Chemistry is the devil. This is the notion that followed me into my first day at high school. Throughout junior high I was inundated with horror stories about titrations and stoichiometry, words that struck fear into the hearts of high school students everywhere. I entered my first chemistry class shaking like a leaf.

My hands trembled as Mrs. Estes passed out the rules for her class. She informed us that we would not pass this class unless we put forth more time and effort than we had grown accustomed to in junior high. The message I heard, however, was “Ha, now I’ve got you, and you will change your ways or I will tear you to bits.” My blood ran cold; chemistry was going to destroy me.

I barely heard a word of that first lesson, and I left class ashen-faced and depressed. Back at home, the excitement of seeing all my friends again quickly wore off when I opened my backpack and saw that blue binder with “Chemistry” written across the cover in cute little bubble letters. No bubble letters could fool me; there was nothing bubbly about the information stored within.

Procrastination became my new best friend on that night and during the following weeks. I waited until the last minute to do my chemistry homework, ensuring that I would be so tired that none of the information would actually soak in. Fear was my guiding star. If I actually began to understand the work, I imagined, the nightmares would creep in and take over my dreams. Since chemistry already dominated most of my waking hours, I was determined not to allow this intruder to infringe on my peaceful nights.

My friends all knew about my troubles in chemistry. Having overcome my junior high timidity, I talked to my friends about everything. How could this demon of my days be any exception?

I complained with the best of them.
Those of my friends who were also in chemistry sympathized with me, and we consoled each other. Although my grades in the class were wonderful, I was convinced that my “good luck” would soon wear off, and I vocalized this concern frequently. A new homework assignment encouraged a plethora of moans and groans from all but the quietest students in the course. And each quiz was cause for alarm, as well as some preemptive Tylenol to ward off the inevitable stress headache lurking just around the corner.

My mom heard an even worse version of this horror story. Based on my ranting each night, she believed that I was failing chemistry and was going to have to drop out because the strain was too great. I had Mom convinced that chemistry was invading everything from my social life to my prayer life without my consent. The rest of my family believed the same thing. Here was their hope for the future, and she was going to flunk out of high school chemistry.

Malvern High School’s chemistry teacher did nothing to alleviate our fears. She was imposing, and her expectations were high. Mrs. Estes demanded excellence, and she did not accept anything less. Late homework was unheard of. Excuses were not tolerated. She wasn’t completely insensitive to her students’ problems. She sympathized, but she knew that no excuses are accepted in the real world, the world which she was preparing us for. The firmness with which she conducted her class generated a lot of hate from her students.

In truth, chemistry was not nearly the monster I had expected it to be. The information was completely new and different from anything I had encountered in previous science classes. After the initial shock of being presented with so much information, I found myself looking forward to each lesson. I even read ahead in the book, trying to glean as much information as possible from the textbook that I professed to hate with a passion. As it turned out, that passion had been misdirected.

Thanks to my predisposed hatred of something I knew nothing about, I lived the first few weeks and even months of my sophomore year with a constant look of pain on my face. I put more effort into chemistry than any other class I had ever taken. But somewhere between homework complaints and mind-blowing quizzes, I managed to have time to develop a passion for this precise science. Blindly copying homework and praying for the best on quizzes turned into makeshift lunchtime study sessions and after school tutorials. The conversion from spiteful student to willing teacher happened overnight. My passion for teaching, the passion I had nursed from a young age, had spilled over into my most hated subject, turning hatred into pure delight and anticipation. Chemistry didn’t have to be painful, as I quickly discovered. Every day since I made that discovery, I have been trying to vanquish the deeply rooted assumption that chemistry is impossible and unimportant. This has become my goal, not only to teach chemistry but to teach it in such a way that students come into my class excited about learning because they know all about my class – and love it.

My new attitude concerning chemistry opened a wellspring of knowledge, as well as a completely fresh outlook on learning. Chemistry gave me the discipline I needed to finish high school and equipped me with the tools I now employ daily in college. From fear to anticipation, from anxiety to excitement, I have made a complete transformation. Chemistry, the aforementioned devil, has turned out to be a blessing in disguise.