after handing over the last VES, the man is left with nothing. How much money did he have at the beginning?

For the CENAMEC Guide, the answer was VES (Bs.) 0.60. For me, the logic was inescapable: the correct answer was Bs. 0.875.

I broke down the problem from the specific to the general. If I ended up with 0, before giving the last bolívar I had 1. Since Cruz had doubled it, before that I had 0.50. Repeating the logic backwards, the numbers spoke for themselves:

Third Cruz: (0 + 1) / 2 = 0.50
Second Cross: (0.50 + 1) / 2 = 0.75
First Cross: (0.75 + 1) / 2 = 0.875

^Pixabay.

The silence in the hallway was deafening when the other teachers nodded in agreement. Professor Alemán, in front of his colleagues and students, had to admit his mistake. He gave me my 20 points, but the price was his silence; he stopped talking to me for two long years.

It wasn't until fourth year, when I was selected to represent the High School in the Maths Olympics, that he spoke to me again. But that's a story for another time.

Looking back, from my current perspective as a ‘Silver Blogger’, I understand that my boldness was not due to arrogance, but rather to the conviction that truth does not admit hierarchies. Sometimes, being ‘bold’ is simply having the courage to defend what you know is right, even when the world —or Professor Alemán— told us otherwise.

Hi! Everybody, if you've made it this far, THANK YOU! You are welcome to participate; the link with all the information is below. But I also hope to read your comments in the reply box. Thank you for joining us in these waters of HIVE.