Parent Teacher Conference
Feb. 16th, 2011 10:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolMy son’s Latin teacher was promoted, and the school district doesn’t have any more Latin teachers, so his class is being taught by a substitute, possibly for the rest of the year. I’ve been having a lot of anxiety about this, so I dreamed this last night.
My daughter came home yesterday from school. As I usually do, I quizzed her about what she’s learning in her classes.
“In math,” she told me, “we’re learning about pi.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “What’s pi?”
“Pi,” she recited, “is the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter.”
“Very good,” I replied. “And what is the value of pi?”
“That’s easy,” said my daughter. “It’s four.”
“Well, that’s not a bad estimate,” I said. “That’ll get you close.”
“It’s not an estimate,” she objected. “It’s four. It’s exactly four.”
“Really?” I said. “Four? Not, say, three?”
“No, four,” my daughter said.
“So let me get this straight,” I essayed. “If I have a circle that’s three feet across, the circumference of that circle will be….”
“Twelve!” she said brightly.
“I see,” I said, picking up the phone.
**
The principal was at the parent teacher conference along with my daughter’s math teacher. We got down to business.
“You’re teaching my daughter stuff that’s wrong,” I said.
“I’m sorry you see it that way,” said the math teacher in what I found to be a condescending manner.
“Furthermore,” I amplified, “you’re completely inept, and you should be fired and then strung up with a noose whose circumference is four times its diameter.”
The principal cut in. “Sir,” he said, “we’re employing some new teaching techniques in this school district.”
“Oh really!” I said. “This ought to be good.”
“It’s called the Zimmerman Method,” the math teacher explained. “It was pioneered in an inner-city middle school in Philadelphia. It’s a great way to teach math and science.”
“Here’s how it works,” the principal said. “The teacher instructs the students on some aspect of math or science, and teaches the students something that is absurd upon casual inspection.”
“Yes,” agreed the teacher. “The natural curiosity of the children will cause them to examine the incorrect teachings and find them in conflict with reality. They will in essence become natural philosophers, trying to reconcile improper teachings with reality, failing, and looking to develop new paradigms that make sense.”
“So, for instance,” cut in the principal, “next week we’re going to be starting a multi-disciplinary unit for all grades called ‘The World is Flat’.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “That’s not irony.”
“Certainly not,” said the teacher. “We will be earnestly teaching that the world is flat, but not attempting to refute any evidence to the contrary. That’s for the kids to do.”
“How are you going to explain all the globes?” I asked.
“Those will be removed,” said the principal.
“I think I am starting to get it,” I said. “So what this means is that all those schools in Louisiana and Oklahoma and Alabama that supposedly suck, don’t actually suck. They’re just progressive.”
“Yes, exactly!” replied the teacher, very excited. “The Zimmerman Method has really taken off in underfunded Southern school districts.”
“Here is my concern,” I said. “What happens if you get a bunch of students whose ‘natural curiosity’ doesn’t kick in for whatever reason, and they wind up leaving school believing that the world really is flat?”
The principal steepled his fingers. “Naturally there will be some educational failures,” he said. “But let’s be practical: when we are evaluated by the school district for the quality of the students that leave the educational system, all they’ll really care about is how the most elite students perform. For the rest, their sole interest is how they do on standardized tests.”
“So you’re good with, say, ninety percent of kids believing wrong things about the world, as long as your most gifted kids believe the right thing.”
“Oh no!” said the teacher, shocked. “We’re totally cool with 100% of our students believing the world is flat, just so long as they’ve gone through the method of testing teachings against reality.”
I rubbed my temples. “I just can’t believe you’re fine with letting an entire generation of kids believe that pi equals four.”
“But they won’t!” the teacher protested. “They’ll find that number conflicts with reality, and in time they’ll come to accept that pi is really three!”
“Wait, what?” interrupted the principal. “I thought it was the square root of ten or something like that.”
“I’ll let you boys sort this out,” I said.
**
“So pi isn’t really four?” my daughter asked.
“No,” I said.
“Then what is it?”
“Well,” I said, “here’s a coffee can, and a string, and a ruler. Let’s find out what it really is.”
She took a bunch of measurements. “That’s interesting,” she said, frowning. “It’s not four at all.”
“Not even close, really,” I said.
My daughter frowned. “Why would they tell us it’s four,” she asked, “when it’s really three?”
“Gimme that,” I said, snatching the ruler.
My daughter came home yesterday from school. As I usually do, I quizzed her about what she’s learning in her classes.
“In math,” she told me, “we’re learning about pi.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “What’s pi?”
“Pi,” she recited, “is the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter.”
“Very good,” I replied. “And what is the value of pi?”
“That’s easy,” said my daughter. “It’s four.”
“Well, that’s not a bad estimate,” I said. “That’ll get you close.”
“It’s not an estimate,” she objected. “It’s four. It’s exactly four.”
“Really?” I said. “Four? Not, say, three?”
“No, four,” my daughter said.
“So let me get this straight,” I essayed. “If I have a circle that’s three feet across, the circumference of that circle will be….”
“Twelve!” she said brightly.
“I see,” I said, picking up the phone.
**
The principal was at the parent teacher conference along with my daughter’s math teacher. We got down to business.
“You’re teaching my daughter stuff that’s wrong,” I said.
“I’m sorry you see it that way,” said the math teacher in what I found to be a condescending manner.
“Furthermore,” I amplified, “you’re completely inept, and you should be fired and then strung up with a noose whose circumference is four times its diameter.”
The principal cut in. “Sir,” he said, “we’re employing some new teaching techniques in this school district.”
“Oh really!” I said. “This ought to be good.”
“It’s called the Zimmerman Method,” the math teacher explained. “It was pioneered in an inner-city middle school in Philadelphia. It’s a great way to teach math and science.”
“Here’s how it works,” the principal said. “The teacher instructs the students on some aspect of math or science, and teaches the students something that is absurd upon casual inspection.”
“Yes,” agreed the teacher. “The natural curiosity of the children will cause them to examine the incorrect teachings and find them in conflict with reality. They will in essence become natural philosophers, trying to reconcile improper teachings with reality, failing, and looking to develop new paradigms that make sense.”
“So, for instance,” cut in the principal, “next week we’re going to be starting a multi-disciplinary unit for all grades called ‘The World is Flat’.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “That’s not irony.”
“Certainly not,” said the teacher. “We will be earnestly teaching that the world is flat, but not attempting to refute any evidence to the contrary. That’s for the kids to do.”
“How are you going to explain all the globes?” I asked.
“Those will be removed,” said the principal.
“I think I am starting to get it,” I said. “So what this means is that all those schools in Louisiana and Oklahoma and Alabama that supposedly suck, don’t actually suck. They’re just progressive.”
“Yes, exactly!” replied the teacher, very excited. “The Zimmerman Method has really taken off in underfunded Southern school districts.”
“Here is my concern,” I said. “What happens if you get a bunch of students whose ‘natural curiosity’ doesn’t kick in for whatever reason, and they wind up leaving school believing that the world really is flat?”
The principal steepled his fingers. “Naturally there will be some educational failures,” he said. “But let’s be practical: when we are evaluated by the school district for the quality of the students that leave the educational system, all they’ll really care about is how the most elite students perform. For the rest, their sole interest is how they do on standardized tests.”
“So you’re good with, say, ninety percent of kids believing wrong things about the world, as long as your most gifted kids believe the right thing.”
“Oh no!” said the teacher, shocked. “We’re totally cool with 100% of our students believing the world is flat, just so long as they’ve gone through the method of testing teachings against reality.”
I rubbed my temples. “I just can’t believe you’re fine with letting an entire generation of kids believe that pi equals four.”
“But they won’t!” the teacher protested. “They’ll find that number conflicts with reality, and in time they’ll come to accept that pi is really three!”
“Wait, what?” interrupted the principal. “I thought it was the square root of ten or something like that.”
“I’ll let you boys sort this out,” I said.
**
“So pi isn’t really four?” my daughter asked.
“No,” I said.
“Then what is it?”
“Well,” I said, “here’s a coffee can, and a string, and a ruler. Let’s find out what it really is.”
She took a bunch of measurements. “That’s interesting,” she said, frowning. “It’s not four at all.”
“Not even close, really,” I said.
My daughter frowned. “Why would they tell us it’s four,” she asked, “when it’s really three?”
“Gimme that,” I said, snatching the ruler.
