| Tactical mathematics |
[Oct. 15th, 2007|12:07 pm] |
Term started back a couple of weeks ago, and I've been teaching undergraduates (in addition to the private tutoring/undermining of the principle of open-access education that I do to bring in beer-and-climbing-wall money1). I've noticed that I'm spending an awful lot of time not teaching the material, but rather teaching what I think of as the "tactics" of mathematical problem-solving. Things like "simplify whenever you can", "use symmetry (of whatever form)", "Replace terms you don't understand with their definitions", "give names to things", and "if the problem starts with 'show that for all wombats ...', then start your proof with 'Let x be a wombat', then show that x has the desired property." It's not that they don't know how to do the things they need to do; they don't know what to do. They lack guiding principles to allow them to follow their noses through problems. As a result, they get stuck, or waste time on lengthy calculations that they should have been able to see were unnecessary.
[I should mention to the Oxbridge types reading this that the Scottish university system is very different to the English one. Students arrive a year younger, and don't specialise until their second or third year. As a result, we get lots of undergraduates who are only doing maths because it allows them to do some other course in some other faculty, and have no intention of specialising in mathematics. Plus, the permanent members of staff tend to keep the best students to themselves.]
At first, this was getting me really annoyed. With the possible exception of the last one mentioned, these tactics are so basic (and so independent of context) that they should have been drilled into everyone from primary school onwards. Why should I have to do the job that their school maths teachers should have been doing? I want to give these students the red pill, and show them just how deep the rabbit hole goes, but I'm having to stop and say "take the pill from my hand. Now, put it in your mouth. Now, swallow. OK, if you can't swallow right away, then take a drink of water. *Sigh*. Pick up the glass..."2
Now, though, I'm not so sure. Precisely because these tactics are so basic, and so generally applicable, they're likely to be much more use to my students than, say, partial differentiation. They should have been taught them before, but they haven't, and here's my opportunity to make a difference. Plus, from a certain viewpoint, this kind of problem-solving technique is the beating heart of mathematics. If you haven't read Timothy Gowers' essay The Two Cultures of Mathematics, you might like to do so now: in it, he discusses the split between "theory-builders" and "problem-solvers". I come very much from the theory-building side myself, but I can see and appreciate the other side.
But then again, maybe this is why all maths teachers (or at least, the good ones) are a bit crazy. In order to retain their sanity, they have to convince themselves that the basic, tactical, bread-and-butter stuff they have to teach is the real point of the subject. Like Mephistopheles, they have tasted the eternal joys of heaven, and are now tormented with ten thousand hells in being deprived of everlasting bliss. Why this is hell, nor are they out of it.
I've been doing some reading: specifically, I've been reading Polya's How to Solve It, which is about precisely this kind of stuff (and about how to teach it effectively). I've also been reading Stephen Fry's autobiography Moab is my Washpot, which, though not featuring much mathematics, does contain the scene where Stephen's terrifying engineer father and self-appointed O-Level mathematics tutor finally breaks through to Stephen and shows him what mathematics is really all about.When he grasped the completeness of my ignorance and my incompetence he did not gulp or gasp, I'll give him that. He stuck by his own beliefs and went right back to the beginning. He taught me something that I did not understand: the equals sign.
I knew what 2 + 2 = 4 meant. I did not understand however even the rudimentary possibilities that flowed from that. The very thought of an equals sign approximating a pair of scales had never penetrated my skull. That you could do anything to an equation, so long as you did the same to each side, was a revelation to me. My father, never once flinching at such staggering ignorance, moved on.
Then came the second revelation, even more beautiful than the first.
Algebra.
Algebra, I suddenly saw, is what Shakespeare did. It is metonym and metaphor, substitution, transferral, analogy, allegory: it is poetry. I had thought its a's and b's were nothing more than fruitless (if you'll forgive me) apples and bananas.
Suddenly I could do simultaneous equations. This has also made me realise quite how lucky I was with my school mathematical education. As I've mentioned before, I was happily multiplying matrices at the age of 11 or 12, and inverting matrices of arbitrary size at 15: most of the people in my office didn't encounter them until they were 17 or 18. We had a whole year from 13 to 14 doing random interesting maths while we waited for the syllabus to catch up with us. And solving unseen, difficult problems was always a big component, whether for public-school scholarship exams, Olympiads (I never made the national team, but I made it through a couple of rounds of selection) or just as part of ordinary teaching.
1 My STEP student surprised me the other day by showing me a result he'd discovered for himself. Specifically, given that ab = c for some fixed c, he'd found how to minimise the product ab (I'll let you work it out for yourselves). I had to explain to him that (a) it was very, very cool that he's inventing and solving his own problems at the age of 17, (b) no, this result almost certainly isn't new. The difference between "new" and "original" can be a subtle one at times. But hey, my student did a cool thing! :-) 2 Or rather, because I'm trying to get them to think for themselves, "I've got this pill in my hand, and we want to get it into your stomach. Now, how can we get things into your stomach? With a hypodermic needle, yes, but I don't have one of those to hand. Maybe there's some kind of tube to your stomach we could slide it down? No, no, pull your trousers back up. Is there, perhaps, another tube we could use? And where does it come out? Well, I suppose technically your nose is connected to your oesophagus, but that wasn't really what I was thinking of..." |
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