The Math Exam

by Ovi Catanescu

Somehow, I made it all the way to the Romanian baccalaureate—the series of final examinations required to graduate from high school.

I was happy that I had completed my senior year without failing a class. I had classmates and teachers who had helped me reach that point.

But my happiness came with one enormous worry: the oral mathematics examination. Of all the baccalaureate exams, this is the one I remember most clearly.

Although I attended a high school program focused on mathematics and science, math and I had never been particularly good friends. I had learned only as much as necessary to pass my classes. I had other plans for my life, and mathematics was not part of them.

That strategy was not helping me now.

I was convinced that I could not pass the oral examination, especially the mathematical analysis portion. There was no longer enough time to learn everything I had avoided learning during four years of high school, so I came up with a different plan.

I spoke with my classmate Dragoș Vasiloiu and asked him to help me. My plan was to enter the examination room in the same group as Dragoș and Matheo. Dragoș would solve my assigned problem, and I would present his solution at the blackboard.

Only one small problem remained: I had to convince our mathematics teacher, Mr. Bălăianu, to allow this arrangement.

I went to him and explained that I suffered from terrible exam anxiety and could remain calm only if Dragoș and Matheo were beside me.

He looked at me and smiled.

He explained that it was impossible. My name was Cătănescu, under the letter C. Dragoș Vasiloiu was under V, and Cristian Teodorescu—whom we called Matheo—was under T. According to the rules, I had to enter when my name appeared in alphabetical order, especially because an education inspector would be serving on the examination committee.

I told him that I understood perfectly. But I also explained that if I could not enter with Dragoș and Matheo, my anxiety would make it impossible for me to pass.

I no longer remember whether I, Dragoș, or somebody else finally convinced him. Somehow, Mr. Bălăianu agreed to let me skip the C group and enter with my friends.

We walked into the examination room. Dragoș solved my assigned problem, and I presented the solution at the blackboard.

Everything went beautifully. The members of the committee appeared satisfied.

Then the inspector decided to ask me one additional question, probably to make certain that I truly understood mathematical analysis.

“Please draw the graph of the function f(x)=x on the board.”

Of course, I did not know how.

I drew the two coordinate axes—and then I froze.

The inspector looked at me and said:

“I can see that your anxiety has caused you to freeze. You presented your original problem very well.”

He rose from his chair, walked over to the blackboard, and—with the confident hand of a master—drew the one line I had been unable to draw.

Then he allowed me to pass the examination.

At the time, that exam had felt like a genuine tragedy. Looking back today, I understand that there was something very special between Mr. Bălăianu and the boys of Class IV-B—our twelfth-grade class. I am convinced that he cared deeply about us, even if he never said so directly.

I also remember that during our senior year, Mr. Bălăianu didn’t merely enjoy watching soccer. He liked playing it with us in the schoolyard during breaks or whenever we found enough time for a quick game.

One day, he was playing on the same team as Mihai Conțiu and me. My classmates encouraged me to send him a good pass in front of the goal so that he could score.

They said that doing him such a favor might help me during the baccalaureate exam.

I passed him the ball.

Mr. Bălăianu scored.

And who knows?

Perhaps he really did help me.