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?
Now and then, an article lands in my inbox, promising that some technology will remake the classroom. Our schools, apparently, are as outdated as car-phones or medical leeches. It’s time to welcome the flipped classroom, the MOOC, the data-driven world.
It’s not all wrong, I’m sure. But it makes me wonder: How well do we actually know the classroom? Before we start drastic renovations, we should make sure we’ve got a clear view of the structure that’s already in place. And I’m not sure we do.
The story of the classroom is devilishly hard to tell.
Man—I had a whole, scathing essay written and ready to go.
The title: The SAT Changed Their Guessing Policy to Appear Fairer, But It’s Actually Less Fair. “With the ACT pulling ahead in the admissions test Cola Wars,” I wrote, “I struggle to greet the SAT’s announced changes with anything but cynicism.”
I was halfway into the boxing ring when I realized I was on the wrong side of the fight.
This little fable is about the SAT’s “guessing penalty,” and while it’s a tale full of technicalities, I promise it’ll end with a moral. A moral so obvious, it’s surprising.
Or perhaps vice versa: so surprising, it’s obvious. Continue reading