Learning the Hard Way

Sometimes it doesn’t matter how many times you tell someone that a surface is hot. They’re just going to have to touch it.

In my first math lesson with my new classes this week, I noticed a trend in my first couple of classes. As they worked on their homework near the end of class, several of them got to a particular problem and didn’t know what to do. It had three different variables and they were supposed to evaluate it.

Without exception, those who asked had neglected to read the instructions, where it gave a value for each variable.

I figured I’d save myself a little trouble and warn my remaining class periods. A part of the lesson had the exact same type of problem, so when we got to that, I mentioned the issue. I told them that other students got to those problems in the homework and didn’t know what to do because they didn’t read the directions.

Later, we get to homework time. I walk around the room, helping students when they get stuck.

Invariably, more than one raises their hand. “I don’t know what to do here.”

I point to a line in their textbook. “Did you see this?”

“No, I—oh! You totally warned us and I did it anyway!”

They felt like idiots. I assured them they weren’t the only one to do it, and made a little joke about how they’d never forget to read directions again, right?

I already know there’s only so much they can absorb at one time, and which parts stick depends on their own priorities.

Live and learn, kiddos.

"Thank You" Isn’t Dead

I’m finishing out the first week of school. It’s been a busy week, in an uneventful way. More students to teach than I’ve had in the last six years combined. Using my voice all the time (and trying to restrict my hand movements).

I remember one thing that struck me back when I started at my last school, working with deaf kids. A lot of them would say thank you when I was handing out papers. Part of me wanted to say, “I just gave you a calculus test—what are you thanking me for?” Really, though, I appreciated it.

Yet this week, it struck me again. Kids getting up to leave at the end of class, several of them thanking me as they walk out.

Teenagers, mind you. Around fourteen years old, most of them.

Yes, teenagers can be cynical. Teenagers can be rude.

They can also be awesome.

Pretty much like the rest of us.

Is There Such a Thing as "Bad"?

From the Department of Uncomfortable Questions:

Is there such a thing as bad writing?

Let’s assume we’re not talking about misspellings galore, egregious grammar gaffes, and other such technical things that make it about as comprehensible as the typings of Pika the kitten. Let’s say we’re talking only about manuscripts that have been through the world’s best spelling and grammar checks.

Then, is there such a thing as “bad”? When discussing things like voice, style, plotting, character, and all that makes fiction worth reading, is there a minimal level of competence? Some magic line below which is an auto-reject and above which is a “well, it depends”?

Do we do ourselves damage when we assume it’s all just subjectivity, rather than making the effort to improve our craft?

Do we do ourselves damage when we assume our writing is crap, rather than acknowledging our strengths and the fact that we can’t please everyone?

If there is a line, even a murky one, how do we find it? Our gut? Honest critique partners? I’m guessing “murky” is a key word there. Really excellent writing seems easy enough to identify, whether it’s our thing or not. I know I’ve had the experience of reading something and thinking, “Wow, this is so well-written. I’m just not into (insert genre here).” Likewise, writing that’s super-far off the mark is easy to spot.

But that pesky gray area in the middle … what about that?

Lots of questions and no real answers this time around. What are your thoughts?

Tales of a Tutor

The past couple of weeks, I’ve been helping a friend’s daughters with a college math course they’re taking over the summer. I’m geeky enough that this is fun, and getting paid is a nice bonus.

While doing so, certain things have struck me more than they might while working with my own students. So I figure, why not share?

Even math teachers don’t remember all the math, all the time. Conic sections … I’ve never actually taught them as a whole topic. I’m fine with circles and parabolas, because those come up regularly on their own. Ellipses and hyperbolas, however, not so much. I remember some general things about them, but not how to find the coordinates of the foci, or how to rewrite an equation to the proper form. Fortunately, all it takes is twenty seconds glancing at the right material in the book.

Math teachers don’t always agree. When tutoring, I almost always come up against something where the way the teacher showed them is bonkers (in my opinion). I try to determine if there’s any good reason to do it that way. If there is, I go along with it. If there isn’t, I try to determine whether the teacher will know or care if the students do it a different way. If not, I’ll show the kids my way, explain how it relates to the teacher’s way, and tell them they can choose whichever they like better.

Math teachers don’t always act rationally. Often these college courses don’t allow the use of calculators. I understand the idea—with some calculators these days, you could solve every problem on the test without engaging more than a couple of your own neurons. But it’s kind of ridiculous when the long division to reduce a fraction takes longer than applying the math concept that’s actually being tested.

And the thing is, I’m sure I’m guilty of all of the above in my own math classes. Somewhere out there a math tutor is saying, “Miss Lewis said that? Is she nuts?”

The Comfort of Inertia

When I mention inertia, here’s one of the first things that comes to mind.

“An object in motion will stay in motion and an object at rest will stay at rest unless acted upon by a net force.”

Generally applied to physics, but so true in other areas. It’s so easy to keep doing what we’ve been doing, and keep not doing what we haven’t been doing.

As a teacher, it’s easy to teach as I’ve always taught. As a writer, it’d be easy to write the way I’ve always written. I’ve done it before, so I know I can do it. Continuing to do it is no problem at all.

Inertia is so darn comfortable.

You know what isn’t comfortable? Growth.

Growth hurts. Growth feels awkward. Growth is trying to put on clothes that were designed for a body type very different from mine.

But if we push ourselves through that discomfort, we stretch. Our shape changes. We mold into something new.

And just as that new place starts to feel comfortable, we find the next new thing we need to put on.

(Now I have this vision of people made of clay. Just roll with it.)

I have new things to try this year as a teacher. I have areas to improve in with my writing. It’s uncomfortable and awkward.

It’s also necessary.

If I let inertia carry me, what’s the point of having a brain at all?

Where do you find yourself getting caught in inertia? How do you push yourself out of those ruts?

Not My Job … Or Is It?

With a change in location and employment comes the return of an old idea. It’s not universal among math teachers—I hope it’s not common for even a majority of teachers. But every once in a while, I hear something along these lines:

“It’s math class. I don’t do English.”

I just came from a school with the philosophy that every teacher is a language arts teacher. (Honestly, to such a degree that it could be a pain sometimes … but a necessary pain.) Other schools likely feel the same way to one degree or another. But not all teachers buy into that.

Does it mean docking points when the math is all correct but there are spelling or grammar errors? No, I don’t think so. What, then?

As writers (and particularly YA writers), many of us have considered how our books might be read and used in schools. Visions of curriculum guides, worksheets, projects, discussions … almost all in English class, right?

How could other teachers use our books? Historical fiction could tie into social studies classes. Science fiction might work in some science classes, at least in portions. But what could teachers do beyond straight-up reading assignments to encourage both interest and skill in reading and writing?

A few things I’ve done:

• When a new, strange word comes up, take a few seconds to discuss it … even if it’s not a “vocabulary” word for my unit.
• Have students do small writing assignments to explain their thinking. I encourage clarity and completeness, and while I don’t mark off for grammar errors, I give little nudges.
• TALK ABOUT BOOKS. Just because it’s math class doesn’t mean I don’t have moments here and there to talk about what I’m reading, what students are reading, what they think of the last book in one trilogy or another, etc.