Another example:
Today we were working on word problems. One of them was something like, “The teacher had 22 pencils. She shared 9 of them with her students. How many did she still have?”
I can easily teach students to do 22-9. But it’s incredibly rare in life that you encounter a problem that starkly; more often you encounter a math problem coached in terms of physical objects, or money, or something else similar. Numbers are, in the real word, adjectives, not nouns, so to speak.
And before a student can solve that problem, they need to be able to understand that it’s asking for subtraction. I had at least two students who couldn’t tell me, given the problem as stated, whether the answer would be greater than or less than 22.
What good is arithmetic in such a circumstance?
Kids need to understand the underlying mathematical concepts–that subtraction involves breaking up a set, that the difference in a subtraction equation (with whole numbers) will be less than the minuend–before they can make heads or tails of such a problem.
So how did I deal with this difficulty with abstract principles? By reverting to the concrete, of course: I provided them with 22 cubes, asked them to pretend they were pencils, told them I was about to give away 9 of those cubes, and asked them to predict whether I’d end up with more or less than 22 cubes after I gave 9 away. Given that concrete example, both of them correctly predicted I’d end up with fewer than 22 cubes.
And that’s what it’s all about: seeing how math works, moving from concrete examples into abstract principles.
At the same time, I was working with a high-performing student. She’d solved a word problem with 16-9=7, and another with 26-9=17, and I was pushing her and pushing her to find the relationship between the problems. Her first answer to the question, “Can you find a relationship between the two problems?” was “No way hosay, I can’t.” I didn’t accept that, and because she’s pretty adroit at math, I didn’t let up on her until she noticed what was going on in the tens place. I don’t think she entirely got it this lesson, but I made a note to hit this principle again with her, so that she can build her understanding of place value and use it to her advantage in problem-solving.
A counterexample:
I recently went to a training on differentiating math instruction for struggling students and adroit students. One piece of advice for struggling students was to review key words in story problems and teach them to underline these key words: “altogether” and “More” mean addition, for example, while “Have left” and “gave” mean subtraction.
I immediately wrote up some story problems:
-John had 10 marbles. Sarah gave him some more marbles, and now he has 17 altogether. How many did Sarah give him?
-Larry had 15 iguanas. Sarah has 8 iguanas. How many more iguanas does Larry have than Sarah?
-20 people are at lunch. 3 get up to throw away their trash, and 2 go to the restrooms. How many people have left?
-I have 18 angry monkeys. John gave me 5 angry monkeys. How many do I have?
Of course, each of these problems breaks the “key word” principle; each problem can easily be solved by a student who’s learned to visualize the problem and work it out from scratch, rather than by using some memorized list of key words.
Which is exactly the point: the “key words” method is a highly traditional method taught to struggling students. On a test designed to measure the use of traditional methods, all the story problems will adhere to these key words. Real life, however, won’t. It’s important for kids to be able to reason through problems, rather than simply memorizing a magical formula for solving them.