jumpingfish

A book: “Lost in Math” by Sabine Hossenfelder (who blogs at BackReAction). A quote…

“How patently absurd it must appear … that people get paid for ideas like [those of Xiao-Geng Wen and his collaborators]. But then … people also get paid for throwing balls through hoops.” (p. 192)

Let’s explore this a bit.

Big thoughts about physics: To give you an example of what Hossenfelder is alluding to when talking about his “ideas”, listen to Xiao-Geng Wen’s description of his ideas (at 5:36): “Maybe our space is a string liquid, and we live in a noodle soup.”

Big thoughts about basketball: To give you an example of Hossenfelder’s point about “hoops”, listen to Coach Daniel’s description of the clearout: “which occurs when the big man … on offense … clears out the rim-protecting big man on defense”.

For better or worse, as much as this kills me to concede, you shouldn’t roll your eyes at one of these without rolling your eyes at the other. We should take Hossenfelder’s observation as a precaution against such one-sided eye-rolling.

1. On Eye Contact

In Switzerland, I understand, it is considered poor form to toast someone without making direct, intentional eye contact with them. Having been told this, Trudy and I have adopted the habit. Whenever our glasses meet in cheer, so do our eyes — intentionally, with the unspoken knowledge that we are following the Swiss tradition.

But of course, eye contact is more than a Swiss tradition. You might argue that it’s part of being a decent person. Acknowledge those around you. Greet them with a smile and a sparkle in your eye. You might argue that it’s just good manners. If so, count me as rude, for I find eye contact hard to initiate and difficult to maintain.

I am not alone in this. But as the years go by, I find that even I yearn for a glance from a neighbor driving by or a nod from one of my students in the hall. As you might imagine, getting eye contact from teenagers in the hall is a dicey proposition. 

Perhaps making eye contact is just something that needs to be explicitly taught. If so, and given that I am a teacher, then perhaps this responsibility falls to me.

2. Making Eye Contact with Me

“When you are done with the final,” I said, “please put it in the purple tray by the door, and return to your desk.”

“And if you want to use your phones, first make explicit eye contact with me.”

That was simple enough. And in the end, all of them did as I asked, in all cases catching my attention and motioning silently so as to ask if they could use their phones — in all cases but one.

This student is one of the best. Scores high. Understands well. Asks questions. Takes good notes. So it was no surprise that she also followed my instructions — followed them to a tee.

At some point during the final, I looked up and noticed her silently sitting, hands on desk, head turned, eyes focused on me. When I saw her and she saw that I saw her, her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t move, didn’t make any gestures, just stared more intensely, impeccably following the instructions I had given: “Make eye contact with me.”

Eye contact having been made. The protocol had been followed. She knew it. I knew it.

I smiled and nodded my head imperceptibly. And with this signal, she reached into her backpack and pulled out her ear buds and phone.

A book: “Automating Inequality” by Virginia Eubanks. Some notes…

The book is a remarkably specific, in-the-trenches look at the role that automation is having in our country, how despite its patina of objectivity, the technology is contributing to a new kind of growth of inequality in American society. 

The argument is based on three case studies: (1) an Indiana project to automate the determination of eligibility for social services, (2) a Los Angeles system to categorize the homeless and provide relief, and (3) an Allegheny County Pennsylvania system to algorithmically assess the risk of child neglect and abuse.

The narrative of these case studies weaves together stories of specific people with more general historical and policy observations. It is an effective way to make the big points without losing the audience. Sadly, losing me as the audience is a real risk. I was able to make is all the way thru the book — a testament to the effectiveness of its narrative perhaps, or maybe a sad exception on my powers of concentration.

There is a chapter that reflects on the nature of what the author calls the “digital poorhouse” that is perhaps the biggest take-away for me. Her summary goes something like this…

(1) At root, Americans believe in three things: liberty, equity, and inclusion. (2) Liberty can be thought of in two ways: freedom-from and freedom-to, and the digital poorhouse diminishes both. (3) Equity can be thought of in two ways: equal treatment and equal value, and the digital poorhouse diminishes both. (4) Inclusion can be thought of in two ways: assimilation into the broader culture and integration of our whole selves, and the digital poorhouse diminishes both. I really like this analytical framework, although I might argue with the author’s premise that these are in fact the core values Americans hold (even granting that they might be implicitly held), but that’s not a useful argument to launch into, here.

The concluding chapter addresses how we might “dismantle” the digital poorhouse. I haven’t read it, yet.

Ok, so that means that I have not yet finished the book, and so my lame powers of concentration might yet catch up with me. Wish me luck.

1. Adopt-a-Family

In years past, as successful as Adopt-a-Student day was, it was a bit awkward for adopted middle school kids to take their gifts home when none of the rest of the household would have anything. Nothing for the brothers or the sisters or the parents. So this year it was Adopt-a-Family.

Each person in the adopted families filled out a wish list (something I need, something I want, something to wear, something to read). Marco (not his real name) was a nine year old student. We adopted his family. There were five of them in all.

Under “something I want”, Marco had written “a drawing tablet”. Under something I need, he had written, “sketching pencils and paper.” Obviously we needed to get him drawing supplies. My students quickly volunteered for these and all the other items on the family’s list.

2. Marco and Marco

It’s the drawing supplies I want to talk about.

Our adopted Marco was clearly a budding artist. And as it turns out, I have a budding artist in that class whose name is also Marco (not his real name). At the end of class, I went up to his desk and kneeled. He was sketching something, as he almost always is. He looked up.

“Did you notice that Marco likes to draw?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded.

“Would you please make a point to talk to Marco about drawing and maybe give him your sketch?” I pointed to the corner of my whiteboard where I post student artwork. A big sketch of his has been taped there prominently for several months.

He smiled broadly and nodded.

3. That Morning

I was nervous on the day the family was supposed to come to our room. We had only had two days to get the gifts, and there was no room for procrastination or forgetting. On the first day, the students signed up for gifts and snacks to bring. On the second day, only one student had brought anything in — Oreo cookies. So on the morning of the day the family was going to arrive, I brought a wrapped sketchbook and pencils just in case no one brought anything — at least we’d have some drawing supplies for Marco.

As it turned out, I didn’t need to be nervous. These kids take this Adopt-a-Family thing seriously. First of all, they had been adamant that our class should adopt a family. Secondly, it took no time at all to get someone to volunteer for absolutely everything on this list. And finally, before school started on the morning of that day, my students started filing into the room to drop off their presents — all of them wrapped, some of them accompanied by other presents beyond what had been on the family’s list.  

4. Gift Giving

It was chaotic that day. (Originally the wrong family was brought to our room. Our Marco showed up at the beginning of the period instead of the 30 minutes at the end when we expected him, meaning no decorations were up, yet. Our adopted Marco came in only with a host “elf”. His family was not with him.)

But my students passed out the cookies. And they poured the orange juice into glasses one of them had brought. And we had Marco open the present with the sketchbook. And then the pencils. And we began putting the other presents to the rest of his family into big boxes.

And then Marco’s mom arrived. Although he spoke English, she did not. So my students translated. They made sure she knew that we had a gift receipt inside the card. They made sure she knew there were names on each of the wrapped presents. We gave her the boxes heaped full of gifts.

And before we knew it, 30 minutes was over, and Marco, his mom, the elf and two other hosts left our room, trying to figure out how they were going to carry all that booty out to her car.

 5. What Marco Gave Marco

Afterwards, I walked up to my Marco’s desk and kneeled. He was sketching something, as he almost always is. He looked up, smiling.

“Did you get a chance to talk to Marco?” I asked. It had been such a whirlwind that I hadn’t even made sure.

He nodded. And he took out his phone and showed me a photo of a new sketch that he had given to young Marco. It was a full notebook-sized sheet of paper. A pencil sketch of a Christmas tree filled the page. The tree filled the drawing, but there were sketched presents around it and a gray hazy fuzziness that perfectly captured (almost in a Norman Rockwell sense) the feeling of Christmas morning to a little kid just waking up.

Marco said he had given the sketch to Marco. And they had talked about it. Young Marco had told big Marco how he would draw a Christmas tree. And they had talked about drawing styles.

These are really good kids.

“Can I ask you a question?” 

She was making me a hot pastrami sandwich, which is the special this week. I had told her I was a math teacher to justify the book I had been reading while I waited in line, and it evidently made her think of something.

I looked at her, a bit surprised. “Sure.”

She set down the bread and her knife, and she held up her hands, making a circle.

“So how much area does a sphere make when it touches a flat table?”

“Well theoretically it is just a point,” I said, “so there’s no area.”

She nodded as if perhaps that was what she was thinking. Or perhaps there was some kind of bet.

“But in practice…” I added cautiously because I am apt to wax theoretical and overlook all practicality (as anyone in my family will tell you). “In practice there’s a small flat area.”

And with that, I took my hot pastrami sandwich, selected a bag of sea-salt chips, and found a table in the corner. 

As I sat down, I grabbed a book off the book sharing shelf by the door, “Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals” by Immanuel Kant. Never read Kant. What better time than while eating a hot pastrami sandwich. I opened the book and started reading the preface where I was told

We may call all philosophy empirical, so far as it is based on grounds of experience: on the other hand, that which delivers its doctrines from a priori principles alone we may call pure philosophy…

I wanted to take the book to her. To show her those words. To warn her of the purely philosophical answer I had given her. To caution her on my complete lack of empirical experience with spheres sitting on tables. I wanted to. But I thought better of it and ate my hot pastrami sandwich, instead.