Moratorium

Well, that's that with that for this blog.

I started this, "De la Tinta," with the idea that blogging was a good idea; it would be a good excercise in writing. I didn't have (--or find or create or..et cetera) much to write about, however, so it didn't work.

Some time later, for some reason that always-clear hindsight might show me in due time, I found myself scribbling little post-its to myself rather often, ideas and inspirations and thoughts of things to write about. I also found photography, bona fide.

So I started to blog again, here: donqvijote.wordpress.com.

Almost six months later now I still use wordpress, I'm at ~10 posts per month and am still going. Who knows what's next? Likely it won't last more than a few years, but so far it's been a lot of both work and good fun, which is all I could want.

Best
David

Memorial Day

Never, ever forget those who have committed all.

Hold in hallowed regard the few who have, on the field, been called to fulfill their commitment. Treasure, honor, and if need be, fight, for their legacy. 

Likewise, watch over their loved ones. Do not rest if they are not well cared and provided for.

They offer all, it is what we can do in return.

To all the families who are what this day is about, a simple "thank you" could never be enough--I hope and pray that you will be shown through action, not just word, our gratitude.

Abstract Algebra, and Life?

                When something completely unexpected happens, I just love it. Really, that’s what makes math so cool:  you’re working along and *ka-POW*, something that you didn’t expect at all just jumps and pops you in the nose. Great fun.

                The other day, I got some great wisdom from my algebra professor, John Sullivan. My buddy Barry had a few questions for him after lecture, so I decided to hang around and listen in. This class, Galois Theory, is the first one I’ve taken from Sullivan—so far, I’ve enjoyed his lectures a lot. He works hard to communicate the ideas and thoughts behind the principles, instead of spending time on the mechanisms and contraptions used in the proofs of the princpiles. The downshot of that, having to figure out the mechanics for myself, is a bit annoying, but most likely good for the mind. Anywho, I should stop yammering before I break my “short and sweet” promise.

After talking about a few specific problems, Sullivan started to explain to us some of his philosophy about homework, and math problems in general. I’ll try to get as close as I can to what he said, but it’s not an exact quote.  

Once every few weeks, he hands out a fact sheet, with all the important theorems and statements we’ll need for the homework, and he was just starting to explain those to us…

 

“See, I’m not giving you guys those fact sheets as the keys to solving the problems, not at all. They’re tools to add to your collection, to use along the way to your solution; they’re not the solution itself, not at all. Don’t think about the problems as obstacles, look at them as opportunities—that’s really what they are, they aren’t obstacles.

When you look at one of these problems—when I first look at one of these problems, I have no idea what’s going on, what I really actually am trying to do, what the real underlying idea is. You have to play around with it, try some different things, look at what tools you have to work with. After doing that, after you come to an understanding the problem…that’s when you get a spark, an idea. That’s where the solution has to come from, an inspiration. You need that spark—that’s what these problems are, they’re opportunities for you to work through the problem, and have that spark. That’s why you can’t just use the fact sheet to crank out a solution—you miss the whole point, the experience, and really, what it’s all about. ”

 

So, yeah.  That Sullivan guy, I think he knows a thing or two. He tacked down a part of what math is about, right there. But then I kept thinking about what he said, and then the unexpected happened: it hit me, this idea doesn’t seem like a principle of mathematics as much as it is an outlook on life. I think most can agree—life is all about the journey, the story.

Sullivan’s advice about Galois theory suddenly seemed to connect with that idea. By not looking a problem full on, but grinding through it with what I know how to do–as with math problems, could it be possible to miss a bit of what life is all about? When I work a math problem, I can cobble together a handful of propositions and theorems, call it done, and it’ll probably look OK. I’m safe. Heck, maybe it’ll be original, or even elegant. But, tragically, I will have missed what it’s all about.

I think some of what life is about—just like the beauty of that little spark of inspiration—comes from if, and how, we square with the hard times.

Old Horse

I first read this story in my English 101 class at community college--ironically, it wasn't even one of the required readings, it simply caught my attention as I was flipping through the class reader. To this day, it is one of my all time favorite short stories, so without further ado...

Old Horse was the algebra instructor at the school where I teach. I don’t remember his real name anymore. But he had a long face with a big, square teeth, and so the students called him “Old Horse.”

Perhaps they would have liked him more if he hadn’t been so sarcastic. With his cutting remarks, Old Horse could force the most brazen student to stare at the floor in silence. Even the faculty had a healthy respect for his sharp tongue. 

One day a boy named Jenkins flared back at Old Horse, “But I don’t understand this,” pointing to a part of the problem on the board.

    “I’m doing the best I can considering the material I have to work with,” said Old Horse.

    “You’re trying to make a jackass out of me,” said Jenkins, his face turning red.

    “But, Jenkins, you make it so easy for me,” said Old Horse—and Jenkin’s eyes retreated to the floor.

Old Horse retired shortly after I came. Something went wrong with his liver or stomach and so he left. No one heard from him again. 

One day, however, not too long before Old Horse left, a new boy came to school. Because he had buck teeth and a hare lip, everybody called him Rabbit. No one seemed to like Rabbit either. Most of the time he stood by himself chewing his fingernails. 

Since Rabbit came to school in the middle of October, he had make-up work to do in algebra every day after school. Old Horse was surprisingly patient during these sessions. He would explain anything Rabbit asked. Rabbit in turn always did his homework. In fact, he came early to class, if he could manage it. Then, after the lesson, he would walk with Old Horse to the parking lot. One Friday, because of a faculty meeting, Old Horse didn’t meet with Rabbit. This afternoon I walked with Old Horse. We were passing the athletic field when suddenly he stopped and pointed. “What’s the matter with that one?” he asked. He was referring to Rabbit, standing alone, chewing his fingernails, while watching some boys pass a football.

    “What do you mean?” I asked. 

    “Why doesn’t he play ball, too?” Old Horse demanded.

    “Oh, you know how it is. He came in later than the others, and besides—“

    “Besides what?”

    “Well, he’s different, you know? He’ll fit in sooner or later.”

    “No, no, no. That won’t do. They mustn’t leave him out like that.”

    “Then we had to break off our conversation because Rabbit had hurried over to join with us. With a smile, he walked beside his teacher, asking him questions. 

Suddenly, one of the boys from the athletic field called out, “Yea, Old Horse! Yea, Old Horse!”, and then he threw back his head and went, “Wheeeeeeeee!” like a horse’s whinny. Rabbit’s face reddened with embarrassment. Old Horse tossed his head, but said nothing.

The next day the students from my fifth hour class came to my room awfully excited. Old Horse had gone too far, they said. He ought to be fired. When I asked what had happened, the said he had picked on Rabbit. He had called on Rabbit first thing and deliberately made him look ridiculous.

Apparently Rabbit had gone to the board with confidence. But when he began to put down some numbers, Old horse said that they looked like animal tracks in the snow. Everyone snickered, and Rabbit got nervous.

Then Old Horse taunted him for a mistake in arithmetic. “No, no, no. Can’t you multiply now? Even a rabbit can do that.”

Everyone laughed, although they were surprised. They thought Rabbit was Old Horse’s pet. By now, Rabbit was so mixed up he just stood there, chewing his fingernails.

    “Don’t nibble!” Old Horse shouted. “Those are your fingers, boy, not carrots!”

At that, Rabbit took his seat without being told and put his red face in his hands. But the class wasn’t laughing any more. They were silent with anger at Old Horse.

I went in to see Old Horse after my last class. I found him looking out the window.

    “Now listen here—,“ I began, but he waved me into silence.

    “Now, now, now, look at that. See?” He pointed to Rabbit walking to the athletic field with one of the boys who had complained about how mean Old Horse had been.

    “Doesn’t he have special class with you now?” I asked after a moment. 

    “He doesn’t need that class anymore,” said Old Horse.

That afternoon I walked with Old Horse to the parking lot. He was in one of his impatient moods, so I didn’t try to say much. Suddenly, from the players on the athletic field, a wild chorus broke out. “Yea, Old Horse! Yea, Old Horse!” And then Rabbit, who was with them, stretched his long neck and screamed, “Wheeeeeeeee!”

Old Horse tossed his head as if a large fly were bothering him. But he said nothing.

        This story gets me thinking about the meaning of teaching. It seems to me, plain as day, Old Horse is not the ideal teacher. But that's part of the draw. Something, I'm not quite sure what, about Old Horse, sparks the imagination. I think, in the story, that spark is just a bit of what teaching is all about.