johnmaconline

Disobeying this one almost sunk me.

Heading to the backend of the second semester of my freshman year, I had started to figure out some things about how I learn best, but I was about to learn the most important one.

Finals week was upon me, and it was a killer. I limped in with a C in both Calc II and Physics, both four-credit classes, and needed a win on each of those final exams to boost my grade. I took the Calculus test early in the week. Meh. I didn’t know my grade, but I knew I didn’t hit it out of the park. Next up was Physics at 8 am on Thursday. I had to nail this one.

One thing I’ve always known about myself when taking tests — I have to be well-rested. A clear head from a good night’s sleep always serves me better than cramming until the last second. Many fellow students pulled all-nighters regularly, but it wasn’t normally my thing for studying.

Wednesday night found me reeling and unconfident. Around midnight, I thought about packing it in and relying on a good night’s sleep. But I decided to keep going and work on more problems. Finally, around 3 am, I couldn’t do it anymore. I set my alarm for 5 to get a two-hour nap before picking it up again. 

The next thing I knew, my clock read 8:13.

I don’t know if I didn’t set it correctly or if I woke up and, in a stupor, turned it off and went back to sleep, but regardless, I had already missed the beginning of the test. I jumped up, threw on clothes, and ran out towards Eisenhower Auditorium, normally a 15-minute walk from my dorm.

Each semester, about 800 students enroll in freshman physics (Phys 201). Eisenhower seats about 2500, which is why we’re taking this test in this room. This is a monster course with no ability for personal attention or excuses. Here’s your score. Here’s the mean. Here’s your grade. Black and white.  

I arrived right around 8:25, and immediately ran towards the stage of the giant room to plead my case to the professor. To my surprise, I wasn’t the only one! Three other students were already pleading their case for more time due to oversleeping. I piled on.

But to no avail. He denied each one of us. He’d be collecting all tests at exactly 9:30.

I grabbed a test and ran to the first seat I could find, having wasted another 5 – 10 minutes. Needless to say, I didn’t get it done. Plus, I wasn’t at my best on the finished ones.

I failed. The only time in my life I’ve ever failed any graded test. The failed final gave me a D in the class. In engineering, you need C in physics or you must retake it. When I got my final grade and saw the D, I tried to contact the professor and plead my case again. Didn’t work. 

Not only would I be repeating Physics 201, but my second semester GPA was a 2.4, giving me a cumulative GPA of 2.5.

I was going in the wrong direction. 

My first semester punched me in the face. 

I had never seen a C before on a report card, let alone a sub-3.00 cumulative average. I now had a couple of lessons under my belt, but as it would turn out, not nearly enough.

My two best friends were also engineers, but they were hoping to be mechanical. They lived a couple of doors down from me. Aside from the halo of 15 guys that all hung around together, the three of us were peas in a pod. Unfortunately, even though we needed to take several of the same classes, we weren’t on the same schedule. 

About halfway through the semester, I’m struggling with two classes in particular — Math 141 (Calculus II) and Physics 201. But I’m trying. I’m going to class and trying to do the work, but its hard. Hard material and hard for me to concentrate. I’m easily distracted in a dorm full of my best friends.

One evening, I walk down the hall to my buddy’s room. Knock. They’re not there. Now that I think about it, they’ve been gone just about every evening recently. Where the heck are they going?

Later that night, I find them in the room and pose the question, “Where the heck have you guys been going at night?”

“Um…Well…We’ve been going elsewhere to study.”

“What? Where? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“Because we can’t study here. We can’t concentrate. It’s too distracting. And to be honest, you were part of the problem.”

Ooof.

I probably blinked at them for a few seconds while that sunk in. But I recovered.

“OK, I get it. But tell me where you’re going. Let me come with you and I promise I won’t bother you. I also need a better place to do work.”

They proceeded to tell me about the library and any random building on campus with its door open (most were open all the time in the late 80s) — just pick a room. I had never even thought of this. It never crossed my mind to leave my room to study. At home, my parents insisted that I study in my bedroom. It was all I knew. Of course, at home, I didn’t have 15 best friends right down the hall. 

They relented, and the next night, after dinner, we headed to the library, and I discovered the solitary confinement of the stacks. Here was the third lesson — create an environment conducive to what you need to concentrate.

I was hooked and going somewhere else to study really did help. 

Unfortunately, it was the next lesson that almost sunk me.

I aced my first college test, and it ruined my first semester.

The first test of my college career was in freshman chemistry — Chem 12. A 20-ish question, multiple-choice test, 6:30 at night in the forum. Right or wrong answers only. No partial credit for showing your work.

I hadn’t done the homework (the professor didn’t collect homework). Extra problems for practice? You gotta be kidding me. I didn’t study. I intended to, I really did, but I was too busy having fun with all my new friends.

I walked into the test nervous because I didn’t know what to expect, and I knew I hadn’t studied. But here’s the thing — the first month of Chem 12 was just a review of everything I already knew from chemistry in high school and I was pretty good at taking tests.

An hour later, I handed in my scantron paper with a smile and walked out thinking, “That was a breeze. This college thing is easy like high school!”

And that screwed the rest of my semester. I did the minimum, thinking I’d get maximum scores, just like that first chemistry test.

The result? A 2.6 GPA, which included a C+ in Chem 12 (a steep dive after the first test) and a C in Econ 14.

The second lesson about learning that I figured out by the end of my first semester was “do the work.” Study for the test. Do the practice problems. Yes, even the extra ones.

The first time it caught up to me, I woke up in a lecture hall all by myself.

Within 48 hours of arriving at Penn State, I found 20 new like-minded friends.

Wanna walk downtown? Yes!
Wanna play softball? Yes!
Wanna explore campus? Yes!
Beer? Yes!
Wanna hang out and listen to music till 3am? Yes!
Oh, you’re a hockey player? Wanna play on my team? Yes!

OK, all normal stuff, but what wasn’t normal was the sheer quantity of opportunity and the complete lack of understanding of when to say “no.” I did it all. Except study.

And over that first month, I found my schedule slowly skewing later and later. Eleven pm bed became 1 am bed, which became 3 am bed. But my class schedule was full of 8 am classes.

Econ 14 — Principles of Economics. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 8 am in the Biotech building in a lecture hall with 150 other students. There I was, sleeping like a log during the lecture.

I don’t know what the end of that lecture looked like, but in my head, 150 students tip-toed out of the lecture hall, pointing and snickering at me. Maybe it was the professor’s idea. Or maybe nobody really noticed, and they just left normally.

Regardless, I woke with a start and I was the only one in the room. Completely empty except for me. I looked at my watch — class ended twenty minutes ago. I was late for my next one.

In a pool of spit and solitary embarrassment, I found my first lesson about how to learn. I’d need to get a handle on my schedule. No more 8 am classes if I could avoid them, and if I had to take one, I’d better take it seriously the night before.

Sometimes, I’ll have to say no to fun.

I almost wasn’t accepted into my major.

Not only didn’t high school prepare me for college, but I think it hurt me. I have a good memory for things like dates, names, formulas, and definitions. I did a lot of homework on the bus ride to school or in homeroom once I got there. Through high school, studying for me was an exercise in breezing over the dates, names, formulas, and definitions right before the test.

I did well on the SATs, graduated in the top 10% of my class of 220, and gained acceptance into all three colleges I applied to (University of Colorado, Boston University, and Penn State). This was the mid-80s, so it was well before SAT prep classes, gamified school rankings, college application coaches, essays, DEI quotas, and personal mission statements.

Then I got to Penn State and promptly fell on my face — 2.5 GPA after my first year, including a D in freshman physics, which meant I had to retake the class. I’d never seen a C on a report card in high school.

I spent the next four years digging out from the hole I dug in my first two semesters. I never cracked a cumulative 3.00. My high water mark was 2.99, and I graduated with a 2.95.

I had no idea how to manage my time and live on my own. I had no idea how to study. I had no idea how to think about problems.

I had no idea how to learn.

So, step one was to figure out how to learn.

The first step in getting the facts is to know where they are.

With grocery store items, you’ll find the facts on the nutrition and ingredient label, not on the front label.
For research papers, you’ll find the facts in the section labeled “data,” not in the abstract or the conclusion sections.
In a financial report, you’ll (hopefully) find the facts in the balance sheet and income statements, not in the executive summary or footnotes.
In the courtroom, you might find the facts in the presented evidence, but you won’t in the opening or closing arguments.
For a car, you’ll find the facts on the performance and spec sheet, not in the TV commercial.

In today’s culture of weaponized “facts,” it’s helpful to know where to find them.

“Which side are you on?”

I’ve seen a lot of this recently. We all have. Between politics, world events, and even academia and science.

I’ve always thought that’s the wrong question. First, the question presumes there is a right side and a wrong side. Second, the question presumes you better be on the right side. 

Here are better questions to ask:

• How can we resolve this?
• What can we learn from each other?
• How can we find common ground?
• What do the sides believe?
• How can we find an agreeable outcome?
• What’s the third side?

Dan says to me from around the hood, 

“Come over here, I’ll show you. I’m gonna get in the car and hit the gas. Look right here.”

He pointed to a spot on the left side of the engine.

“You ready?”

“Yup!”

He hit the gas, and I immediately also knew what the problem was — the motor mount was busted. Sheered clean through. As soon as he hit the gas, the whole engine torqued and moved about an inch.

“To verify this causes the noise, let’s turn the wheel to the left and do it again.”

I got in the car, turned the wheel, and hit the gas.

“Bingo!”

We switched places again, and I saw that as the engine torqued and moved, it touched some of the wheel structure. Case closed.

“I can have this fixed in 15 minutes.”

I stood there as he grabbed the welder, got suited up, and went to work on welding the engine mount. When he was done, I asked him how much I owed him.

“I don’t know. How about $25?”

I handed him $25 in cash and asked, “How did the dealer miss this?”

“You gotta understand how they’re trained. They’re trained to diagnose and treat problems as a black box — which means they narrow down the problems described by the customer to a particular system. In your case the front right wheel system. Then, they just replace the parts inside the box. They don’t look inside the box for exactly what might be the problem. They’re rewarded — paid — for the number of jobs they can do in a day, not how many times they found or fixed the little gadget that was the real source of the problem.

Most of the time, black box fixes work fine. They fix your issue. But it is the costliest way to fix the problem because you’re paying for a lot of new stuff you don’t need.

Mechanics like me — we’re white box mechanics. When you come to me with a problem, I find the box, and then open it up and look inside. My goal is to not only fix your issue but do it as efficiently as possible. That saves you money and makes you really happy with me.”

Then I said it out loud, just to verify, 

“The bottom line is that I would have spent $1700 to have them replace all of the wheel infrastructure, but that wouldn’t have actually addressed the problem. As soon as I turned left and accelerated, I would have heard the noise. Man, I woulda been pissed.”

“Yup. In your case, the black box approach would have failed. If you had come in with better information about what caused the problem, for example, pinpointing it to when you accelerated and turned, they may have found the problem. But the solution would still have been an expensive replacement of the motor mount, rather than welding the current one in place.”

I drove out both elated and a lot wiser. 

I skipped across traffic and pulled into the little garage in the triangle. 

I didn’t know what to expect, but I was hoping whoever was there could at least give me some guidance or maybe even do the work for a lot less. I didn’t quite believe the dealer’s assessment of my problem (i.e., the entire right front wheel structure was bent). Plus, I didn’t have the $1700 that they wanted anyway. 

I needed a different solution.

As I cut the engine and got out, a youngish guy with a grey shirt, nametag, and a smile on his face came out to greet me while wiping his hands on a greasy rag. 

“Hi! I’m Dan. Can I help you?”

“I sure hope so…”

And I proceeded to give him the rundown of my predicament and the fact that I didn’t really buy the explanation. 

“Well, I got a few minutes now, pull it in the garage. Let’s pop the hood.”

As we stood in front of the car with the hood up, I stayed silent. Dan leaned in, pulled on a few things, touched a few others, and said “hmmm” several times. Then he told me,

“Get in the car. Let’s start it up. I want to watch it while it’s running.”

I did as told. After 30 seconds or so, he yelled at me over the engine noise, “OK, now hit the gas.”

Five seconds later, I see Dan’s face poke around the hood to look at me with a giant smile.

“I know what the problem is.”

I heard an awful scraping sound occasionally from the front right wheel when I turned left. 

And that was precisely the problem — occasionally. I could not put my finger on it because I couldn’t find the pattern to when it happened other than turning left. Putting my head under the hood and taking the wheel off didn’t enlighten me either. I was stumped. 

My red 1987 Celica helped me learn another lesson about how the system works. This time, the lesson was black box versus white box. 

I had just moved to the area, so I found my local Toyota dealer in the Yellowpages (how quaint) and made the appointment. I dropped it off and three days later got the call.

“Sir, we’ve found the problem. Have you hit anything with this car?” 

“No. Never.”

“Huh, OK. That scraping sound happens because a bunch of the wheel structure is bent. Basically, we have to replace the entire right front wheel…”

And then he listed off the laundry list of stuff he’d have to replace — to the tune of about $1700. I couldn’t pay that. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I knew I’d just have to go get it and figure something else out. Could I do it myself?

“Hmmm. Well, I can’t do that right now. Don’t do anything. I’ll come get it.”

Between my apartment and the car dealer was what I refer to as “the worst intersection in the world.” It’s a heinous five-points thing where three routes come together, two of which are four lanes. It’s a monster, and it’s a ten-minute wait no matter what direction you’re coming from. 

On the way home, I’m coming up on the light, and it looks like I’m gonna make it. I’m getting excited and tailgating the guy in front of me. I’m committed now, no matter when it turns. We’re gonna do this!

But no, it was not to be. Just as we’re approaching the light, it turns yellow, and the person in front of me inexplicably stops. Has he not been here before? Does he not know how much time he just cost us? Does he not know that a yellow light is simply a suggestion?

Regardless, there I sat, one back from the front of the line, steaming. 

Now with plenty of time to contemplate my situation, I noticed that across the intersection, in a little triangle, sat a small one-stall garage with a PA state safety inspection station sign hanging over its entrance. 

Eh, what the heck.