Issue link: http://latinschool.uberflip.com/i/837825
My Story test, I asked students to "find the x-value which outputs the largest y-value." e answer I was looking for was "I don't know" – there wasn't enough information to come to a conclusion – but because I phrased the question so definitively, some students spent half the time on their test searching for that x-value which was impossible to hone in on. ough I mildly regret the wording of the question, it led not only to a mathematical discussion about the shape of polynomials, but also to a more significant conversation about knowing when you don't know something. For many, including some of my Algebra 1 and pre-calculus students, it can be hard to write or say "I don't know." As Tim Krieder of e New York Times puts it, "To admit to ignorance, uncertainty or ambivalence is to cede your place on the masthead, your slot on the program, and allow all the coveted eyeballs to turn instead to the next hack who's more than happy to sell them all the answers." is quote reminded me of watching ESPN's "Around the Horn" sports talk show, a miserable half hour of television replete with middle-aged men yelling ever stronger opinions on questions that don't have answers. "Would Matt Ryan be more successful than Tom Brady if he were in the Patriots system the last 10 years?" Woody Paige scores seven points with his vapid, confident response. J.A. Adande scores nine for his louder, surer, yet equally substance-less thoughts. How do these two have any idea?! I don't see admitting uncertainty as weakness. In the context of my profession, saying "I'm not sure, and here is why" feels far better than brushing students off with a hastily thought-out answer, an answer that might leave them not only with misunderstanding, but also with less drive to search for the answer themselves. If I can model curiosity and specific strategies on what to do when answers don't come easily, then I think my students will be better prepared for the complex world beyond Latin's walls. As for my fundamental disagreement with Anton's Calculus book? "My very short answer is that both you and your book are correct," wrote my college friend Matt, now a math professor at Holy Cross, whom I reached out to after class. A weekend-long e-mail exchange later, my understanding of limits involving infinity had strengthened, and as a little lagniappe I had scored an invitation to "stop by if you're ever passing through northeast Connecticut." e next Monday's calculus class ranks as one of my favorite class periods in my 10-plus years of teaching. I printed out the e-mail exchange, which we read in class together. We debated if John Green abused the word infinity and ideas of cardinality in e Fault in Our Stars. We began exploring the formal delta-epsilon definition of a limit, and if there are mathematical situations to go rogue and ignore it. Energy, mostly in the form of questions, filled room 419. "When are two quantities equal?" "What is a number, anyway?" You can bet what phrase was said a lot that memorable morning – and Mr. Tullman, the 13 of us in room 419 were far from lazy people, and we all care deeply about the mysteries of infinity and the beauty that is mathematics. Calling all Roman writers! Alumni, students and faculty, if you have a story to share, please submit it for consideration to Latin Magazine. We are now accepting stories for the Winter 2018 issue. Submissions may not be longer than 750 words and should be sent to info@latinschool.org. We look forward to hearing from you! f(x) L+e e e L -e L x x y a- d d d a a+ d 0 21 Latin Magazine » Summer 2017