Aside from you chronically late people, we all know how time works:
This system is okay. But also, it’s kind of crazy.
Why 60 minutes per hour? Why 60 seconds per minute? It goes back to Babylon, with their base 60 number system—the same heritage that gives us 360 degrees in a circle. Now, that’s all well and good for Babylon 5 fans, but our society isn’t base-60. It’s base-10. Shouldn’t our system of measuring time reflect that?
So ring the bells, beat the drums, and summon the presidential candidates to “weigh in,” because I hereby give you… metric time.
Now, this represents a bit of a change. The new seconds are a bit shorter. The new minutes are a bit longer. And the new hours are quite different—nearly two and a half times as long.
So why do this? Because it’d be so much easier to talk about time!
One afternoon, the head of my department caught me in the staff room and posed a musing question.
(He later confessed that he was just curious if he could play puppet-master with this blog. The answer is a resounding yes: I dance like the puppet I am.)
So, do we have ceilings?
The traditional orthodoxy says, “Absolutely yes.” There’s high IQ and low IQ. There are “math people” and “not math people.” Some kids just “get it”; others don’t.
Try asking adults about their math education: They refer to it like some sort of NCAA tournament. Everybody gets eliminated, and it’s only a question of how long you can stay in the game. “I couldn’t handle algebra” signifies a first-round knockout. “I stopped at multivariable calculus” means “Hey, I didn’t win, but I’m proud of making it to the final four.”
But there’s a new orthodoxy among teachers, an accepted wisdom which says, “Absolutely not.” Continue reading
Our teacher’s gone utterly crazy.
No one can fathom her wrath.
She wants us to do the impossible:
She wants us to study for math.
How can you study for something
where talent is so black-and-white?
You get it, or don’t.
You’ll pass, or you won’t.
It’s pointless to put up a fight.
Her mind must have leaked out, like water,
and slipped down the drain of the bath.
I might as well “read up on breathing”
as study for something like math.
Math’s an implacable tyrant,
a game that I never can win.
And even if I stood a prayer of success,
how would I even begin?
My teacher, the madwoman, told me:
“First, list the things that you know.”
Her mind’s gone to rot.
Still, I’ll give it a shot,
though I’m sure that there’s nothing to—
In college, I was one of those compulsive read-everything kids. I even felt pangs of guilt when I skipped optional reading. But there was one gaping hole in this policy of mine, large enough to squeeze a whole degree through.
I never did the reading for math. You know, my major.
I’m not proud of it, but I know I’m not alone. As students from primary school to PhD have discovered, mathematical writing is a different beast. It’s not just a matter of jargon, equations, or obscure Greek letters. It’s something more basic about the way mathematical texts are structured and paced.
The trick is this: In mathematics, you say things precisely once.
(And no, I’m not going to repeat that.)
the first post in a series
(see also parts 2, 3, and 4)
“I’m planning a series of posts,” I told my dad the other day as he drove me home from the airport. “The title is How to Avoid Thinking in Math Class.”
Before I could get any further, he rubber-stamped the idea. “That sounds great! I always tell people, the point of school is to help you not to think.”
It’s a good thing he was the one behind the wheel, because if it were me, I’d have slammed the brakes and spat my latte all over the windshield.
a fable about the origins of those helpful counting thingies
Once there weren’t numbers,
and life was cold and sad.
You might say “I’ve got lots of stuff!”
but not how much you had.
You could gather flowers,
but you couldn’t count them up.
You could ask for chocolate milk,
but not a “second” cup.
And though their eyes could see just fine,
the people still were blind.
They held things in their arms and hands,
but never in their minds.
or, How to Call Out Mistakes without Trampling the Mistaken
It was the end of our first day on limits—a deep and slippery concept, the engine of calculus—when Melanie exclaimed, “Wait. Shouldn’t that limit be 4, not 6?”
Nope—it was 6. Melanie’s error suggested that she’d missed the lesson’s most basic truth, an idea that the class had spent the day paraphrasing, analyzing, and shouting in chorus. Talking one-on-one, I could have coached her through the misconception. But hers was a public declaration, in front of the whole room.
Even before the words had left Melanie’s mouth, I could hear the groan welling up among the students, murmured ridicule and the slapping of foreheads soon to follow. They all knew it. She didn’t. From Melanie’s blushing, you could read her self-esteem falling like a mercury thermometer.
And so I found myself confronting one of the teacher’s daily puzzles: what do you say when a student is wrong?