I am a high school math teacher.

I think it's time I come to terms with this statement.  What an interesting group of people I am joining.  When I think back on all of the math teachers I have had I really don't see myself in that group.  Recent circumstances are making me question that view. 

I fully view myself as a teacher, and take great pride in that identity.  But math teachers...they're just so, well, let me give you some examples from my past.  Take one of my high school math teachers with a hair cut that looked like a wide cone - some sort of physical representation of the subject she was teaching.  "Now to calculate the volume of my head..."  Or the other one who would blast WLTE - light FM - before class started.  As if being forced to learn math at 7:20 in the morning wasn't bad enough that my teacher felt so inclined to add a little Celine Dion.  Or my calc professor in college, teaching in the former sanctuary of a church the U of M converted into a lecture hall, that would cough extremely loudly, every ten minutes, into the microphone poorly punctuating his lecture and scaring me every time or another math professor that linked every sentence with a southern drawling "...thaaaat is..." making the number of sentences in any lecture equal to one or the one that used the word "notion" at least ten times per class.  I will stop here, but believe me, I have more.  Do I want to join that group of people and assume that identity?

It is something that I have been consciously aware of since switching majors my freshman year.  I started my college career in the Institute of Technology at the University of MN with the goal of becoming a civil engineer.  My classes were filled with your typical high flying math nerds (hfmn).  Good people, but one afternoon I came to the realization that maybe the math joke I was laughing at may not be how I want to spend the rest of my life...standing around a water cooler with the "guys" (ie hfmn) going over our really cool math pick up lines like "I wish I were your derivative so I could lie tangent to your curves" that to date has worked on zero potential dates (full disclosure - this is actually the name of a Facebook group with almost 100,000 members of which I am a member, but more on my hfmn credentials below).  And so I switched majors, began taking education classes, and became immersed in the world of elementary education which happens to be , by the way, about as anti-math as you can get.  The math classes required to teach elementary school rarely tackled content more challenging that adding fractions with unlike denominators and my math nerdiness slipped into what I thought would be the past.  Accepting this job in Alaska, teaching high school math, has opened the door to this particular skeleton in my closet.  Only recently did I realize that the skeleton was out and about.  Denial can be such a powerful thing.

I mean, everyone, from time to time, goes onto Amazon and buys three books from the 70s on number theory with such inviting titles like An Adventurer's Guide to Number Theory.  I do, after all, identify with adventurers, so why shouldn't I have this book?  And everyone, from time to time, gets completely baffled by the look of boredom on their students' faces after going through a thrilling lesson on divisibility rules and how amazing it is that such things like divisibility rules exist at all in a system (i.e. numbers) invented by humans. Physics and nature follow a set of perfectly beautiful rules of their own, but math , unlike the latter two, is a human construct.  And who doesn't get excited about the math education blog in the NY Times or a podcast by some guy calling himself mathpunk (thanks Ben). Everyone does these things, from time to time.  Right?

Yeah, probably not.  Just a select few.  People like those high flying math nerds I escaped in engineering school.  And people like high school math teachers.  Whatever.  It could be worse.  I have to decided to pick up where I left off on my trip down the math nerdiness road.  I will continue to find things that only a minority of people find interesting or funny.  But hopefully I will also find things that are universally interesting.  Things that make teaching math fun for me and interesting for my students.  Things that turn my students into hfmn.  Because you know what?  It's not that bad.  And if I ever need to, it packs away nicely into any closet.  

What's been in my (metaphorical) pockets

I have been picking things up as the days go by.  Here's a sample of a few of the things that I have collected.

It's pretty much just a bunch of random pictures and videos from my recent travels.  The past three weekends have sent me with the junior high basketball team to three other villages.  We flew to both Newtok and Chefornak, but took snowmachines (ie snowmobiles) to Toksook Bay.

Vehicles waiting to take us to the airport.













Sunrise ~ 10:00 in the morning.













Snowmachines waiting to take us home.

Convoy of eleven snowmachines heading back to Tununak.













Snowmachining part one


Snowmaching part two


Walking to the store in Newtok


I guess that's it.

Pop music is so bad.

Here's a sample of what I have been listening to while stuck with seven junior high students over the weekend.  I will post some of the more amazing specimens of Top 40 lyrics for your enjoyment.  So unbelievably terrible.

"Shawty's like a melody in my head
That I can't keep out, got me singin'
Na na na na everyday
It's like my iPod's stuck on replay, replay

I can be your melody
Oh girl, I could write you a symphony
The one that could fill your fantasies
So come, baby girl, come sing with me, hey"
-Sean Kingston "Replay"

And here's another gem

Wish I could stop by (sounds like bah) and maybe say hi (sounds like hah)
Wish I could by, and lay by your side
-Akon "Keep You Much Longer"

So bad.

How to make bbq musk ox ribs.

This is the tale of my friend and neighbor, George, a Native Alaskan and husband to fellow teacher, Heidi.

Step 1:
Stand in line for many hours for one of the 40 tags issued by Fish & Game.

Step 2:
Wait for the right day to go out hunting.  Weather must be good.  Musk ox must be relatively close.  A good friend must be available to help.

Step 3:
Suit up and cruise off over the tundra.  Recon the herd.  Select an appropriate target.  Attempt to get target to break off from the herd.  Shoot to kill.

Step 4:
Load in snowmachine trailer and drive home.

Step 5:
Dump musk ox and prepare for cleaning.  Using a knife and/or ulu (traditional knofe) begin to skin the animal.  Remove skin from body and legs but leave under animal to prevent it from freezing to the ground.

Step 6:
Slice open the animal taking great care not to rupture the internal organs, especially the stomach.  Remove innards.  Take a small fist-sized chunk of the animal's liver, and if applicable the liver of the unborn fetus (in this case, cut open the womb, remove fetus, cut open the fetus and obtain liver).  Mail liver(s) to Bethel for testing to obtain health of animal and possible baby.

Step 7:
Remove the four legs from the body and set aside.  Cut ribs away from the backbone and place with legs.


Step 8:
Cut remaining fur away from the lower jaw and remove tongue.  Place tongue with other meat.


Step 9:
Bring desired amount of ribs inside, coat with BBQ sauce, place in oven at 350 degrees for required amount of time and enjoy!

Just another weekend in Alaska

"The plane will be here in twenty-nine minutes."  The mix of feelings rushes through me along with a quick little jolt of adrenaline as I hear this from the school secretary.  Nothing is for sure out here, but the odds of leaving just got a whole lot better.  All morning the wind had been howling and the prospect of getting seven junior high basketball players and two coaches (myself included) to a village thirty miles north seemed poor.  But this recent message from the secretary means that all the preparation - bags packed, sub notes and substitute standing at the ready - may pay off this time.  I grab my things, give final directions to my class and the sub, and rush out to check on my team.  They have assembled in the entry way and are in the process of suiting up.  I join in the process: snowpants, boots, parka, hat, mittens, goggles ready if needed for the four-wheeler ride to the runway.  We pile our bags into the trailer behind the snowmobile and we pile into the second trailer behind the four-wheeler.  I am thankful that our ride is with the wind but worry at the same time knowing that this will mean we will be flying pretty much into or across the wind to Newtok.  

After putting our bags into the belly of the Cessna Caravan we pile into the cabin.  The Caravan, while larger than the 207s I have spent more time in, is by no means large.  It does fit us nine and the pilot comfortably - think conversion van - but still in the single engine category.  I am hoping that this nominal increase in size will keep us from getting too tossed around in the air too much.  Our pilot's words prior to take-off do little to quell this fear, "Buckle up, it's going to be a bit rough."  As the engine roars and we lift off, the increase in elevation provides an excellent view of the bay and frozen Bering Sea below us.  It truly is a sight that photographs cannot begin to capture.  Of course I tried, but gave up after a few shots through the fog gathering windows and grew content just looking out.  While all this was happening I realized something else.  The flight was remarkably calm.  Not even the tiniest bit of bouncing around.  We landed in Newtok twenty minutes later where another trailer and sled was waiting to bring us to the school.

Our arrival coincided with the ending of the mellowest pep fest ever.  After the pep fest we were treated to a delightful school lunch (one thing that is identical to anywhere else) and then the request to go to the store picked up.  Fine, to the store we must go.  A quick journey into the wind brought us to the first store.  After only a few quick minutes, requests began coming in to go to the other store.  Maybe, just maybe, there would be something of great rarity at the other store.  After visiting both stores it turned out that there was not, in fact, anything in either store of great rarity.  Oh well.  We were here to play basketball after all - not shop.

We were slated for three games Friday one final game Saturday morning.  Our team has developed an unfortunate habit.  They go out and play a strong first quarter.  After that the level of play comes down a bit, any lead we had evaporates, and things begin to crumble.  Frustrating to watch, frustrating for the players, and overall not good for team morale.  Long story short - we lost four games bringing our cumulative record to 0 and 8.   

Besides playing basketball and watching basketball our team found time to hang out with, chat with, flirt with, and all the other things one can do with friends and family they rarely get to see.  And of course Friday night I got one more opportunity to experience the life of a chaperone of teenage boys.  Not great.  Here's a quick outline of how it works.  Lights go off.  Everything is quiet, but no one is trying to sleep.  All are waiting for someone to make the first move...or sound.  And then it comes.  A quick little arm fart.  Again - utter silence.  Who will make the next move.  A reprimand, laughter, nothing?  In this case - nothing.  And then another fart.  Braveness from darkness.  Anyone with an arm and a desire can join.  What fun.  Fart.  Laughter.  Long fart.  Longer laughter.  Oh this is so funny.  Or totally not funny.  I find that the level of hilarity is inversely correlated with age.  The younger you are the funnier it is, but as you advance in age the comedy begins to fade.  Factoring in the time of night and the proximity of the wake up call also affects one's opinion of how funny things are.  I am realizing, much to my dismay, that I am no longer finding these things funny, but rather getting quite concerned over how little sleep I am bound to get after all this farting has passed.  Thankfully my boys were not part of the problem and thankfully/eventually the fun wore off bringing a time for a bit of rest.   

Morning came early, as it always does when traveling.  Breakfast consisted of a product I had never had before - pancakes individually wrapped.  Peculiar the things that come in bags.  Two pancakes sandwiched together with something resembling strawberry jam in the middle.  You know they are bad when you have kids complaining about them.  At this point I am praying that the weather clears if merely to eat real food again.  The weather, however, is as deaf to my prayers as always.  We find out that we are on a weather hold.  High winds in Tununak are preventing the airplanes from flying.  Arrgh.

We settle in.  The frustrating thing about flying in rural Alaska is that no one has any idea of what is going on.  Rumors fly, phone calls are made, reports conflict.  It is an experience of what seems to me to be a complete and utter communication failure.  What is worse for me is that the airline, for some baffling reason, is also just as confused as we are.  Here is a typical conversation.
Us:  "Any news on the charter from Newtok to Tununak?"
Them:  "Still on weather hold.  Call back in an hour."
-one hour later-
Us:  "Any news on the charter?"
Them:  "They just left."
Us  "Left Bethel?"
Them:  "Yes.  They are going to Chefornak, then Toksook, then Newtok.  Should be there in an hour and a half."
-one hour later-
Us:  "Is that charter still on schedule."
Them:  "What charter?"
Us:  "The one that was coming to pick us up in half an hour."
Them:  "Two caravans just left Bethel to pick you up."
Us:  "When will they be here?"
Them:  "One hour."
-half an hour later-
Us:  "Is that charter still on?"
Them:  "Yes, pick up ten minutes."
-forty-five minutes later-
Us:  "What happened to the plane that was sent?"
Them:  "One is leaving Toksook on its way to pick you up."

Seriously, this is not an exaggeration.  To make things more annoying, remember that we have been wearing snowpants the whole time anticipating that all-of-a-sudden ten minute warning.

In the end we did end up securing a plane.  Our flight, while quite a bit more turbulent was safe and short.  The views flying over the frozen Bering in February again took my breath away.  We landed on our runway with the school snowmachine and four-wheeler waiting with their drivers to pick us up.  On the drive back to the school and our housing I am struck again at how good it feels to be home.