is arithmetic math?

I was kibbutzing with a compatriot in the high school parking lot last night. He's a math person who is an administrator with a major college. Very knowledgeable.

He told me he wants kids to be taught math, not arithmetic; "arithmetic isn't math."

I've heard that before but still don't know what it means.

Speaking of arithmetic, Hung Hsi Wu's article "What's Sophisticated about Elementary Mathematics" (pdf file) is out!

And remember Ron Aharoni: What I Learned in Elementary School.

Recollection of a Diaspora.

I remember water, lots of water -- warm, cleansing, refreshing. Opening your eyes after rinsing off the shampoo to the sunlight streaming in is a lot like waking up – and you see, that’s my first ever memory of rinsing my hair.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table, watching my mother slicing cucumbers. She’s showing me how to remove the bitter sap by rubbing the tops and bottoms with the chopped ends. I think it’s the oldest piece of advice that I still remember. One day, when you’re old enough, I’ll teach you to cook, she says.

My sister was born after me, but I can’t recall a memory where she wasn’t already there yet. Did you know, she once coloured the living room wall with crayons? I can’t remember what my first memory of a book is. Too many books. I apparently once drew in some of their pages, but I can’t remember doing that. There’s one showing occupations - - bricklayers, doctors, farmers, painters, police officers – and then, kings and queens. What does a king do? What does a king do?

Here comes a book in Chinese! (What do my parents call it? Ah, huawen.) Oh boy! I’m a bit intimidated. How does this work? Well here’s a picture of a little sister. Mei-mei. A picture of an elder brother. Gorh-gorh! But what about big sisters and little brothers? Do they exist, or are brothers always older than sisters?

My parents spoke mostly English to me at home, save when they were explicitly trying to teach me huayu. A curious fact you see, since now I realise that English wasn’t their native language. Chinese came from another dimension, far far away, and came up whenever people wanted to talk about stuff from long, long ago. You used it whenever Chinese New Year came around – it was like a birthday, only for everybody.

I remember my mother stuffing two large oranges into my hands as my family knocked on a large wooden door. “Give to Pohr-Pohr!” she said. I can’t remember what I asked – something along the lines of, “Why does she want them?” or “Why do you want me to do it?” She hushes me. The door opens and out pour the greetings in Chinese. I wait to say my line before stretching my arms high above me to give my oranges to a familiar and kindly old woman. Inside lay a kitchen table full of food, old-fashioned but good: the reward for putting up with all the Chinese.

I remember sometime later I had the epiphany that my immediate family had four people – one day we were all standing together in the lift and I decided to count them, taking care to include myself. It would be much later before I realised that Pohr-Pohr was my mother’s mother. It was weird at the time to think your parents had parents. It was also weird because I only saw my father’s mother once, in a land called Malaysia, and I never thought of her as Pohr-Pohr. Pohr-Pohr only ever spoke in huayu to me – she would falter if she tried to use English. Her flat was from another era; everything about it was old, and huawen was found everywhere. Outside, the housing estate was surrounded by a forest of tall, thick trees that arched above the roads – trees that had probably been there forever. My grandfather, who I called Gong-gong, spoke neither English nor huayu. He would speak to my mother and Pohr-Pohr in a language no one ever tried to teach me.

Out of the alternatives to English, I think I liked Malay the best. It was enchanting, charming, and perhaps most importantly, it was written with the alphabet. Some people spoke it, though they tended to be old-fashioned like my Pohr-Pohr. You found it on placenames (like Kembangan, or my Pohr-Pohr’s place, Telok Blangah), and in songs I learnt to sing. You’d also find it in the names of foods, like katong laksa, but that didn’t really count, because there it was part of Singlish, and everyone spoke that. A lot of Malay was shared with Singlish, in contrast to huayu, which was rarely shared.

I probably would have been an enthusiastic Malay student, but my father generally refrained from teaching it. I didn’t really like Chinese class in preschool. If one thing epitomised everything I dreaded about “Chinese” for me at that time, it was my laoshi: a towering plumpish woman with a haughty, fearsome voice, dressed in a weird and gaudy floral fusion of a sari and a silk robe from the Chinese dimension. While the rest of my friends enthusiastically chimed in the right words and phrases, I always felt it was a miserable game of playing catch-up and being too scared to ask the laoshi what was going on (in huayu of course). My laoshi was a good taskmaster though, because I remember writing a fair bit of huawen under her, carefully tracing strokes with my neatest handwriting. Tracing huawen was a bit like colouring – you had to make sure you didn’t deviate from the lines.

One day, my parents decided to move to a land called America.

I was told it was a big, big place, far away across the sea on the other side of the world, more far away than Malaysia or China, where my Gong-gong came from. Some of my friends (and my teachers) knew about it. “America is better than Singapore. You should be excited!” they essentially said.

(We’ll miss you though.)

We visited first. I remember my first sights of Cape Elizabeth, and my first visit to the Lobster Shack. The people there spoke differently; the adults liked to call you “honey,” initially a source of constant puzzlement, and likewise they appeared confused when you tried to address them as “auntie” or “uncle”. In the summer, America didn’t feel very far away – it was like any other place your parents took you to, only instead of being whisked off to Telok Blangah, Jurong or Bukit Timah by bus, you were being whisked off to America on a plane.

In Singapore, we packed and I watched my toys and books disappear into boxes. Sometimes, my sister and I would be left at my Pohr-Pohr’s house while my parents did very important business elsewhere, collecting us only at night. This was cool at first, but the toys were strange, the books were all in huawen, and my Pohr-Pohr’s flat was just too old, too repressive, too Chinese. It’s one of the most dreadful feelings in the world, not knowing why your parents won’t come back for you yet, and when none of the adults can understand what you really want to say. Outside of my Pohr-Pohr’s windows lay the world, full of high-rise flats and tall city buildings that rose in the distance. Despite my searching eyes, none of them contained my home; none of the people in them were my parents. Of all the places I had been to, my Pohr-Pohr’s flat felt the furthest from home. I broke down – I bawled, I cried – and then my Gong-gong took me in his arms and sung me a beautiful song I never heard before, in a language that was not huayu.

Our second flight to Maine occurred during a big blizzard of a Nor’easta. Los Angeles didn’t feel very different from Singapore; I had to put my coat on upon touching down in Chicago because it was truly the Windy City, though I saw one lady wearing a fruit basket for a hat; but in Maine it was pouring snow, and before I had previously thought snow was only found in fairy tales.

I remember my first day at an American kindergarten. First, there was the ride on a yellow school bus, which I had never seen before. The whole playground was shrouded in fog – “like clouds, but on the ground,” my mother had said, and I discovered how the clouds became see-through as you got closer, breaking any hope of ever resting on one. It was a vast playground compared to what I had known in Singapore, and I remember the Ciocca twins pushing each other on swings, and how I couldn’t keep straight which one was Alicia and which one was Sonia.

In some ways, integration into the American education system was not difficult. Americans spoke English, and I spoke a different form of English, and this fact usually wasn’t a great hindrance. Best of all, there was no dreaded Chinese, and the truths of math and science didn’t change from country to country. We grew monarch caterpillars on milkweed and watched them make chrysallises to then emerge as monarch butterflies, flying away in the wind to a place called Mexico. By now I had been given a world atlas, which I had devoured; I had mapped the distance from Singapore to Maine and felt like I was the only one who appreciated the distance the butterflies travelled.

Nevertheless, for a while I was placed into ESL, though for a while I did not recognise it for what it was, since it was just another class. Perhaps it was standard practice for any migrant child who didn’t come from the UK, Canada, Australia or New Zealand. I remember the lady who worked with me, who couldn’t keep straight where I came from. “You’re from China, right? You look Chinese.”

I remember being self-conscious of how I looked like for the first time: that realisation of I look like people in China but not like people in America.

It was funny how I didn’t realise until then how Chinese and China were related. China, I learnt, had a shameful history, defeated in countless engagements with the West because of its backwardness and old-fashionedness. And while the American Revolution was championed and the English Revolution was literally glorious, my mother told me the Chinese Revolution “wasn’t a good one.”

Some years later I was told that my parents had purposely refrained from teaching too much Chinese at too young at age to me. English was more important for getting by in the world, and people who spoke only Chinese were marginalised. And it was thus from common experience they had concluded that, “it is easy to learn Chinese once you have mastered English, but to learn English knowing only Chinese is difficult.”¹ And in America, smugly proud of my increasing strength in English and my increasing deficiency in Chinese, I marvelled at the brilliance of my parents’ decision while my command of huayu slowly died away.

---

1. Most linguists would now reject this idea, because of what we now know about language acquisition.

Letter from a Child

Thomas Sowell from the Hoover Institution takes time out to write about one of those inane letter writing assignments, but from the perspective of a recipient. It's a nice piece, except don't you think he should have complained to the teacher instead of the parents?

He starts be recognizing the general problem:

Parents send their children to school to acquire the knowledge that has come down to us as a legacy of our culture — whether it is mathematics, science, or whatever — so that those children can grow up and go out into the world equipped to face life’s challenges.

Too many “educators” see teaching not as a responsibility to the students but as an opportunity for themselves — whether to indoctrinate a captive audience with the teacher’s ideology, manipulate them in social experiments, or just do fun things that make teaching easier, whether or not it really educates the child. (Emphasis mine.)

But then he brings in parents as complicit:

Unfortunately, the dumbed-down education of previous generations means that many parents today see nothing wrong with their children being manipulated in school, instead of being educated.

Such parents may see nothing wrong with spending precious time in classrooms chit-chatting about how everyone “feels” about things on television or in their personal lives.

Well, okaaaayy, but a lot of parents have a big problem with this...it's just that we have had our collective hands slapped enough to know that that any objection will either (1) fall on deaf ears or (2) result in some type of subtle or not-so-subtle retaliation played out on our kids.

But while our children are frittering away time on trivia, other children in other countries are acquiring the skills in math, science, or other fields that will allow them to take the jobs our children will need when they grow up.

You betcha. It would be nice if someone pointed that out to the NCTM which reportedly just issued its high school guidelines. Now to the letter from little Johnny:

[S]chools are supposed to prepare children for the future, not give teachers opportunities for self-indulgences in the present. One of these self-indulgences was exemplified by a letter I received recently from a fifth-grader in the Sayre Elementary School in Lyon, Mich.

He said, “I have been assigned to ask a famous person a question about how he or she would solve a difficult problem.” The problem was what to do about the economy.

Oh yeah, we've been there. Stupid, stupid assignment. We tell our kid, just do it and get it over with. So what does Tom do? He's well-intentioned, but he writes back to the PARENTS!

What earthly good would it do your son to know what economic policies I think should be followed, especially since what I think should be done will not have the slightest effect on what the government will in fact do? And why should a fifth-grader be expected to deal with questions that people with Ph.D.’s in economics have trouble wrestling with?

Damn straight. But, ah, the parent didn't come up with the assignment.

The damage does not end with wasting students’ time and misdirecting their energies, serious though these things are. Getting students used to looking to so-called “famous” people for answers is the antithesis of education as a preparation for making up their own minds as citizens of a democracy, rather than as followers of “leaders.”

Indeed!

The fad of assigning students to write to strangers is an irresponsible self-indulgence of teachers who should be teaching.

Yeah! But, honest, I didn't ask for this assignment!
Then, predictably, his final pronouncement:

[T]hat practice will not end until enough parents complain to enough principals and enough elected officials to make it end.

Yup, it's our own darn fault. Blame us for that lousy education our kids are getting! But that's a little unfair to Mr. Sowell, because he really believes (no snickers now) that parents have power.

Parents need a union.

in case you'd like to share my pain...

Eat to Live by Joel Fuhrman

The China Study by Thomas M. Campbell
20-year study of Chinese diet & health – “this project eventually produced more than 8000 statistically significant associations between various dietary factors and disease...”
Introduction (pdf file)

Prevent and Reverse Heart Disease by Caldwell B. Esselsstyn

The Engine 2 Diet: The Texas Firefighter's 28-Day Save-Your-Life Plan that Lowers Cholesterol and Burns Away the Pounds by Rip Esselsstyn (son of Caldwell: 28-day before & after photos!)

Dr. Neal Barnard’s Program for Reversing Diabetes by Neal D. Barnard

And don't forget: Younger Next Year

Congratulations, Katharine!

Raising a Left-Brain Child in a Right-Brain World: Strategies for Helping Bright, Quirky, Socially Awkward Children to Thrive at Home and at School

I can't wait to read!

I miss you guys!

Well....I'm in Irvington, clearing my head.

I've been so fogged in by fear, grief, and suspense over my mom's health that I can't come up with a proper metaphor and/or clinical term to convey the situation and have been on radio silence. Although I did, during my mom's first ICU stay, acquire the term mentating. As in: Your mother is mentating so well!

I have not been mentating well.

quick update: Since August 12, when my mother fell and fractured her pelvis, she has been:

• in Evanston Hospital ER
• in Evanston Hospital CCC (cardiac care)
• in Evanston nursing home for rehab
• back to Evanston Hospital ER
• Evanston ICU
• back to Evanston CCC
• in Highland Park skilled nursing care facility
• in Highland Park Hospital ER
• in Highland Park Hospital
• back to Highland Park skilled nursing facility

Gosh.

Has it been 56 days?

I'm grateful I have 3 siblings to help me deal with all this. I just wish C. had 3 (typical) siblings, too.


scared straight

My mom has heart failure.^*

She didn't start out with heart failure; she started out with a weight problem, which apparently led to high blood pressure. In middle age she developed Type 2 diabetes, and then, three years ago, she had a heart attack. After that, heart failure.

In short, she seems to be a classic case of what is now called metabolic syndrome.

Of course we kids are horrified not just by the prospect of losing our mother but by the possibility of going through what she is going through ourselves -- and of putting our kids through this, too.

Hence: scared straight.

Which seems to mean becoming a vegan.

When I told a friend that the vegans appear to be right, she said Anthony Bourdain called them a "Hezbollah-like splinter faction" of vegetarians.




^* update 7.3.2011: My mom didn't have heart failure. Her PCP thought she did, but she didn't. A year before she died, I went with her to see her cardiologist, who gave us a blank look when we brought up her heart failure and told us she didn't have it. The only reason this exchange took place was that I'd read an article about left ventricular assist devices, and I wanted to know whether my mom could have one. Turned out she wasn't a candidate for a left ventricular assist device because she didn't have heart failure. 

I'll probably never know why we all lived with a fatal diagnosis hanging over our heads for -- how many years? I don't remember. Also, I'm pretty sure the fact that everyone thought my mother had heart failure led to everyone mistaking symptoms of kidney failure for symptoms of heart failure. The extreme pain she was experiencing from kidney failure severely constricted her life and caused the fall that ultimately killed her. 

I know this will sound obvious, but it bears saying: when you're dealing with a parent's health issues, make sure you understand the diagnosis. As I understand it now (and please correct me if I'm wrong), there are two forms of congestive heart failure: chronic and acute. It's entirely possible that both my mother and we kids were told that she had the acute form and no one explained the difference.


It's also possible she was misdiagnosed -- or that she was correctly diagnosed by her original cardiologist, who left town, but there was some kind of miscommunication with the PCP.

Hello KTM Community
My family and I are starting to attend high school open houses with our 7th grade daughter. We are mostly looking at private schools in SW CT, we went to Chase Collge Preparatory last week. I will be looking at our public high school (Monroe, CT) as well as the local Catholic High School.


After reading KTM for all these years, I feel very confident in evaluating an elementary program but I find myself at a loss in evaluation criteria for a high school.
Does the community have any advice on what criteria we should be looking at?
Thanks so much-
Dee Hodson

"Raising a Left-Brain Child in a Right-Brain World"

Catherine has encouraged me to post an announcement of my book's release:




Here (edited slightly) is what I wrote to Catherine yesterday:

Though it's not the general critique of education that I initially intended to write, I'm hoping its focus on the special needs of a specific kind of child ("left-brainers," in the vernacular sense of the term) will help it bypass some of the political polarization out there and reach a broader spectrum of educators. And allow me, ultimately, to publish my general critique.

I am happy that one of the chapter titles (chosen by my editor) is "Hindered by Reform Math and Other Trends in K-12 education," and I do make a more general case against those trends in the penultimate chapter.

I'm concerned that some of what I write may suggest that I subscribe to "learning styles" theory--about which I'm generally skeptical (but I'm still trying to find out whether there's any empirical research on differences in "cognitive bandwidth"--i.e., individual differences in "linear"/one-thing-at-a-time thinking and learning vs. "big picture"/holistic thinking and learning).

My main thesis, however, is based not on learning styles theory but on all the testimonials I've collected, and it is that:

Children who are the least socially skilled and most analytically inclined are among the most shortchanged by the current system--both in terms of the quality of their classroom experiences, and in terms of the grades they earn.

These children include, of course, many on the autistic spectrum.

KTM has been a wonderful resource for my book. I quote Catherine (anonymously) in a couple of places (on choosing "Hogwarts"; on whether writers collaborate in groups); I also quote Allison on how American-educated vs. foreign educated fare at MIT.

Math Competitions

Does anyone have any comments about K-8 and high school math competitions? I was asked last year if I wanted to form a MathCounts team at our middle school. Has anyone done this competition? How about other competitions? I'm reconsidering doing this as a way to help kids and to focus attention on the needs of K-6 math. Are there other competitions that would be better? Actually, I've always hated the idea of math as a speed competition. However, it could be a way to help many more students than just the math brains. Are some competitions better for more kids or does it just matter how you set it up? For example, the Science Olympiad and the First Lego League are full-day events where all kids go and have a great time.