That’s what happened to me.

Math and I have a checkered past. I convinced myself in the sixth grade that I was awful at it because I wasn’t getting easy As anymore, and spent the rest of my school years fearing and failing it. My math phobia kept me out of the sciences and medicine, and pushed me into the humanities. I got through my initial career avoiding it, which was easy: Those in the media are a notoriously math-hating bunch. But seven years ago, I enrolled in a pre-algebra class at a community college, and eventually wound up retaking all of high-school math through calculus.

By the last class, I had come to not only appreciate math, but to also—maybe—love it. Most importantly, I realized my childhood fear—that I wasn’t capable of understanding abstract math—was unfounded.

And as I went through my community-college courses, I realized something else was a lie. I had actually been using abstract math, like algebra and geometry, all my adult life. So much for the trope that such math was useless outside the classroom; I just couldn’t see past my own bad memories.

Finally, I realized the problem had never been math, but the system, and the prejudices of the people in that system. My school years were filled with so many teachers and counselors and family members who seemed all too happy to let me think math was not for me. Reasons included that I was not a genius, and advanced math is only for geniuses; or that I should stick to writing, because most people are either word people or number people. There was also my gender, and this was a system that assumed—and continues to assume—that girls simply lack the same spatial reasoning as boys, so math is better for boys.

And so, as I watched Hacker take the podium for his opening argument, I was leery but prepared to listen. Alas, he disappointed me quickly.

While I agreed with him that for many, failing a math course can derail them from college, never mind graduation, he lost me when he insisted struggling students shouldn’t have to bother with more abstract math. The teenaged me would have rejoiced outwardly at no longer being forced to deal with functions—but inwardly, it would have been the confirmation of my groundless fears: Sorry, you’re too stupid to even try this.

I contacted him later to ask about this concern, and he wrote me the following:

Alternative classes in quantitative reasoning can be just as rigorous. One of the many myths discussed in my book is that the standard mathematics sequence sharpens quantitative skills. Abstract algebraic and geometric reasoning don’t help you untangle the federal budget or a corporate report.

Setting aside loftier aspirations of balancing the federal budget, or steering a corporation’s finances, it wasn’t until Algebra II that I was taught the equation for compound interest. Understanding how exponential growth works has helped me decide on everything from which credit card to choose to realizing a variable-rate mortgage is a terrible idea. I have watched friends lose their homes to such mortgages, and in too many cases, it was the math that intimidated them. But as long as Hacker’s alternate courses tackle such helpful equations, and explain the concept of exponential growth, I’m on board. How they will do this without embracing more complex algebra is a better question.