How my elite education failed me: Let me count the ways — and the dollars

High school was one of those great experiences that prepared me for life.

But I have to admit it: I was among the fortunate who attended a school for the so-called “white privileged” — at least through my junior year anyway. That made my experience even more rewarding — or so they tell me.

Naturally in a very competitive environment, there were no woodshop or auto mechanics classes. We only could take the courses that Ivy League universities felt were appropriate. Any deviation from these requirements, we were told, would lead to a life of hard physical work, misery and poverty — not to mention incredible ignorance.

There were also statistics that “proved” college graduates made more money when compared to those with a high school diplomas and trade schools. (Hummm: tell that to my plumber, electrician or building contractor.)

But these points are irrelevant when one considers the value of academic courses mastered. Take algebra, for example.

Probably the most useful thing I remember in this class was discovering the outside temperature by how fast ants moved across a sidewalk. Because of this knowledge, I’ve never had to buy a thermometer.

Only problem is it doesn’t work when temperatures are below freezing, nor is it practical for testing the readiness of an oven-roasted turkey. (I suppose that last one could work if I sprinkle those little guys on the bird when the wife’s not looking.)

How about calculus? That’s the branch of mathematics that deals with the finding and properties of derivatives and integrals of functions by methods originally based on the summation of infinitesimal differences. (Did you get that? Neither did I.)

It comes in really handy trying to figure out how to save water when a faucet is turned on and the flow rate represented by t, that is, the number of minutes the faucet is turned on, and… Oh, if I could only remember the rest of that formula, along with everything else in that class, I could probably save a couple of bucks on my water bill.

Then there was chemistry. It was full of periodic tables, elements, compounds, atoms, electrons, neutrons, protons, Fig Newtons and morons. But after a year of all that, I still can’t figure out what works best to remove dog poop from a Chinese rug.

And let’s not forget foreign language. Most people who take these courses in high school barely remember how to say hello in their chosen language. Latin was popular back then, and I can still say “te amo mea” (I love you, my love). The ladies really liked that one.

What about English literature? Remember Geoffrey Chaucer? “The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.” No wonder I can’t spell.

And what about Shakespeare? We had to memorize a lot of that stuff: “To be, or not to be, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them. To die — to sleep, no more; and by a sleep we say we end…”

OK, so what does memorizing Shakespeare prove other than I have a lousy memory? I mean, who talks like that anyway? Why not just say, “Look, life can suck. I got my problems and you got yours. Am I going to play this game out or just get whacked in a drive by?” Now doesn’t that make a lot more sense?

Don’t get me wrong. Having a classical education can really make me look cool at D.C. cocktail parties; that is, if I ever get invited to one. But unfortunately, it doesn’t do me a lot of good in Lodi. I just look like a highfinned Cadillac at a Corvette club meet.

With all my fancy high school education, I can’t even impress my plumber. The other day, I had to call him for a simple repair — once again.

I went to Lowe’s and bought a new toilet flusher. It’s seemed simple enough. But after my instillation, it kept shutting off prematurely.

I used all the logic they taught me in high school. But somehow, that intellectual training didn’t transfer to the simplest of everyday mechanical devices.

After a five-second evaluation, “It’s hitting the lid” was the plumber’s diagnosis. He was out the door before I could say “duh,” and another bill had been added to my ongoing debt.

Well, at least I can recite the poem “Ozymandias.” I also know who composed “Clair de Lune” and I can give you the chemical formula for Roundup.

But I still can’t clean a rug or fix a simple toilet.