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Context: since COVID started, I’ve offered free homeschool consulting. Mathematics turns out to be the reason many families who would otherwise be comfortable homeschooling choose not to do so—a commendable terror of not doing right by their kids. By providing help choosing resources and a solemn promise to step in and teach if they get stuck, I am now personally responsible for four local families deciding to start homeschooling. One of those families referred a friend to me, a teenage boy who simultaneously has severe dyslexia and genuine talent for mathematics. The parents asked me to help him because he was struggling to earn grades that reflected his ability. He understands the mathematical principles with ease, but struggles intensely with the aspects of mathematics that, particularly under Common Core, require reading and writing.
Link: I have previously written my thoughts on Common Core mathematics.
Jack’s Light Bulb Moments
Jack laughs a little every time I say “rational functions.”
The third time, I ask him what’s so funny.
“Well, I mean, all of math is rational.”
It hits me then that Jack uses the word “rational” in the way most people do—to mean calm, sober, based on reasons and not on feelings.
The first light bulb moment comes when I explain that “rational” comes from “ratio,” writing the word on my white board in blue, all caps, and underline the “ratio” in green.
I color swap constantly, a cheap trick that works, at least for him.
The part of his brain that can force itself to read correctly—with enormous effort, and never for very long—understands each color as a separate entity, so he gets the constant benefit of whatever “starting over to read a new thing” energy he has available.
The constant color changes make it easier for Jack to follow, but it’s also funny as hell. I remind myself of Data, from Star Trek: the Next Generation, hands moving in a blur as I swap pens as fast as I can.
Yes, I clarify. All of math is rational, which is why we love it, but rational functions all involve a ratio of one function to another. Some function related to another function, and their overall relationship provides a mathematical description of something or other.
I watch this sink in, and his face reveals his feelings in a quick, patently obvious succession.
Like most teenage boys, he thinks he’s fully mysterious to adults, but I can easily observe his emotions.
He laughs at himself for missing this and then—holy shit!—realizes that this just might help him with his real struggle, these motherfucking word problems.
The hope is palpable, pupils dilating and nostrils flaring as he takes in a short, anticipatory breath.
It takes all my self-control to pretend I don’t notice his excitement.
Jack’s enthusiastic cooperation matters more than everything else, so it’s imperative for him to continue to feel like he’s significantly cooler than the weird, dorky woman with the Christmas tree full of Star Trek ornaments whose apartment his parents have sentenced him to: 90 minutes every Monday afternoon, forever.
The next seventy-five minutes will be frustrating for both of us, but the second light bulb moment will help a lot.
The third one will leave me struggling not to cry and him grinning like a little boy on Christmas morning.