Cranky parental ponderable.

I recognize that when an infant keeps dropping the stuffed animal or flinging the strained peas or whatever, that infant is likely just being a careful empiricist, probing the nearby grown-up’s response to determine how many drops or flings or whatever it takes for the grown-up to lose it.

However, I would have thought that gathering approximately 12 years of data on a particular grown-up might leave an approximately 12-year-old kid in a position to draw some conclusions. Perhaps these aren’t conclusive conclusions (what with the problem of induction and all), but they’re probably good enough to draw predictions about likely responses to certain kinds of behavior.

All of which leads me to believe that a 12-year-old engaging in a behavior that has reliably elicited a strong negative parental response is not being empirically thorough so much as bloody-minded.

Ethics and the First of April.

On the Twitters, journalist Lee Billings posted this:

In case anyone was wondering, this is an April-Fools-free zone. Misleading readers is a disreputable practice, even under auspices of fun.

I think this is a position worth pondering, especially today.

Regular readers will have noticed that I indulge in the occasional April Fool’s post.

In fact, I posted another today.

And, today’s April Fool’s post was notable (for me, anyway) in its departure from “surprising news about me and/or my blog” terrain. Instead, I was offering “commentary” on a news story that I made up — fake news that was outrageous but had just enough plausibility that the reader might entertain the possibility that it was true. (Lately, the “real” news strikes me as outrageous a lot of the time, so my suspension-of-disbelief muscles are more toned than they used to be.)

So Lee Billings is, basically, right: I was striving to mislead you, my readers, at least momentarily, for laughs.

Was it unethical for me to have done so? Have I fallen short of my duties to you by engaging in this tomfoolery?

Maybe this comes down to what we understand those duties to be.

I try always to make my own thinking on an issue clear — to explain my stand and to give you reasons for that stand. I also try to set out my uncertainties — the things I don’t know or the places I feel myself torn between different stances.

I actually did this in today’s April Fool’s post, even though I was giving my thoughts on the implications of a proposal that no one has made (yet).

When I’m responding to a news story, I accept that I have an obligation not to misrepresent the claims the story makes. This is not to say that I treat the source as authoritative — indeed, in a number of cases I have expressed my own views of the “spin” of the reporting, and of the details that are not discussed in a news story. And, I include a link to the source so readers can read it themselves, evaluate it themselves, and draw their own conclusions about whether I’ve represented the source fairly.

Today’s post had me responding to a news story that didn’t exist. Clearly, that’s a misrepresentation. Moreover, it means that the link I included to the news story didn’t actually go to the news story — more misrepresentation. However, the diligent reader who actually clicked on that link would be alerted to the fact that there was no such news story before getting into my presentation of the purported proposal or analysis of it.

Maybe this means that readers who were successfully mislead by the post actually fell short of their duties to click those links and read that source material with a critical eye.

It’s possible, though, that I’m wrong about this — that you all want me to break things down so clearly and accurately that you never have to click a hyperlink, that you’d like me to dispense with ironic phrasing (yeah, right!), and so forth. My sense is that readers of this blog have been willing to shoulder their share of the cognitive burden, but if I’m mistaken about that, please use the comments to set me straight.

The other ethical worry one might have (and some have expressed) about today’s post is that my fake proposal might be taken up and advocated as a real proposal — which, in this case, I agree would be bad. If that were to happen, would I be responsible?

I guess I might. But then so might authors of dystopian fiction whose ideas are embraced (and implemented) by people who have a different view of how the world should be. Personally, I think exploring the pitfalls of bad ideas before someone thinks to implement them could help us to actually find better ideas to implement. However, I suppose where bad ideas that get implemented come from is an empirical question.

Does anyone have a good way to get the empirical data that would answer it?

Friday Sprog Blogging: the perils of a kid who’s listening.

The younger Free-Ride offspring and Dr. Free-Ride’s better half have been studying aikido for some years now, at the same dojo, although not in the same class. This means that the younger Free-Ride offspring’s class is getting off the mat as Dr. Free-Ride’s better half’s class is getting onto it, which frequently leads to playful sparring and verbal provocations between the dogi-clad Free-Rides, shenanigans in which their Sensei occasionally takes part.

Recently, Dr. Free-Ride’s better half had a birthday. Indeed, it was on an aikido night. However, while the younger Free-Ride offspring went to the dojo that night, Dr. Free-Ride’s better half pleaded “too much work” and stayed home. Jokingly, I wondered if this might be an attempt to dodge the traditional “birthday beat-down” and, that night at the dojo, I suggested that the younger Free-Ride offspring ask Sensei to reschedule this beat-down.

“I’m not going to do that!” said the younger Free-Ride offspring.

This week, as the kids were clearing the mat and the adults were filing in, Sensei grappled Dr. Free-Ride’s better half, grunted “Birthday boy, eh?” and gave him a perfunctory thumping. Dr. Free-Ride’s better half then turned and gave the younger Free-Ride offspring the hairy eyeball.

“It’s not fair,” said the younger Free-Ride offspring in exasperation. “I didn’t tell Sensei to give [Dr. Free-Ride’s better half] a birthday beatdown — I even said not to! But Sensei did anyway!”

“Oh well,” I said.

“And even though [Dr. Free-Ride’s better half] knows that it was your idea, Sensei thinks it was my idea!”

I allowed as how my good reputation with Sensei meant that he tended not to suspect me of masterminding such plots (and I should point out that all I did was mention to my offspring the possibility of asking Sensei to reschedule the birthday beatdown — my offspring and Sensei did the rest on their own). “I guess the fact that people don’t suspect that of me is what makes me such an effective super-villain,” I said.

“But you are not a super-villain,” my offspring said to me. “You are a good person. That means you have to tell the truth, like to Sensei, right now.”

Sigh. This is why I’ll never get anywhere as a super-villain.

Midweek self-criticism: what about that logic and critical reasoning course?

Back in mid-December, a reader emailed:

If I remember right, you were at one point talking about teaching a course on logic, scientific method[s], etc. If so, and if it happened this semester, is it possible to get a copy of the syllabus? It sounded interesting, and I once taught such a course and might in the future.

On the other hand, maybe I remember wrong, and you’re wondering WTF I’m talking about. In that case, uh… um… Happy Holidays!! that’s the ticket.

My correspondent did, in fact, remember correctly that I was discussing the planning of this course, although that discussion here pretty much stopped when my semester commenced kicking my butt.

In any event, given that I taught the course fall semester, it was planned at least enough that I was able to deliver it to the enrolled students. How did that go?

I would not describe it as an unqualified success.

One issue was that it was really hard to fully integrate the two distinct threads of the course (distinct threads which, as I noted, flowed from the laundry list of learning objectives for the course’s general education area). On the one hand, we were concerned with critical reasoning, grappling with actual “arguments in the wild”, recognizing strengths and weaknesses of such arguments (including many flavors of informal fallacies), and having the students develop their own skills in framing arguments of their own, often in response to the arguments put forward by others. On the other hand, we were tackling the formal properties of arguments — which meant mucking around with symbolic logic, truth-tables, truth-trees, methods of proof, and the like.

I’m sure there exist approaches to weave these two threads together, if not seamlessly, then with more success than I had.

However, a pretty serious stumbling block for me was the fact that maybe half of the students had a fairly easy time with the symbolic logic, while the other half struggled with it. And, it’s hard to find the time to illuminate the connections when you’re working on getting the basic idea across (and when it’s taking at least three times longer than you had hoped it would take).

If I had to do it again (and I might!), I’d be tempted to split up the semester into two distinct blocks, the first focused entirely on the formal properties of arguments, and the second on “arguments in the wild”. Getting what seems to be the harder material out of the way might open up some space to then see how it connects to the natural language argumentation with which the students are more at home.

It might also result in a lot of the students who are most freaked out by the symbolic logic dropping the course within the first couple weeks, but I had a bunch of people hoping spaces would open up so they could add the course. Front-loading the difficult material might actually be a kindness to the students who recognize their inability or unwillingness to deal with it, so they could drop the course before drop day.

I was pleasantly surprised at the students’ ability to engage with arguments in English (as opposed to Ps and Qs). Both in class discussions and in their essays, they did quite well at identifying the premises that were being put forward to support a conclusion, at zeroing in on implicit premises, at finding places where the link between premises and conclusions was not as strong as the person making the argument would have you believe, and at mounting persuasive counterarguments of their own. In other words, they demonstrated their ability to bring critical thinking to their reading of the op-ed page. This is a very good thing indeed.

On the other hand, some of the students hadn’t figured out how to ask good questions (or in some cases, any questions) about material they were having trouble understanding (again, mostly the symbolic logic stuff). This became painful in the class meetings and review sessions devoted to helping them get clear on the concepts and skills on which they were unclear. If you can’t even tell me which problems from the homework you want to see worked on the board, or whether, once you see they worked on the board, they make more sense to you, then I need telepathic powers to figure out how to help you learn this stuff.

Sadly, I do not have telepathic powers.

As it shook out, I don’t think I’d use my own syllabus again. Still, I will probably come up with a couple drafts of syllabi for the next iteration of the course. One will try to address the issues I discovered with the particular student population I had. The other, to satisfy my hunger for Platonic ideal forms (one of which must exist for a logic and critical reasoning course), will propose the mix of topics and activities I’d want to teach with no regard for externally imposed learning objectives or for the existence of students who might actually be resistant to spending more than the minimum time and effort on learning the material (and maybe even caring about it).

I reckon that drafting those syllabi would be a nice diversion from the mountains of grading. When it happens, I’ll post them here.

Random bullets of “I guess we’re back in the thick of things!”

My semester has, in the last 10 days or so, shifted from “close enough to equilibrium to seem manageable” to “who parked their ton of bricks right on my soul?!” I suppose I should have seen this coming, right?

  • That weekend sprog blog never materialized. The proximate causes were a whole mess of grading, and the younger Free-Ride offspring working on yet another school project (for Band, which is technically an extracurricular activity, but I was too busy grading to pursue it).
  • Plus, it turns out that Dr. Free-Ride’s better half seems to have already recycled the aforementioned booklet on how to keep your kids safe (from cyberbullying, sexting, and the like) online. Perhaps this is evidence to indict us as bad parents. However, I think the record will reflect that we’ve been attentive to the dangers of creepy internet stalkers since at least late January of 2006.
  • Best thing at a science fair: the kid who can explain in detail how (and why) all of his strategies for measuring the variables of interest ran into unforeseen difficulties, and how (given more time, if not better instrumentation) he might MacGuyver his way around them. Especially when the kid is not defeated but enthusiastic about the challenges science presents, not to mention the fun of tackling those challenges.
  • Sadly, that good thing didn’t keep the worst thing in my inbox from knocking the wind out of my sails. It sounds like “the management” of the public university system of which my fair campus is a part is planning to go Wisconsin on the faculty union’s collective posterior as we negotiate our contract. After all, this is a terribly cushy job, and I and my fellow faculty members personally orchestrated the financial collapse.

Midweek self-criticism: disdain for other flavors of geekery.

Given that at least some denizens of the internet assume that I (like all my comrades in academia, especially at a public university system in California) must be a card-carrying Communist, public self-criticism may become a semi-regular blog feature here. (Verily, given how judgmental all that grading makes me, I ought to use some of it on myself.)

Anyway, the other night I was mulling over whether I wanted to watch the documentary film Helvetica, a film that explores the typographical font of the same name. I’ve spoken to people who have seen it and have really enjoyed it, and yet, I found myself resistant.

On the surface, at least, I put down my resistance to my impression that Helvetica is maybe a documentary best appreciated by font-geeks. While I appreciate a well-balanced font as much as the next producer or consumer of written language, I am not a font-geek.

At least, I’m not a font-geek at present. Maybe my hesitance to watch Helvetica was really a matter of fear — fear that the film might turn me into a font-geek. Not that there’s anything objectively wrong with being a font-geek, but I have lots of other kinds of geekery on my plate at the moment, and I worry that adding one more might be a geek too far. Also, I’m not sure I want to find myself staying up late switching the fonts on all my old web pages, handouts, and manuscripts (which is maybe something that a serious font-geek might do).

But, if I’m worrying that the activation energy to turn me into a font-geek is sufficiently low that an 80 minute movie could push me over it, maybe there’s an uglier side to my resistance.

I must acknowledge the possibility that what I really fear is that watching Helvetica will turn me into one of them (i.e., a font-geek), and that my real problem, should this outcome occur, is not that it will be time consuming to indulge in this additional geekery, nor that it will displace some existing geekery in which I currently partake. Rather, maybe I’d have a problem with letting go of my disdain for this other sort of geek that I am not, with their strange ways and odd interests. The emotional distance is similar to what I imagine a non-Trekkie would feel toward Trekkies when watching the documentary Trekkies.*

Am I a person who needs to hold on to disdain for others, even to the point of disdaining myself if I should find myself like those others in my appreciation of the aesthetic qualities of typographical fonts? I hope not.

Having recognized my error in resisting Helvetica and my own potential membership in the fellowship of font-geeks, I affirm my willingness to watch the film, as well as my commitment to hold no other geeks in disdain for the focus of their geekery.

_________________
* I haven’t actually watched Trekkies, either. I don’t dress up in Federation uniforms or go to cons, and I never got too immersed in the shows in the Star Trek franchise that came after the original series, but I acknowledge that I’m at least a low-level Trekkie.

Tuesday headdesk.

Did you ever go to your class and give what feels like a really good lecture on the reading (because the students look engaged, and they’re asking really good questions about both the specifics and the big picture) …

And, it feels like it’s connecting in a really effective way to issues discussed in the last class meeting (simultaneously reinforcing some of those points and challenging them) …

And, you didn’t even really have to dip into your list of half a dozen current situations that raise similar kinds of questions, because the students are all over it and have raised half a dozen such current situations of their own …

Only to discover
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Morning grouse.

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My “To do by 9:00 AM” list today:

  1. Nag students who received add codes to actually use them to add the course.
  2. Nag students who haven’t logged in to the online course to do so, stat! (Or, if they plan to drop the course, to do that ASAP.)
  3. Figure out the lag time between official university enrollment in the course that is online and the “rebuild” enrollment updates are supposed to trigger in the online course shell that lets enrolled students access the online course.
  4. Email 28 students who want add codes to tell them that at this moment I don’t have space for them.

It’s a good thing the actual teaching is fun, because this other stuff is manifestly not fun.

The great start of the semester add code scramble!

Yes, I’m resurfacing again! To the readers who sent emails asking if I’m OK and/or conveying that they miss my blogging and hope this semester is not kicking my butt like last semester, many thanks.

At my fair university, classes started a week ago today. This means in the intervening week, I have received approximately a bazillion email messages requesting an “add code,” the numerical sequence with which a student not currently enrolled in one of my courses might officially enroll. To be fair, half a bazillion of those email messages actually arrived before the official start of the term last Wednesday. As well, a quarter bazillion such requests have also been made in person, whether in the first two class meetings of the section of the course that meets in three dimensions (as opposed to online) or in my prof cave office.

It’s hard for it not to turn your head when everyone seems to want what you’ve got, but I know this popularity will not last. (In week 6, they’re not going to write, or call, or come to office hours — they never do.) Worse, I’m just not in a position to give all these desperate students what they want.
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Students do the darndest things.

In the designated in-class review session for a final exam:

Student: Could you make a list for us of all the philosophers whose views we need to know for the final exam?

Me: I already did. It’s called the syllabus.

* * * * *

In an email the weekend before the final exam:

Student: I had some questions on the final review sheet …

Rather than actually asking any questions, the email simply reproduces items listed on the review sheet under “Important concepts and terminology” and “Questions about the reading” — lots of them. I start to wonder if this email is meant as a clever way to get the professor to write the student’s page of notes for the exam.

Me: Look at the discussion of [this question] in [this textbook chapter]. For [that concept], you’ll want to reread [that reading in the course reader]. Hope that helps!

* * * * *

From the official guidelines for short “reading response” essays on my course website:

Reading responses are due at the beginning of lecture.  No late reading responses will be accepted.  Of the 5 reading responses assigned, your lowest grade will be dropped from the average.  (If you skip one, that will be the one that gets dropped.)

In my faculty mailbox, on the day of the final exam, with no prior consultation and no note of explanation:

Two way-past-due reading response essays from a student who had only handed in two of the five when they were due.