“Plenty of practice!”

knightMy first kayaking adventure here in Szolnok brought back memories of the White Knight in Through the Looking-Glass. On Tuesday I biked down to the kayak club, opened up the shed, brought out a kayak and paddle (one of the staff had already pointed out which ones I should use), set the kayak in the water, stepped in, and promptly tumbled upside down, boat and all. Not only that, but like the Knight, I was laden with contraptions: regular clothes, sneakers, and a canvas pouch. Some young men rushed over and hauled me out of the water; they seemed amused that I would have even used regular clothes. In the U.S. all my kayaking experiences (“I’ve had plenty of practice!”) were with beginners’ kayaks, those hefty boats that don’t tip easily. It was normal to wear regular clothes into them; you might get a splash or two, but that was it.

I told them that I was ok, explained my situation to a larger group looking on, and set about to try again. Once more: upside-down. So the person who had originally helped me with membership came over and gave me a few tips. He also showed me a locker room where I could leave my things when going out on the water.

The truth is that I don’t know how to kayak (except in those larger boats) and probably won’t get good at it, given my other commitments. But it will be possible to go once a week or so, work on balancing, and reach the point where I can enjoy paddling around.  That’s worth it for me. But this is beside the point; besides the double-dunk in the water, and the silliness of my mistakes, I enjoyed remembering the Knight (my favorite character in Through the Looking-Glass):

Whenever the horse stopped (which it did very often), he fell off in front; and whenever it went on again (which it generally did rather suddenly), he fell off behind. Otherwise he kept on pretty well, except that he had a habit of now and then falling off sideways; and as he generally did this on the side on which Alice was walking, she soon found that it was the best plan not to walk quite close to the horse.

`I’m afraid you’ve not had much practice in riding,’ she ventured to say, as she was helping him up from his fifth tumble.

The Knight looked very much surprised, and a little offended at the remark. `What makes you say that?’ he asked, as he scrambled back into the saddle, keeping hold of Alice’s hair with one hand, to save himself from falling over on the other side.

`Because people don’t fall off quite so often, when they’ve had much practice.’

`I’ve had plenty of practice,’ the Knight said very gravely: `plenty of practice!’

 

Image credit: Sir John Tenniel, Falling off his horse. Wood-engraving by Dalziel. lllustration for the eighth chapter of Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass (1865).

 

Ellenkezőleg

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Life here in Szolnok gives me lots to ponder. For example, I pass by the word gépkölcsönző and ask myself, what could that mean? I look it up and find out that it means “tool rental shop”–a place to remember, as I might need a drill one day.

I learned today that a possible Hungarian word for “contrariwise” (congratulations again to the international contest winners!) is ellenkezőleg. This came from a visit to the bookstore, where I found and purchased a Hungarian translation of Through the Looking-Glass. This means a translation not only of “contrariwise,” but of “Jabberwocky“!

Nézsonra járt, nyalkás brigyók,
Turboltak, purrtak a zepén,
Nyamlongott mind a pirityók,
Bröftyent a mamsi plény….

I started reading and could not resist skipping ahead to Tweedledum and Tweedledee (Subidam és Subidu), the White Knight (a Fehér Huszár), and other favorite characters and parts. I look forward to reading it in and out of sequence.

I started writing an quasi-absurdist mini-play in faltering Hungarian (something to do when you don’t know much of the language), but haven’t gotten too far yet, since I have so much else to do. Here’s the opening dialogue. The characters’ names,  inspired by various travels, are Vasútállomás and Pályaudvar (Train Station and Railway Station).

Vasútállomás: Tovább?
Pályaudvar: Tovább.
Vasútállomás: Kártya van?
Pályaudvar: Van.
Vasútállomás: Egy ember azt mondta, hogy…
Pályaudvar: Mit?
Vasútállomás: Valami csengő. Nem tudok semmit.
Pályaudvar: Győződjön meg arról.

Vasútállomás: Természetesen. De nincs időm.
Pályaudvar: Vár a buszra?
Vasútállomás: A busz gyakran megáll itt. De ez nem bizonyít semmit.
Pályaudvar: Miért ne?
Vasútállomás: A bizonytalanság kissé boldoggá tesz.
Pályaudvar: A boldogság néha kissé boldoggá tesz.
Vasútállomás: Az igaz. Viszontlátásra!
Pályaudvar: Miért viszlát?
Vasútállomás: Nem tudok annyit magyarul folytatni ezen a ponton.
Pályaudvar: Ó, már értem. Viszontlátásra.
Vasútállomás: Úgy beszélsz, mint egy igazi pályaudvar.
Folytatjuk.

 

Are College Professors Responsible for Student Learning?

aliceI learn a heck of a lot from Andrew Gelman’s blog–not only his own posts, but the many interesting and substantial comments. It’s one of my favorite places on the internet right now (granted, I have low tolerance for “surfing” and tend to focus on a few sites). That said, I find myself questioning some of his arguments and views, particularly about measurement in education. Now, I am not about to say “learning can’t be measured” or “tests are unfair” or anything like that. My points are a bit different.

In an article for Chance, vol, 25 (2012), Gelman and Eric Loken observe that, as statisticians, they give out advice that they themselves do not apply to their classrooms; this contradiction, in their view, has ethical consequences:

Medicine is important, but so is education. To the extent that we believe the general advice we give to researchers, the unsystematic nature of our educational efforts indicates a serious ethical lapse on our part, and we can hardly claim ignorance as a defense. Conversely, if we don’t really believe all that stuff about sampling, experimentation, and measurement—it’s just wisdom we offer to others—then we’re nothing but cheeseburger-snarfing diet gurus who are unethical in charging for advice we wouldn’t ourselves follow.

They acknowledge the messiness and complexity of education but maintain, all the same, that they could improve their practice by measuring student learning more systematically and adjusting their instruction accordingly. “Even if variation is high enough and sample sizes low enough that not much could be concluded,” they write, “we suspect that the very acts of measurement, sampling, and experimentation would ultimately be a time-efficient way of improving our classes.”

I agree with the spirit of their argument; yes, it makes sense to practice what you proclaim, especially when this can improve your teaching. Of course assessment and instruction should inform and strengthen each other.  Still, any measurement must come with adequate doubt and qualification. I think they would agree with this; I don’t know, though, whether we would raise the same doubts. I see reason to consider the following (at the college level, which differs substantially from K-12):

While still moving toward independence, students are more in charge of their own learning than before. Ideally they should start figuring out the material for themselves. What is the class for, then? To introduce topics, organize the subject matter, illuminate certain points, and work through problems … but perhaps not to “produce” learning gains, at least not primarily. On the other hand, the course should have adequate challenge for those at the top and support for those at the bottom (within reason). Introductory courses may include additional supports.

Also, a student might deliberately choose a course that’s too difficult at the outset (but still feasible). Some people thrive on difficulty and are willing to let their grade drop a little for the sake of it. The learning gains may not show right away, but this does not mean that the teacher should necessarily adjust instruction. If the student puts in the necessary work and thought, he or she will show improvement in good time. Students should not be discouraged from the kind of challenge that temporarily slows their external progress.

In addition, there are inevitable mismatches, at the college level, between instruction and assessment. (This may be especially true of the humanities.) If you are teaching a literature, history, or philosophy class, your students will probably write essays for a grade, but your teaching will address only certain components of the writing. Students have to learn the rest through practice. Thus you will grade things that you haven’t explicitly taught. (Your course may not deal explicitly with grammar, but if a paper is full of ungrammatical and incoherent sentences, you still can’t give it an A.) This may seem unfair–but over time, through extensive practice and reading, students will come to write strong essays.

Since September 2015 I have been taking classes part-time, as a non-matriculated student, at the H. L. Miller Cantorial School at JTS. In my first class, I was far below the levels of my classmates. That was what I wanted. I studied on the train, in my spare moments, and at night. (I was teaching as well.) I flubbed the final presentation, relatively speaking, not because I was underprepared, but because I prepared in the wrong way. I ended up with a B+ in the course. The next semester, my Hebrew had risen to a new level; the course (on the Psalms) enthralled me, and I did well. This year, I have been holding my own in the course I longed to take all along: a year-long course in advanced cantillation. If the professors had worried too closely about my learning gains, I wouldn’t have learned as much.

On the other hand, in the best classes I have taken over the years, the professors did great things for my learning. I wouldn’t have learned nearly as much, or gained the same insights, without the courses.  The paradox is this: to help me understand, the professors also let me not understand. To help me progress, they sometimes took me to the steepest steps–and then pointed out all the interesting engravings in them. It wasn’t just fascination that took me from step to step–I had to work hard–but they trusted that I could do it and left it largely in my hands.

Granted, not all students are alike, nor are all courses. In an introductory course, students may be testing out the field. If they are completely lost, or if the course takes extraordinary effort and time, they may conclude that it’s not for them. A professor may need to respond diligently to their needs. There are many ways of looking at a course; one should work to become alert to its different angles.

In short, college should be where students learn how to teach themselves and how to gain insights from a professor. While helping students learn, one can also hope, over time, to simulate Virgil’s last words to Dante in Purgatorio, “I crown and miter you over yourself” (or to accompany them to the point where, like Alice, they find a crown atop their heads.)

Image: Sir John Tenniel, illustration for the eighth chapter of Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass (1865).

Note: I revised the fourth paragraph for clarity and made a minor edit to the last sentence.

CONTRARIWISE Contests Galore

itsmyowninventionThroughout my teaching experience, there have been many surprises, many sources of wonder, but nothing quite like CONTRARIWISE, my students’ philosophy journal. It arose out of an assignment about Plato a year ago; the first issue, which came out in February, received a great review and many appreciative comments from readers. We had a glorious celebration in May; a week later, four students took part in an interview with Mark Balawender of PLATO. (If you aren’t sure what the fuss is all about, see the samples on the website.) But that was only the beginning. Now my students have announced an international contest and two national contests, as well as an open call.

Here is the international contest:

Your favorite cultural dish* is now its own nation. Who/what is its leader? Its citizens? What does each ingredient do for a living? You may refer to the ingredients, cooking utensils, eating utensils, human participants, or other aspects of the food’s preparation and consumption. Write about a philosophical problem this nation experiences—”anything from existential angst due to being eaten, to “okra should never have been chosen as ‘secretary of state.'” This can be a story, an essay, an epic poem written in the style of Beowulf, words set to a popular song (bonus points if it’s a song we don’t know and have to look up, and it becomes one of our favorite songs of all time), or anything, really.

Secondary school students are lucky to have these contests! When I bring up the international contest with adults, I often get the reaction: “What would I do with that?” followed by days of conversation about fondue, various pastas, etc., and what they could be as nations. (A recent comment: “We’re still thinking about the eggplant.”) Alas, we adults may muse to our hearts’ content but may not enter. That is just as well; I wrote a piece about the realm of flan, was proud of it at first, but then realized how contained it was and how much more possibility the contest held.

But that isn’t all. Here’s the first of the national contests:

Write a piece about how mathematics and philosophy are related. It could be a theorem with a variety of proofs, a comparison of a philosophical and a mathematical problem, a mathematical solution to an ethical issue such as adoption, or a poem about how to treat your x. You may use any format you wish, including pictures, and you may invoke higher dimensions.

Here is the second:

You are a knight or samurai (who strictly adheres to your society’s honor code) during the fall of feudalism in your nation. This time period can be any time after your chosen government begins to stop following the codes of chivalry or bushido. In 3,000 or fewer words, write a piece critiquing the government and explaining how you feel and what should be done about it. This could be in the form of a letter to be sent to your government, a poem to be nailed on the gates of a church…the format can be as creative as the piece itself. Just let us know what you intend the knight to do with his work at the top of your first page. Be sure to research your chosen nation!

The words of Khadijah McCarthy, a CONTRARIWISE contributor who participated in the PLATO interview, seem especially apt here:

There has to be a degree of eccentricity to the questions that we ask because we are not looking for your basic responses. We need philosophers who can transgress those boundaries and get people to come in and say I want to take a philosophy class and request it in schools around the world and around the nation. We do our best to really make people think. And the questions that they asked me, and I when I looked at them at face value, I thought, “I really don’t know how I am going to answer this.” … I think the best questions are the ones where you don’t know how you’re going to answer them. You’re going to have to formulate them and test them. So pretty much you’re a scientist, a philosopher…everything is wrapped up in one.

I can’t wait to see what comes in.

 

Image: Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass, illus. John Tenniel, chapter 8, “It’s My Own Invention.”

“Thank God There’s Still the Dictionary”

That is an untranslatable line from Tomas Venclova’s poem “Sutema pasitiko šalčiu.” In my translation (in Winter Dialogue and The Junction), the line reads, for the sake of rhythm, “Thank God for the dictionary,” which misses some of the wit. I was never satisfied with my translation of that line, but the alternatives were awkward. In Lithuanian, it’s brilliantly terse and ironic: “Ačiū Dievui, dar esti žodynas.” This poem comes to my mind almost every day, so it seems fitting to bring it up at Thanksgiving.

I enjoy giving thanks but keep them scant when saying them out loud. This entry is much shorter than my thoughts.

I had a beautiful few days at the annual meeting of the National Association of Schools of Music, where I gave a talk on Monday. I will be thinking about the event and the conversations for a long time.

A few books have taken up residence in my life: Politics by Other Means: Higher Education and Group Thinking by David Bromwich; So Long, See You Tomorrow by William Maxwell (thanks to Cynthia Haven and, indirectly, Tobias Wolff for bringing it to my attention); and Taking the Back off the Watch: A Personal Memoir by Thomas Gold.

In addition, I have returned to a few favorites, including The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy and Reflections on Espionage by John Hollander.

I generally avoid mentioning my students on this blog, as I respect their privacy and try to keep my teaching separate from my writing. But something happened today that clinched my gratitude.

My tenth-grade students are reading Martin Buber’s I and Thou. For today’s lesson, I planned to discuss a few passages involving “confrontation” with the You, such as the one on p. 59 (of Walter Kaufmann’s translation):

When I confront a human being as my You, and speak the basic word I-You to him, then he is no thing among things nor does he consist of things.

He is no longer He or She, limited by other Hes and Shes, a dot in the world grid of space and time, nor a condition that can be experienced and described, a loose bundle of named qualities. Neighborless and seamless, he is You and fills the firmament. Not as if there were nothing but he; but everything else lives in his light.

After we read this and another passage, I had my students listen to Rainer Maria Rilke’s “Archaic Torso of Apollo,” which has to do, in a way, with such a confrontation and is worth reading for itself.

My students (in one particular section) were full of ideas and eager to talk about the Buber. Then, when I introduced the Rilke poem to them, a few of them lost their certainty. They didn’t understand how a headless torso could see the person or what that might mean.

They grasped that this was an extraordinary encounter–that the statue’s radiance and life exceeded what the person (addressed as “you” in the poem) had known before, and that he had to confront his own partial life. Several students said this in different ways. They understood the meaning of Apollo; they could imagine how a headless statue might radiate from the inside. But how could it see anything?

I told them that one day they might come in contact with something–a piece of music, a book, a painting, or a poem–that seemed to see and know them. (That’s only an approximation of Rilke’s meaning, but I wanted to give them an entry.)

Then one student said solemnly, “I have a poem that does that. ‘Jabberwocky.'”