A.J.’s teachers tell me he’s bright, but struggles with slow processing speed.  Things take him a very long time to do.  I noticed early in my work with him that he didn’t actually seem to be processing anything slowly.  He was just doing things slowly.  He could produce a response to a question fairly quickly, but he would think about his answer for quite awhile before offering it.  I pointed out a few times that if he worked more efficiently (in his case, that would mean choosing to write down the first answer he came up with, which was always plenty sufficient for the task at hand) he would have more time to spend on the books and music he likes. It didn’t change the pace of his work, and I finally got to thinking.  What if there’s something in this pace of his, a pace we’re trying to teach out of him, that’s serving a purpose, or making room for something?  What is there to discover if we step back and watch what they’re doing before we start trying to mess with it?

I’m going to get a reputation for the unwise practice of recommending books before I’ve finished reading them, but I can’t help myself.  I have read several pages from the beginning, several from the middle, and a few from the end of Your Child’s Strengths: Discover Them, Develop Them, Use Them, and there is so much in it that can be so useful in so many ways for so many people I cannot wait to start talking about it.  You can read a few pages on Google books…

I’ll post more soon when I come up with the words…

I consistently find that it’s easier to generate excitement for math when it’s called something else.  (A game, for example, even when it shamelessly involves multiplication, is drastically better received when it’s called a game than when it’s called math.)  I’m beginning to think that it would be wise if we retired the word math for awhile.  It’s come to embody, represent, and inspire such dread, fear, loathing, and hostility (often compounding over the course of generations) that I think it deserves a break.  And many of us deserve a break from it.

This is not at all to say that we should stop doing the things we’ve come to refer to as math.  Just that we could stop using the word.  For now.  Not only does it inspire the less-than-healthy and productive states I mentioned above, our general understanding of what it actually is has been whittled down to something that could only appeal to a very few humans who happen to function in a particular way.  Math, defined broadly, is the kind of stuff anyone could find a home in; not just those who happen to have a proclivity for memorizing columns of numbers, or substituting letters for numbers in some prescribed manner.   There is room in the math I know for artists, builders, designers, extraverts, poets, chefs.  And room for it in all of their various pursuits.  When treated well and generously conceived, math has the ability to invite, inspire, and intrigue.

The earliest mathematicians were a varied lot.  To them math was a playful, welcoming thing.  They’d have been sorry, I’m sure, to hear it spoken of today as it is.  So perhaps we should shelve the word, breathe some life back into the observation, rendering, and capturing of pattern, relationship, quantity, and then invite it back to the party when we can treat it as the spacious entity we deserve to have it be.

Last weekend’s episode of This American Life had me a little nervous for a few minutes, as NPR correspondent Adam Davidson set out to convince his cousin DJ that dropping out of college was the worst possible thing he could do in an economy like this one. It’s not so much that I’m in favor of dropping out of college, but I was worried about yet another argument for the necessity of a college education. I know plenty of folks who’ve thrived at least in part thanks to their college educations, but plenty more who in my opinion have thrived without one, or in spite of the one they did complete. There’s plenty of agreement out there in the world with the notion that college is the only access to success, wealth, happiness, and it’s not been my experience that that is the case. So susceptible am I to frustration on this particular topic, I was tempted to turn the episode off. I didn’t, and the spot didn’t disappoint. Davidson enlists the support of Georgetown professor of economics in his quest to talk his cousin back into college. Her response surprises him, and all three participants in the conversation come away with new perspective…

It’s the ultimate in broken teacher record commands.  I hear myself using it a lot, though I’m more likely to say “Did you read the directions?” when I sense that this often crucial step has been left out.  One of the young people I work with recently found, in reading the directions, some useful insight into her difficulties with math problem solving.  Read more