Category: digital instruction

Total 80 Posts

Touche

Jeff Catania:

By the way, I donโ€™t think you donโ€™t have to *teach* conceptual curiosity as the human brain is naturally curious if we let it make connections between ideas to build concepts (constructivism) naturally. We only *think* we have to teach curiosity because student brains have been so dulled by procedures that they merely memorize without stimulating existing neural pathways.

Incidentally, I am in the middle of a post which may never see the light of blog, one which attempts to answer the question, “How should we capture and present digital media for classroom use?” and sets a personal record for most uses of the phrase “for lack of a better word.” The post has tangled around so many media, including but not limited to The Shield, The Wire, No Country For Old Men, Off-Road Algebra, Discovery Education streaming, Caché, David Mamet’s On Directing Film, What Can You Do With This?, Problem Pictures, Graphing Stories, and Dogme 95’s Vow of Chastity. This is fun and maddening, all at once.

The Math Textbook I Would Buy

I have reams of notes at this point, compiled over a month, scattered across two legal pads, all of them attacking the same issue from a dozen different sides: what kind of textbook would a veteran teacher use?

My First Baldly Unsubstantiated Assertion

Veteran teachers lean on textbooks far less than new teachers do, choosing to build their curricula, instead, from a patchwork of problems and applications and sequences they’ve determined through years of trial and error. Like other teachers in the first thread, I use textbooks for longer practice sets, but little else.

The question hassles me, then, what kind of textbook or supplement would veteran teachers use? This seems like a potentially interesting, potentially profitable, discussion.

My Second Baldly Unsubstantiated Assertion

New teachers teach procedure better than concept. Procedure is important โ€“ you’ll never hear me suggest otherwise โ€“ but procedural knowledge is a lot easier to teach than conceptual knowledge, which demands of the teacher both a broad and narrow understanding of (eg.) Algebra, an understanding which can clearly explain (eg.) why the constraints of single-variable equations eventually demand two-variable equations which then demand upgraded solution procedures, etc.

I’m not very good at this, I admit, especially in the upcoming second semester of Algebra, but I know that teaching procedure, scaffolding those skills, and differentiating their assessments, doesn’t interest me like it used to. (And it used to interest me a lot.)

I’m very interested in better conceptual teaching and, especially, in teaching conceptual curiosity.

My Third Baldly Unsubstantiated Assertion

My students’ curiosity will make them better and smarter and more capable people in the long run. I suspect this, unburdened by anything sturdier than anecdote, but I know it can’t hurt and I know that I am rarely happier as a teacher than when my students and I discuss a scenario through a mathematical framework that they wouldn’t ordinarily have given a second thought. (The Golden Gate Bridge raised its toll from $5 to $6 in September, for example. What can’t you do with that?)

The fact is that dead-tree textbooks are at a disadvantage here. Like I said before, I am generally uninspired by my textbook’s perfunctory stabs at real-world relevance but even when the textbook stumbles over an interesting image (a ski lift, for instance) the nature of paper means they must apply the entire mathematical framework โ€“ the labeled points, the grid, the scaled axes, and the questions โ€“ before the student has even given the image a first glance.

They get the process exactly backward. They teach kids to support a math problem with a visual framework rather than teaching them to support visuals โ€“ the sort of images they’ll see long after they close their last math textbook โ€“ with a mathematical framework.

I can teach procedural fluency pretty well on my own but I need help teaching conceptual curiosity. I want to teach my students to ask questions for themselves and my textbook is no help. I need something else.

The Digital Archive Of Very Interesting Mathematical Media

I can’t put an exact price point on this hypothetical curriculum, but I promise I would pay a lot for a digital archive of very interesting mathematical media, high-resolution images and videos to propel long, rich, curious mathematical discussions and activities.

I want a DVD archive of (or online access to) innocent-seeming photos and videos, beneath each of which lurks meaty, curious mathematics. The publisher must include multiple versions of each digital artifact, each one identical to the last except for an increasingly rigid mathematical framework. (ie. the first clip is an unaltered long shot of a batter hitting a homerun in an empty stadium; the last clip is identical except the publisher has added measurements, labels, axes, a white line tracing the parabola, etc.)

The publisher would supplement the DVD with a small book of concise questions, the sort of visceral hooks we pursue in our What Can You Do With This? series.

What Would You Pay For This?

What would you pay for, let’s say, forty of these high-res digital artifacts and the relevant hooks, artifacts which students could download to their laptops or netbooks and play with, scaling a golden ratio rectangle all over a high-res image of the Parthenon, for example.

I would consider it a bargain at $80, but, I admit, this is my post.

A Postscript On Profit

The profit margin here should entice any publisher. You aren’t printing hundreds of student textbooks. Your printing costs are limited to a small run of color booklets. And some screen-printed DVDs, I guess, but we’re talking about pennies. This wouldn’t be a traditional standards-based textbook, though, so you can’t expect mass adoption. You’ll make your money on margin, not on volume.

Seriously: a good DSLR camera, a good HD camcorder, and a handful of travel vouchers. That’s your overhead.

A Postscript On Bundles

The shameful side to this proposal is that publishers have already budgeted money for this kind of supplement โ€“ the same bundled CD-ROMs which have driven textbook prices skyward.

Having just finished a textbook adoption process, sampling bundled materials from several publishers, I can report that in the rare case that these materials aren’t useless, they’re entirely cumbersome, locked down by web-access codes, DRM, proprietary Flash interfaces and constrained to printable textbook pages and videos of talking heads explaining rote procedural skills.

I’m pretty sure this kind of project would suffocate under the weight of any of the big four publishers (though I’d somehow convince myself to cash their checks). It would be great to see a smaller imprint take this on. Takers?

Expecting The Worst

CMC-Northa/k/a Asilomar starts Thursday and I present on Friday.

I have spent, cumulatively, 70+ hours organizing, illustrating, and supplementing a presentation which I have delivered twice to a total of eight people. I’m really proud of these ideas and really eager to discuss them with a larger crowd.

I backed my Keynote slides onto my iPhone yesterday, along with my audio and video supplements. You know, just in case my laptop fries and I have to deliver the whole thing from my mobile phone. Obviously, some part of me hopes my laptop fries.

The Rule Of Least Power: An Initial Approach

This is why I only use ten percent of my textbook’s printed pages:

The text has already imposed a rigid, powerful framework around an interesting drawing of a ski-lift. It has labeled the points, scaled the axes, and written the questions. The textbook has told my students how to care. The student can interpret this drawing only as the textbook intends.

To a certain extent, I have no problem with this. I want my students to interpret this drawing in a particular way. I want to use it to learn slope. But by applying this powerful framework in advance, the textbook has told my students exactly how they should be curious, which isn’t any kind of curiosity at all. It doesn’t train my students to draw these strong, interesting connections on their own and it presumes their engagement with the problem.

For example, if a textbook were to repurpose my last What Can You Do With This? prompt, it would run like this:

Just a guess.

The textbook would apply the most powerful framework to the problem, imposing a definite line of inquiry on the student before she even gets around to asking herself, “why does the tennis ball blur like that?”

By contrast, an application of the Rule of Least Power to the problem looks like this:

I put this picture up, just a picture, totally absent any mathematical framework, the least possible power I can apply here, and I ask, “What do you guys notice about this photo?”

The moment any student mentions the blur I drive the conversation her direction. The student has given me permission to apply more power to the situation. I ask, “Does anyone know why cameras do that?”

Several students take photography as an elective and mention shutter speed. I have the students take out their cell phone cameras and take a picture. I ask them to explain the camera’s pausePerhaps we digress with these images..

Having been given permission now to talk about shutter speed, I apply more power:

We talk about “1/25” and what it means to photographers. I might draw another blurred tennis ball on the board, one with a longer blur, and ask them to describe the differences. (A: a longer blur would mean it was dropped from a greater height.)

Finally, after this careful, deliberate application of power, I ask, “Can anyone tell me how high up off the ground this tennis ball was dropped?” No one can, not without measurements, and once someone mentions that, I project the last picture.

And we take on the problem. We have voluntarily committed ourselves to a mathematical framework. That commitment wasn’t forced upon us by an external agent. (Again: the involuntary commitment.)

The Rule of Least Power, as I have applied it to my classroom, means:

  1. Tell no student to care.
  2. Tell no student how to care.
  3. Apply increasingly powerful frameworks to mathematical objects only as the class cares about them.

Please don’t confuse this with hardcore, Waldorfian constructivism. I have an agenda, a standard to meet, a lesson objective. But I don’t fence my students onto a narrow path to my objective. I instead pave the ground beneath them so that the path to my objective is the easiest and the most satisfying to walk.

Why I Don’t Use Your Textbook

Lately I am a man obsessed. As others are obsessed by numerology, the year 2012, or the birth certificate of President-elect Obama, I am obsessed by the Rule of Least Power and how succinctly it explains why I have never found the right place for a textbook โ€“ any textbook โ€“ in my math classroom.

Whenever my mind starts to spin down for sleep, it wanders to this computer programming axiom and everything becomes hypnotizing and clear. In this waking dream, I see a spider’s web connecting disparate artifacts:

  1. my textbook;
  2. The Wire, Friday Night Lights, The Shield, and 24;
  3. What Can You Do With This?
  4. the Muji Chronotebook;
  5. and the Rule of Least Power, most crucially:

Use the least powerful language suitable for expressing information, constraints or programs on the World Wide Web. โ€“ W3, The Rule of Least Power.

And then I’m inches from some grand unification theory of curriculum design. It’s close. It’s killing me. If I could find seven contiguous hours, I might fully articulate the network and I’d finally have an operational theory, an operational aesthetic, really, putting only a few miles between me and dy/dan: algebra, volume one.