Beyond the x’s and the y’s

By Herman M. Lagon

Somewhere between memorizing the multiplication table and being told to “show your solution,” millions of students believe math is out to get them. It is that dreaded subject most will proudly confess they failed once or almost failed. You can hear it even from titos at reunions – “Ay, ‘di ko talaga nakuha ‘yung algebra.” Yet here we are, teachers of mathematics, coming back every morning armed with whiteboard markers and conviction, trying to explain why letters belong in equations and why math is not the villain. We do it not because it is easy, but because it is necessary. And no, not necessary in the cold, utilitarian way. Math is essential not just for STEM careers or calculating tax. Math is worth teaching because it helps students find structure, strength, and sometimes, a sense of self.

Math, when taught well, is not about speed or memorization. It is about sense-making. It asks us to look closer, pause longer, and see patterns in what first seems like chaos. The moment a child discovers that odd numbers always leave one behind, or that the area of a triangle is not just base times height but a story of how space behaves—that is when the magic happens. I once saw a fourth-year student, who had been silent for weeks, suddenly raise her hand and say, “Sir, ang galing pala ng formula na ‘to. Parang hindi siya gawa-gawa.” That moment is what we call connection. It is not about the formula. It is about the wonder behind it.

Teaching math is teaching people how to think. Not just how to compute, but how to confront uncertainty with logic. In a world drowning in misinformation, numbers—when understood critically—can liberate us. During the pandemic, when everyone was talking about R-naughts, vaccine efficacy, and exponential growth, those who grasped basic mathematical modeling were the ones who could understand what was happening and make better decisions. Math helped make sense of life and death. As Paolo Sy, a UP statistician, once noted, “The numbers were never just numbers. They were stories of lives saved or lost.” That is why teaching math matters. It arms people with the capacity to discern, to see behind the curtain.

But let us be honest. Math is also difficult to teach because it has been historically misrepresented as a subject for the gifted or the naturally inclined. From the moment a child hears an adult say “I was never good at math,” they absorb that defeat. As math educators, we must unlearn this cycle of generational math trauma. Every time we reduce math to drills and grades, we miss the opportunity to build identity, resilience, and joy. Math should not be a filter that sorts students into achievers and failures. It should be a flashlight—one that helps illuminate how things work, and how we can solve real problems using careful, clear thinking.

Many of our students carry shame about their “math skills” without realizing that the math they know—used to compute change in a sari-sari store or estimate construction materials—is already powerful. We must stop defining mathematical intelligence solely within the context of classroom exams. In truth, there is more mathematical creativity in a farmer measuring rice sacks by feel or a jeepney driver calculating trip earnings than in a calculator-dependent worksheet. Math is not confined to the classroom. It is embedded in everyday life—we just need to reframe it, honor it, and teach it in a way that reflects this reality.

To do that, we must shift from teaching compliance to cultivating curiosity. Teaching math should feel more like asking, “What do you notice?” rather than “What is the correct answer?” It should be about forming questions, playing with ideas, and sometimes, being okay with not knowing right away. As Stanford professor Jo Boaler reminds us, “Speed is not a measure of intelligence. Depth is.” I saw this once in a math camp we held in Iloilo. A student, often dismissed for being too slow, spent nearly thirty minutes wrestling with a geometry problem others gave up on. When he finally solved it—on his own terms—the grin on his face was not just about getting the answer right. It was about knowing he was capable of hard thinking. That feeling? That sticks.

Learners need math, not just for future jobs but for present disposition. Our learners deserve to understand interest rates before they sign up for a loan. They should know how to read election graphs, make sense of climate data, and speak up logically and clearly. Math helps them do that. As UNESCO noted in 2023, math builds civic power and helps level the playing field. We are not just training future engineers—we are shaping informed citizens. We are raising critical citizens who can decode the world.

There is also something quietly radical about teaching math in a way that celebrates mistake-making. In many classrooms, students fear being wrong. But in math, mistakes are not failures. They are invitations. That wrong answer might be the first step to insight. When a child dares to try, despite being unsure, they are already practicing courage. As systems biology professor Peter Sims put it, “Discovery emanates from the ability to try seemingly wild possibilities… to be misunderstood, despite conventional wisdom.” When we create math classrooms that value thinking over perfection, we create space for humanity to flourish.

Of course, teaching math can be exhausting. It means repeating yourself. It means explaining fractions for the fourth time in a week to the same student and smiling like it is the first. It means feeling the weight of systemic gaps—students who come to you unprepared, uninspired, undernourished, overworked. But it also means getting to witness those sudden sparks: the aha-moments, the questions that surprise you, the doodles in notebooks that reveal a child’s understanding in ways tests never can. These are sacred moments. They are why many of us stay.

So why teach math? Because it matters. Because it builds minds that can think beyond instructions. Because it helps young people feel seen—not just as grades on a paper, but as thinkers with agency and brilliance. We teach math not just for the equations, but for the quiet transformation it enables—when a child who thought she was “bobo sa math” finally sees herself differently. That shift, that spark, is worth every late night of checking papers, every trial-and-error lesson, every classroom meltdown turned into breakthrough. We teach math because it teaches us what it means to be human.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.