A friend gifted the Bohemian a Crown Flower tree for his birthday last April. Not only is it known for its flowers, which can be used in making leis, but it is a host plant for the precious Monarch butterfly.
In the last week, we’ve watched a multitude of caterpillars come to munch the leaves, and have even discovered one cocoon already hanging. The lines along the outside of its wrapping, truly glisten golden in the sunlight. Incredible!
We’ve learned that it’s normal for the caterpillars to devour the whole tree. Once they’ve nourished themselves, made their cocoons, and evolved to fly away as butterflies, the tree will sprout new leaves again.
I delight in the wonder and mystery of how they have discovered us. On a little island (just a speck in the Pacific), our solitary Crown Flower tree sits in a pot, tucked far in the corner of our yard. Yet, now it has become a magnet for these voracious munchers.
Yesterday, my Word Problems post referenced Alice in Wonderland. Well, here’s the caterpillar in real life. Far from lazing, these plump little crawlers are on a mission to transform, in an alchemical process that will take them to new heights. We are thrilled to be the spectators.
I like to keep math with math, and words with words. Mix them together, for that classroom favorite known as a “word problem,” and there I am in the midst of an anxiety-ridden brainteaser.
These pesky puzzles were problematic when I was in school, lowering test grades and bringing down SAT scores. Their intent is to apply math concepts to real-life situations, making the mind think outside of rote formulas. But math has always been a challenge for me, and leaving the safety of numbered exercises can be like wandering the world of Alice in Wonderland. Try as I might, so often my mind just can’t quite make sense of where to start or how to proceed.
This is embarrassing to admit. In my 42 years, I’ve experienced plenty of problems in life, and I like to think I’ve solved many of them with relative wisdom and clear-headedness. Though, in most instances, no complex arithmetic was involved.
Rather than belittle myself, lately I’ve taken to the thinking that for those that enjoy the challenge of a good word problem, go for it (my father being one, as he was awarded the airline’s bottle of champagne by guessing the halfway point between California and Hawaii, by using numbers related to mileage, speed, and wind gusts). Fun, fun, fun- but not for me.
So for those that draw a blank with complex scenarios involving numbers, can we please just pass?
This is an odd request to settle upon, knowing that I’ve always felt the word problem ruled the upper echelon of arithmetic. The crowning jewel that proved your math mettle. I’ve not wanted to give up, I’ve wanted to figure it out. Though inevitably, I’ve felt less-than-smart as I’ve struggled through the word problem maze, rarely coming up with a correct answer.
Now as an adult, I’m reliving my student years, as Jeb embarks on sixth grade, with what seems to be quite a rigorous curriculum, compared to what I recall studying at his age.
If you follow the Archives, you may know that this year Jeb requested not to be included in anymore blog posts. As he enters the tender ‘tween years’ I can understand and respect this.
However, I am learning about this in-between age, realizing it is anything but consistent. As of last night, Jeb not only gave his okay to be included in future blog posts, but he specifically asked if I would “please just use my real name” (and no, I will not).
That said, I can rest easy in disclosing that math is Jeb’s most least loved subject. Despite my attempts to remain neutral in this area, he seems to have adopted an aversion even stronger than my own.
Homework assignments involving math at our house can devolve quickly. Jeb elicits help, I tentatively (with fake nonchalance) oblige. This often involves me flipping pages of the text-book to try to find clues as to how to do the assignment. I’m embarrassed to say that some of sixth grade math is already beyond me. Or, the method in which they are teaching the concepts, is different from how I was taught.
Because we’ve already lived through emotional meltdowns, numerous tutors, failed tests, and half-finished homework assignments covered in question marks, Jeb’s latest approach is more creative. He does his math homework with an English accent.
So last night, it was word problems. Plenty of material for perfecting that foreign tongue.
Problem number 42 presents us with the following situation:
A red light flashes every 14 minutes. A blue light flashes every 24 minutes. When will the two lights flash together again, if they last flashed together at 8 a.m.?
At first I feel the thrill of the challenge. We can figure this out. I think I should probably be using their greatest common factor, or a least common multiple, but I’m not exactly sure. I stray from the lesson and try to use what seems logical to my mind, mapping out the times in intervals, labeling each by color.
I chart it out on paper, but Jeb loses interest almost instantly. He becomes merely a spectator, engaged only in hearing the sound of his own English accent, making comical remarks.
“What does this have to do with real life anyway? I can’t stand these assignments that have nothing to do with anything I’m going to use.”
I graph quietly, with concentration…8:14 red. 8:24 blue.
“Well,” I try, “you may need to figure something like this out one day.”
His accent stays strong. “This? This nonsense. There are no blue lights. There are red, green, and yellow lights.”
“Well, ok, true.” I’m smiling to myself.
“And what’s with the fourteen minutes? No one’s waiting fourteen minutes at a light. This…this is absurd.” That’s “absuhd,” no ‘r’ pronounced.
It is all a little absurd. I’m happy that math homework has taken a turn to humor, but it’s obvious Jeb’s done with word problems for the night. They are now only a source of ridicule and entertainment. By 8:48 blue, I’m ready to quit, too. I’m pretty certain my way of attempting to solve the problem is not the path the teacher had in mind, anyway. We pencil in one more question mark next to number 42 on Jeb’s lined, binder paper.
It’s interesting to observe the feeling of vulnerability arise as I write so candidly about my difficulties with math. I do believe I’m a fairly intelligent person. But when it comes to certain aspects of arithmetic, I can feel just downright dumb. It’s painful to see my son experiencing the same frustration and lack of confidence.
Is this genetic? Learned? Is it a flaw in the way we are teaching math to students?
I have no answers. Just one more big question mark on the page.
But for now, last night’s British take on ‘maths’ was a welcome relief, even if we didn’t get the answers right.
It was Friday. It was before 7am. It was the Bohemian, Jeb and I, driving to the bus stop in early morning light.
It was the day commemorating the official entrance of Hawaii as part of the United States of America: Statehood Day.
We were in a state. As in, a state of exhaustion. A state of uncertainty.
Jeb was on day seven of what had been a rough introduction to middle school. He’d had repeated nights of two to three hours of homework, and was driving to the bus that would escort him to a day of at least three quizzes. Welcome to sixth grade!
The Bohemian, he was headed to give fingerprints to the government. For the second time. “As if they have changed!” our friends laughed, when we told them about his appointment. On the positive side, this ‘biometric’ appointment was indication that our petition to remove the conditions of his green card was in process. This was standard procedure. Yes, two times is typical.
On the negative side, the only location that offers the service is on another island, and with one airline having a monopoly on inter-island flights, the Bohemian’s twenty minute plane ride was costing us nearly $300. The appointment would take less than thirty minutes, but he would miss a whole day of work.
The state of our island was one of a minor panic. We were all carefully monitoring the tropical depression named “Kilo” that seemed to have hurricane potential, on a direct path curving right to us. Grocery stores were running out of shopping carts at the door, while pallet loads of bottled water were being crammed into cars. Gas station lines were spilling out on to the streets.
My state was a concoction of family concerns swirled with a list of To-Do’s. After bus and airport drop-offs, I’d be with shopping parents picking through the remains of back-to-school supplies, trying to better organize Jeb and his huge workload. I’d also be grabbing stashes of toilet paper just in case the hurricane hit.
Another to-do was soccer practice waiting at day’s end. What I didn’t know as we drove that sunrise morning, was that the future practice would play out like sketches from “Diary of a Wimpy Kid.”
A six-year-old and three-year old would be allowed to scrimmage with the eleven year olds, and for reasons unclear, the six-year-old would punch one player in the gut and one in the testicles. The three-year old would pull down his pants and pee on another team member. Jeb would be one of the three aforementioned victims of foul play from the ornery little minis.
This was the state of our soccer team.
I tried to impart positivity into the cab of our car, as the Bohemian, Jeb, and I drove. The sun rose behind us, streaming in through the windows, shining light on the dewy glass.
“I hope you each have a great day today. You’ve got missions to accomplish. I hope they’re smooth and easy.”
They thanked me. We drove on quietly.
There were African Tulip trees lining the highway, a bloom in red flowers. They seemed unfazed, despite the pending storm.
There was the figure of a person, near the trees, along the roadside. A hitchhiker, I thought-not uncommon-though as we approached, we saw the woman there did not have her thumb out.
Passing by, we could see her simply standing, arms at her side. Her head was slightly tilted to the morning sky, her eyes closed. Her lips curved in a contented smile, as if she were delighting in some special secret.
Most curious was what adorned her head. I can only describe it as a hat, though it was merely a frame of what might have been a hat, outlining the shape of a pyramid. A kind of pyramid hat, its metal glistening in the sun, resting atop her crown.
The way the metal stiffly protruded from her head reminded me of the orthodontic headgear some unlucky ones were required to wear on their faces in high school. Though in this instance, the headgear appeared to be blissfully voluntary, and I could only guess the corrective intent probably had something to do with chakras and energy fields.
photo courtesy of Superproduct
The random, roadside woman was in a state of pyramid-induced bliss. As we zipped by at 50 mph, I was left to laugh out loud at the absurdity.
I couldn’t help but reflect upon that swift moment of time, as the three of us passed by the pyramid hat woman. For a moment, we were all in the exact time and space. Yet, each of us were experiencing very different mental states.
Beneath the gleam of metal and light, her reality was one, all her own, and it appeared as though she was quite happy with it.
As for us, Jeb’s reality was future quizzes, the Bohemian was thinking fingerprints, and I was imagining an aisle of three-ringed, tabbed dividers. I don’t think anyone in our vehicle had upturned corners on their mouths, but we were trying to stay positive.
Did we simply need metal, cone-shaped hats?
Later, I was so curious about our roadside sighting that I did some online research. I learned that pyramid headgear is not isolated to Kauai. Apparently there is a man in London who has been regularly spotted sporting this geometric frame on his noggin. It’s been the subject of various blogs, and a great summary, “Mystery of London’s Pyramid Hat Man” can be found on “Superproduct.”
Hey, I don’t know. Maybe there’s something to it.
Sans the headgear, in the end, Jeb got 100% on his science quiz. The Bohemian sailed through fingerprinting. I found the binders for Jeb’s schoolwork, and he survived the soccer practice wee-bullies. That storm named Kilo, passed by the island chain, leaving only rain.
Maybe the pyramid technology has far-reaching range. Maybe our heads got a cleansing that morning, if only briefly, as we passed by that roadside woman. She certainly gave us all a chuckle. A state of laughter is healing, and that’s where I’d love to stay.
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