TRUE STORY – A funny thing happens when you have an expectation of failure. You generally fail.
…………………………
I remember taking the last Anatomy test of the semester expecting to do poorly, again. When I barely passed, it was no surprise to find my professor’s note written on the inside cover of the Blue book. He diplomatically suggested, this being a basic level class, I should, perhaps, rethink my future vocation in “any science field”.
But it was too late to withdraw from the course.
My only hope of passing it was to do well on the final. But unless I figured out a super-human way to learn the origin, insertion and action of muscles in the human body, this course would bleed too much from me. Namely, three college credits, two hundred dollars of hard-earned cash from a crappy work-study job — making change at a pinball room — and one agonizing semester that sucked away my last teenage year.
My roommate, a Biology Chemical Science phenom, was supportive. Anatomy is the easiest class, she said. This from someone who memorized Gray’s Anatomy better than I had Jimmy’s Greek Sub & Pizza menu.
She did offer some great tips — flashcards and practice tests and color coded worksheets. We even sneaked into a lab one night and labeled the insertion points on a skeleton.
Nothing really clicked with me.
I chalked it up to not having the brain type able to learn complicated words or technical things with long, unpronounceable names. Yet even Jimmy understood when a non-Greek ordered “that spinach pie thing,” he wrapped you up a nice big piece of his grandmother’s prized Spanakopita.
No question about it: I expected to fail the Anatomy final.
Except, on the way back to the dorm, I had one of those elusive Eureka moments.
Fueled by late night munchies, my roomie and I got to singing the “McDonald’s Is Your Happy Place” jingle, the altered kid’s version. Instead of “french fries between your toes” somehow the words “orbicularis oris” came out. Followed by “buccinator”, another muscle our body uses to smile.” All perfectly matched to the jingle. And just like that more names rolled off my tongue, verse after verse, muscle after muscle. Helped by the vertacalis, of course.
For the next few days I set the insertion, origin and action of the facial muscles to a hamburger joint jingle. I hummed it in the shower and sang it all over campus.
On the day of the final exam I walked into class with a song in my head and a number two pencil in my hand. With all the practice, I approached the test with a renewed expectation of doing well.
It was short-lived.
The physical test all of a sudden looked foreign to me. More than the wannabe doctors, nurses in training and future Nobel Prize winners in Physiology and Medicine who filled in their little circles with confidence.
The professor and I locked eyes. His look of frustration from having me occupy a seat in his classroom sent a wave of panic up my spine. Nerves. To be covered in Anatomy & Physiology 2, next semester.
The first question is what threw me a bit.
I was sure of the answer, but it was buried somewhere in the jingle string of long muscle names. There was only one way to get there. I started to sing. At first I played it cool, keeping the jingle in my head. But at each test question I had to start the song anew. My head bee-bopped as I mouthed the words. Thank you, orbicularis oris.
When I hit on the correct origin or insertion or action, I read over the multiple choice options and filled in the circle. Ninety minutes of singing and scribbling, but I finished, and on time.
The next day I wove through the crowd of A-plus students towards the professor’s office door where he posted test results. I ran my finger across the sheet to find my name marked with an asterisk. At the bottom of the sheet: *See the professor.
In his office he presented me with my test score: 82! I thought surely he wanted to congratulate me in person. After all, it had been a tough semester for both of us.
I’d have been happy with a handshake or a pat on the back, but instead, he accused me of cheating.
From his perspective he made a fair point. The girl who sat in the front row with an undeclared major had no place setting foot in the Science building. He did, however, give me credit for my excellent attendance.
Great.
Still, I was no cheater, and felt compelled to defend my honor.
I admitted Anatomy wasn’t my thing. And my only interest in the subject going forward would be on a need-to-know basis.
He wiped his brow at that.
“Like in the event a really big bone snaps and sticks out of someone’s thigh,” I added. He raised his hand up for me to stop.
“So, how did you pass this exam so well?”
I summed up my hamburger jingle.
“Interesting…Music Mnemonics,” he said.
“Music…what?”
“Sing it for me.”
“The jingle? Seriously?”
“If you want to pass this class, sing me your McDonald’s Muscle Jingle.”
I motioned to the two other professors who shared the office, suddenly interested in my oral final exam.
“Go ahead,” he said, losing his patience.
Let’s just say there were no voice awards given out that day, but it satisfied my professor and provided a few minutes of cheap entertainment for his colleagues.
“Maybe someday,” he said, handing me my final grade, “you’ll write about this.”
Employing my genioglossus, the muscle that aids in sticking out one’s tongue, I left his office and marched directly to the Registrar’s Office. To change my major. To General Studies.
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Photo Courtesy: Matthew Smith
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