Category Archives: Paul Smon

Slip-sliding away …

Slip sliding away, slip sliding away
You know the nearer your destination, the more you’re slip sliding away
— Paul Simon 

Steven Strogatz has a wonderful new series of blogs in The New York Times “Opinionator” section. They’re on why we should love math. Really.

The first two — “From Fish to Infinity” and “Rock Groups” — capture the enthusiasm he has for the subject. He writes well, chooses great illustrations, and clearly loves this stuff. He also cites “Sesame Street,” which is always a good thing.

In the comments section on “Rock Star,” Melissa (from Hawaii) doesn’t get one of the points Strogatz is making. A number of readers volunteer to help her out — all in a genial, gentle way. Gotta love those New York Times readers!

It’s OK, Melissa. I didn’t understand everything Strogatz said, either. Nor did I understand your question. In fact, I didn’t understand most of the explanations for your question, either.

I wanted to, of course. But the more I read, the more I found my mind slip-sliding away. It was as if my brain was Teflon (c). I loved the Strogatz columns, but they washed over me like a gentle rain. None of the material actually sank in. And I really tried. Honest.

And you know what? That’s OK, too. Strogatz has an over-riding main point about these columns, as best as I can tell. He wants to share his love of the elegant perfection that is mathematics. He wants to rescue it from the drugery of rote memorization and endless algebraic and geometry equations. And I get that. I really do.

I’ll read some more of his columns. I probably won’t understand them any better. But I’ll get swept up in his passion and enjoy the ride. I don’t have to master the mathematics. I just have to remember the journey.

Studies show that our students remember very little of the specifics of what we teach, especially in the classes that they believe don’t directly apply to their major (or what they consider their major at that particular point in time) or chosen profession. I can see it in many of their faces. They’re smiling at me and their minds are slip-sliding away.

But, if in the end, they remember that I loved this stuff, that I thought it was important, and I cared enough to share my enthusiasm, then maybe they’ll come back to it later, maybe it’ll matter to them at some point in the future when they’re a little more experienced, when they’ve had some time to reflect.

I’m good with that.