Like most people who end up in English academia, I was a nerd in high school. Unlike most people who end up in English academia, I really enjoyed math. The numbers did what you wanted them to do and if they didn't, there was usually a specific thing that could be fixed to make them work. (Incidentally, I did not overly enjoy my English classes, probably because I didn't like being told to finish books I wasn't enjoying or analyze aspects of these books that didn't interest me.) As part of my quest to AP test out of as many core college classes as I could, I took both Calculus BC and Physics II my senior year of high school.
These two classes were actually very similar, something my physics teacher, Mrs. M, noted early in the school year. She told us outright that some of the material and formulas she discussed would also be covered in Mrs. C's calculus class. The difference was that Mrs. C would teach us the proper way to do everything, with all the background knowledge leading up to it. Mrs. M was going to teach us the shortcut right off the bat and then move on to applying it to other concepts. It was this difference in approach that really highlighted the way stories matter in basic education.
Calculus was math, but physics was math in context. We were given units and diagrams that explained what exactly was happening instead of just numbers being calculated in a void. They weren't quite the bizarre word problems about things like stealing forty cakes, but they still functioned similarly in that they implied real world applications. Even better, Mrs. M knew us. She was well aware that most of us weren't going into fields that would require the kind of experiments and calculations she had us doing. Most of us were there for the AP credit and because we would get bored in a regular science class. So whenever the opportunity arose, she gave us actual real life applications instead of just theoretical ones.
She talked about knowing the best way to move heavy boxes into your dorm room. She talked about being the neighborhood pool shark when she was a kid. She talked about beating people in arm wrestling because she knew how to position herself and apply pressure. The story that stuck out in my mind the most was when we learned about the importance of calculating with the correct friction coefficient on a banked turn. She mentioned the exit from SPID onto I-37, which most of us considered as the highest, sharpest, steepest turn we semi-regularly drove. (The Crosstown exit is much taller, but we were 17 and taking SPID to I-37 was the easiest way to get home from the mall.) She asked how many of us were frustrated that the road went from 60 mph on SPID to 40 mph on the turn and back up to 70 mph on the interstate. Why couldn't we just power through the turn? When most of us agreed, she told us about her son, who took the turn too fast once when it was raining and crashed his car off the ramp. Luckily, he was already coming out of the turn, so he bounced down the grass hill instead of flying off, but it still totaled his car and broke a few bones. She told us that those warning signs are up for a reason and that reason is usually because of a friction coefficient.
I've been in a few classes about mythology and folklore, and one thing that comes up right at the beginning of class every time is the purpose of the stories we are going to discuss for the semester. Simply put, the primary purpose of stories used to be teaching, whether it be a moral lesson or imparting knowledge about how the world works. As our society moves more towards a STEM focus, basic education does the same. Arts programs get cut and pre-professional courses like "Accounting" and "Advanced Plant & Soil Science" are given development and promotion in the guidance counselor's office. However, in this move towards promoting STEM fields, we can forget the importance of telling stories even within those fields.
Because I may not remember how to calculate the maximum allowable velocity on a curve with a given arc, angle of embankment, and friction coefficient, but I always slow down on the turn from SPID to I-37.
These two classes were actually very similar, something my physics teacher, Mrs. M, noted early in the school year. She told us outright that some of the material and formulas she discussed would also be covered in Mrs. C's calculus class. The difference was that Mrs. C would teach us the proper way to do everything, with all the background knowledge leading up to it. Mrs. M was going to teach us the shortcut right off the bat and then move on to applying it to other concepts. It was this difference in approach that really highlighted the way stories matter in basic education.
Calculus was math, but physics was math in context. We were given units and diagrams that explained what exactly was happening instead of just numbers being calculated in a void. They weren't quite the bizarre word problems about things like stealing forty cakes, but they still functioned similarly in that they implied real world applications. Even better, Mrs. M knew us. She was well aware that most of us weren't going into fields that would require the kind of experiments and calculations she had us doing. Most of us were there for the AP credit and because we would get bored in a regular science class. So whenever the opportunity arose, she gave us actual real life applications instead of just theoretical ones.
She talked about knowing the best way to move heavy boxes into your dorm room. She talked about being the neighborhood pool shark when she was a kid. She talked about beating people in arm wrestling because she knew how to position herself and apply pressure. The story that stuck out in my mind the most was when we learned about the importance of calculating with the correct friction coefficient on a banked turn. She mentioned the exit from SPID onto I-37, which most of us considered as the highest, sharpest, steepest turn we semi-regularly drove. (The Crosstown exit is much taller, but we were 17 and taking SPID to I-37 was the easiest way to get home from the mall.) She asked how many of us were frustrated that the road went from 60 mph on SPID to 40 mph on the turn and back up to 70 mph on the interstate. Why couldn't we just power through the turn? When most of us agreed, she told us about her son, who took the turn too fast once when it was raining and crashed his car off the ramp. Luckily, he was already coming out of the turn, so he bounced down the grass hill instead of flying off, but it still totaled his car and broke a few bones. She told us that those warning signs are up for a reason and that reason is usually because of a friction coefficient.
I've been in a few classes about mythology and folklore, and one thing that comes up right at the beginning of class every time is the purpose of the stories we are going to discuss for the semester. Simply put, the primary purpose of stories used to be teaching, whether it be a moral lesson or imparting knowledge about how the world works. As our society moves more towards a STEM focus, basic education does the same. Arts programs get cut and pre-professional courses like "Accounting" and "Advanced Plant & Soil Science" are given development and promotion in the guidance counselor's office. However, in this move towards promoting STEM fields, we can forget the importance of telling stories even within those fields.
Because I may not remember how to calculate the maximum allowable velocity on a curve with a given arc, angle of embankment, and friction coefficient, but I always slow down on the turn from SPID to I-37.
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