Tagged: school
Before You Subtract…Abstract
What makes a person want to learn?
What makes a person want to teach?
What does it take to convince a 14-year old that knowing how to add/subtract/multiple/divide fractions is valuable? Is knowing how to manipulate fractions valuable?
I spent some time reading a book about algebra recently, and noticed the author put special, but still less than I would have, emphasis on some major moments in the history of math. The first being the invention/recognition of the number “0”. Another being the move from numbers being practical to being abstract; that is, from counting 5 apples or 5 sheep to understanding that “5” can be a useful concept without the practical application. Did you catch that? Numbers began with practical application. Afterwards, the giants of math discovered numbers and math in abstraction. Because of these giants, we’ll be colonizing other planets in our lifetime.
In reviewing this chronology, I think I picked up on something. The problem a high school teacher faces is not convincing several-grade-levels-behind teenagers of the practical application of fractions, but convincing them of the importance of abstract thought. You might be thinking that reminding students that if Matt pays $3.75 and John $1.25, unless Matt is feeling nice, John should only get 2 slices of the Hot’n’Ready seems the better route at this juncture. Don’t be foolish, it is not. Really, who cares how many slices of pizza a couple of high teenagers eat? The bigger problem is that there are four years left until these two knuckleheads will never again be members of a captive audience. There are four years until they will officially become adults in the legal sense of the word, regardless of their not having achieved manhood in the abstract sense of the word.
How to proceed then? How about heeding Thoreau?
“No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips; — not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’s speech. Two thousand summers have imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of time. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will not refuse them. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind. When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches, and further proves his good sense by the pains which be takes to secure for his children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it is that he becomes the founder of a family.”
An August Horror
A shudder rippled through his body. It felt visible, but no one seemed to notice.
He did his best to maintain his composure. He had only just turned away from it when “SNAP!” Without warning he had actually broken the pen he was holding. Exhausted, he realized he was tense beyond belief. His vision wasn’t focused as he sat contemplating everything, but the noise caused him to see that he was staring at it again. Why?
Symmetrical, he knew the round objects could be beautiful in other settings, if they weren’t paired together. Hanging on the wall just a few inches below the ceiling, they were menacing. The one on the right measured time. He wondered how many times it had tormented him before, only to transform as soon as the halfway point was reached. After that, he was always relieved. After that, it became a source of hope.
It wasn’t the clock, but what was left of the it that really gave him nightmares. When he was younger, all the time; these days only while he slept did it cause these nightmares. He felt a paralyzing fear. Who would invent such a dreadful device? Torturous, its design irritated him to this very day. An impenetrable grid of metal covering who knew what–for who knew what reason. He was curious if there had ever been an attack, or if the designers knew precisely the evil they were creating and preemptively bolstered its defensive systems.
He realized everyone was staring at him, just as he stared at the object. He would never know for how long he had been shouting profanities. Luckily, this time around, he was the teacher. This time around the speaker, that formless voice dictating orders as if by divine right, had no hold over him. This time he had no concern for, nor did he need to know, anything it issued forth. This time, he told himself, he wouldn’t be disturbed by it.
He feigned a calm, collected exterior as he and his students waited together. Everyone heard the familiar peremptory crackle of the P.A. They were only moments away now. He thought he could do it. He thought he was bigger. He thought he was more mature. He thought he was grown.
“Good morning school,” the speaker spewed. “This is your principal speaking. Welcome to the first day of the 2013-14 school year.”
Running as fast as he could, he arrived at his car out of breath. Keys in the ignition, the DJ’s giving away concert tickets, he was determined to leave. But he couldn’t. He started this journey, and he could never forgive himself for quitting.