Communicating math

What’s the point of solving a math problem if you can’t explain the answer to someone? Nearly every other discipline encourages its students to practice written and oral communication, but math courses often forgo this practice so they can focus on covering more material. This is a mistake.

I am thinking about the importance of math communication since I have just attended the QTM Math Circle poster presentation. At the end of each summer, students enrolled in QTM Math Circle complete a capstone research project and present their work at a poster presentation. For many of these students (who are all high schoolers), this is their first time having to explain math to someone. Of course, many of them can explain steps of a calculation–“then you divide by 2 and take the square root to solve for x,” e.g.–but this was their first time explaining what problem they tried to solve, what their approach was, and why it worked.

The best presentations were those that included helpful visuals. For example, one team studied screensaver patterns. You know the style of screensaver that floats around the screen, bouncing off the walls, until it finally satisfyingly hits a corner? The students on this team studied how many times the box will bounce off a wall between corner-touches, and how far the box will travel, and how many times it will cross its own path. A few clear example pictures on their poster were enough for me to understand the problems they wanted to solve and predict some of the patterns. If an audience member doesn’t clearly understand your problem, you’re wasting their time with everything else you tell them.

Also, many good presentations focused on the idea behind the proof over the step-by-step calculations of the proof. Another team, for example, studied strategies for finding your way out of a forest if you are lost (assuming you know the dimensions of the forest). They wanted to minimize the worst-case escape time. Their solution involved evaluating a few integrals, and these were shown on the poster so anyone who was really interested could see the details, but when they presented their work, they just explained the high-level strategy, then noted, “our calculations show that this is how long you would need to find your way out.”

I have notice many professional mathematicians still struggle with communicating their results. I cringe a little every time I watch a math talk where the presenter shows a slide full of equations, as if the audience members will have time (or energy) to digest each line of calculations. These talks would be so much better with a few helpful images and an outline of the method used, without getting too deep into the weeds. As a graph theorist, I find pictures to be worth a thousand equations, and by using a picture to explain an idea from a proof, the real reason for the result becomes more clear to me.

When working with my Calculus students at Emory, I have started focusing more on communicating math. I have assigned a few take-home assignments (an example is here) that involved interpreting their results. Also, many quiz and exam questions ask them to explain their final answer in terms of the problem/scenario given. When I return quizzes to students, I always have those who have solved problems correctly write their solutions on the board and explain them to the class, but this is mostly about explaining the calculations. I would like to introduce into my classes opportunities for the students to explain math ideas to each other and practice this skill. I will try this in the coming semester of Calc I I’m teaching.

What is math research?

“This might be a stupid question, but what is math research?” is the most common question I get at social events and family functions, and it’s not a stupid question. Many scientists do their research in a laboratory, or in the field, taking samples or surveys. Humanities researchers read texts or look up primary sources. Mathematics research is unique because it can be done alone in a room with nothing but paper, pencil, and one’s mind.*

(*Math research isn’t usually done this way. Usually mathematicians read many other papers before starting a new research project, reference books as they go, and collaborate with others instead of working alone.)

So what is math research? Math research is the process of discovering truths about numbers, shape, and other mathematical objects. Math research is asking, “Is there a relationship between this and that? Is this always this way? Does that ever exist?” and then trying to answer these questions, for the first time. Let me give an example. Someone once looked at a right triangle (a triangle with one angle measuring 90 degrees) and asked, “Is there a relationship between the side lengths of this triangle?” This person used some of the math they already knew (the area of a triangle, for example) to discover that the sum of the squares of the side was equal to the square of the hypotenuse. Or as you may have heard it: a^2 + b^2 = c^2.

“Well that’s not research. I’ve known that since 6th grade,” you may say. But it was research when the first person discovered it. Now it’s a well-known fact, and most people have applied it many times in school without ever wondering why it’s true. Unfortunately, math is taught in schools as a set of facts, presented to be memorized and applied. Students never have to struggle with discovering the facts; they only struggle with when and how to use them to complete their homework. But this isn’t really math. Math is the process of discovering these equations, these new relationships and patterns, for the first time. Real math is math research!

Math research can involve answering (or at least attempting to answer) all sorts of questions, even ones where the answer is already known. Here are some example questions one might consider:

  • How many spheres of radius 1cm can fit into a box that is 1m cube?
  • If 100 people are at a conference and all want to shake hands with each other, how many handshakes will occur?
  • Are there any whole numbers a, b, and c so that a^3 + b^3 = c^3?
  • Does 1 + 1/2 + 1/3 + 1/4 + … equal a finite number, or does it grow to infinite? How about 1 + 1/2 + 1/4 + 1/8 + …?

So when I say that I’m working on math research, I mean that I’m trying to ask questions about numbers and mathematical objects (in my case, about graphs) and answer those questions for the first time. I’m trying to be the first person ever to notice and prove that a certain relationship or pattern exists. Which, when it happens, is pretty cool!

Proof by examples

I have spent the past week helping students at QTM Math Camp complete their final research projects. I have loved introducing students to math research. I was impressed with some of the project ideas they invented, and with some of the methods they used. (I’ll discuss these in another post.) Some of their methods, though, lacked rigor, and this became my greatest obstacle with helping them complete worthwhile projects.

Of the 30-odd students enrolled in the camp this year, 20+ took a “coding” elective, where they learned how to program in Python. I think this is a valuable skill for any young student, and for young STEM-oriented students in particular. However, many of them began to rely too heavily on coding when working on pure-math research projects.

Let me give an example. One research group (most groups had 3 or 4 members) wanted to study the moduli of the Fibonacci sequence. I thought this was a nice, reasonable project for high school students. One of their results is that every third Fibonacci number is equivalent to 0 mod 2, while the others are 1 mod 2. This first result is simple to prove, but the students were not relying on any mathematical proof. Instead, they wrote a program to find the first 1000 Fibonacci numbers mod 2 and plot the results. Then they noticed the pattern and concluded “I guess every third Fibonacci number is even.”

I had to push them to justify this conclusion mathematically. When the started to look at moduli larger than 2, they again tried to rely solely on the “proof by examples” that their program gave, and I had to intervene yet again. My reasons for why 1000 examples don’t constitute a proof were that

  1. A pattern can hold for the first 1000 terms then break, and we don’t know which patterns will break and which will hold.
  2. Noticing a pattern is not very elucidating. It’s much more interesting to know why, e.g., every third Fibonacci number is even. Their computer program cannot explain this.

I think the programs these students (and others in the class) wrote are helpful for noticing patterns, or checking hypotheses. Certainly I’ve written similar programs to aid in my research. Most of them were excited to know Python and wanted to use it immediately, which I understand too. I’m glad though that I got to teach them a little about how pure math research is down.

In my teaching going forward, when demonstrating certain proofs, I will try to emphasize why doing a few (or 1000) examples is not sufficient to prove the statement in general.