Reflections on maths, learning and maths learning support, by David K Butler

Category: Workshops

Descriptions of workshops I have created and presented, mostly for school-age students, but sometimes for university students.

  • One Hundred Factorial – the puzzle and the event

    The weekly puzzle session that I run at the University of Adelaide is called One Hundred Factorial. In the middle of the night, I suddenly realised that I have never written about why it is called One Hundred Factorial, and so here is the story.

    The very beginning

    Once upon a time I was a PhD student in the School of Mathematical Sciences at the University of Adelaide. Sometime during the third year of my PhD program (2007), I was asked to give a talk to the first year undergraduate students as part of an evening event where the goal was to hopefully convince them to keep studying maths at a higher level next year. I titled my talk “How to Tell If You Are a Mathematician”. I don’t remember any of the things I spoke about, except for one thing. Before I started talking, I put a puzzle up on the document camera. I did not mention the puzzle in any way or look at the screen at all. I just did my little talk as if it wasn’t there. But right at the end of my talk I said this:

    The final and truest way to tell that you are a mathematician is that you haven’t been listening to any of what I just said, and instead have been trying to solve this puzzle.

    Cue guilty looks and nervous laughter from all of the academic staff in the audience, which successfully proved my point. Anyway it worked. Several students came up to me to talk about the puzzle, and I was able to direct them to lecturers who could talk to them about their study options. Yay for puzzles, right?!

    This was the puzzle I used so neatly to make my point about the mathematician’s mind:

    The number 100! (pronounced “one hundred factorial”) is the number you get when you multiply all the whole numbers from 1 to 100.
    That is, 100! = 1×2×3×…×99×100.
    When this number is calculated and written out in full, how many zeros are on the end?

    I don’t remember where I got the puzzle from, but it is a pretty famous one that’s been around for some time. I actually hadn’t even thought through a solution at the time either. I just knew that it mentioned a concept that had been in the first year lectures recently.

    The puzzle sessions begin

    The other thing that happened that night was that a group of students and staff stood at the blackboard in the School of Maths tea room to nut out a solution to the 100! puzzle. I can’t even remember if we finished it or not, but we did decide that we should get together regularly to solve puzzles together, and a weekly puzzle session was born. At the first session, we started with the 100! problem again, and an extension of it, which is to find out what the last digit is before all those zeros start. Then as the weeks went on, we would do puzzles that I would find and bring to the sessions.

    When I finished my PhD in mid-2008 and took up the job in the Maths Learning Centre, I took my little puzzle session with me, and was able to invite more students to come along, and it slowly morphed into a student event more than a staff event, which really pleased me. In fact, a regular at these puzzle sessions for years was that first student who had come up to me after my talk at the first-year event, and he eventually became one of my tutors at the MLC.

    The name of the event

    Over the years the puzzle session has had many names. We started out calling ourselves “People with Problems”, and then simply “Puzzle Club”. For a while it was called “The Hmm… Sessions” after the sound we made very often while thinking about puzzles. Indeed, there is a reference to the Hmm Sessions inside this very blog. But in 2012 after the website where I was hosting our online discussion was decommissioned, I decided it was time to change the name. I was also starting to think about moving the sessions out of the MLC itself and into a public space, and to match with this move I wanted a new name. I thought long and hard, and decided to name it after the first puzzle we ever did, the puzzle that first inspired staff and students to talk and think about maths together, the puzzle that helped students decide they really were mathematicians after all.

    The legacy

    So the regular puzzle session of the MLC became One Hundred Factorial at the end of 2012, and here we are in 2020 still going, so that now it’s been One Hundred Factorial longer than it’s been any other name. It’s been my testing-ground for new puzzles and games and teaching ideas, a place where I have made friends and welcomed people from around the country and the world. And it has become a glowing island of mathematical play in the middle of the stressful university life, and indeed the middle of a stressful life generally. In recent weeks it is a glowing island of community in a world of pandemic-induced isolation.

    One Hundred Factorial reminds us that there is always something joyful to think about if you are looking for it, and that it’s okay to pause and ignore your responsibilities for a while to think about it, and that doing this with people is a source of shared joy. I hope the puzzle and the event can keep reminding us of that for a long time yet.

  • Tutorials for an intro Arts course: Story makes sense of number

    Sometime in the past, I was approached by academics in the Faculty of Arts to discuss the numeracy skills of the students in their faculty. They wanted to discuss how they might include numeracy skills in some of their courses across all the degrees they teach. It was a lot bigger than the MLC could reasonably do, but I said I would certainly be able to do a small thing in a few courses, and certainly help their students in the MLC itself when they came to talk.

    Then in January 2019, almost out of the blue, I was sitting down at a meeting with the Faculty of Arts Associate Dean Learning & Teaching, and the course coordinator for their core first year course called “The Enquiring Mind”. We were talking about how I might run a workshop for their students to introduce the importance to numerical skills for Arts students. We agreed on Week 4 of semester, and then I walked away into the Summer School exam period and O’Week and the crazy beginning-of-semester rush, with ideas percolating in the back of my mind for what I could possibly do in an hour.

    You can read the rest of this blog post in PDF form here. 

    Also, I thought I would collect together the resources if you want a closer look at them.

    Thanks for reading.

  • When the data doesn’t work

    This week I’ve been running the tutorials for the core first year Health Sciences course. The tutorial is a very light intro into how data is part of communication of health science research, and one of the activities involves the students arranging a set of data cards to investigate relationships between variables. Something happened today that I hadn’t observed before and I need to talk about it.

    The students had been going for a little while on the activity, and I walked over to one group just as they were pulling apart some groupings of cards. I asked them what they were doing and they said “We’re starting again because the one we did didn’t work.”

    “What do you mean it didn’t work?” I asked.

    “We we’re looking at hat wearing and happiness and we didn’t see anything,” they replied.

    I was momentarily shocked as the implication on this began to dawn. These students had made a picture that showed there was no relationship, and decided to take it apart because it didn’t work. That is, in their minds, it only works if there is a relationship!

    I said to them I’d love to have them put their picture back, because it’s still good to show there isn’t a relationship. (They didn’t, which made me sad.)

    I wonder if they had come to this conclusion just because of their natural thinking, or because their past experience was that if a teacher asks them to look at data then there is always a relationship. Either way it’s a bit of a dangerous thing to set up because we are in a bit of a crisis in medical publishing where only positive results get published.

    Perhaps we need to give students more examples of data working effectively to argue a lack of relationship.

  • The Human Galton Board

    Last week we were booked in to do Human Markov Chains with several groups of school students, but it turned out there would be a lot fewer of them than we expected, and I didn’t think Human Markov Chains would work very well with under 20 students. I still dearly wanted to do a moving maths activity, and I still wanted it to be about probability, but I wasn’t sure what to do. Then, on the morning of the day the students were coming, I had an inspiration and quickly knocked together the Human Galton Board.

    You can read the rest of this blog post in PDF form here. 

  • Human Markov Chains

    This blog post is about a moving maths activity that I have wanted to do for years and finally got an opportunity to do this year in 2018. It’s a model of a concept called a “Markov Chain” using human movement.

    You can read the rest of this blog post in PDF form here. 

  • A Day of Maths

    Last Monday, I was invited into my daughter’s Year 7 classroom to do a full day of maths with the students. It was the Best Day Ever.  I had so much fun giving the students things to think about, and watching and helping the students think and talk about them.

    You can read the series of seven blog posts in PDF form here. 

    The titles of the seven posts are:

    • Best! Day! Ever!
    • Quarter the cross
    • Zero zeros
    • Spotless dice
    • Looking at maths art
    • Hotel Infinity
    • Thanks for coming
  • The Pied Mathematician of Hamelin

    Have you ever been in a situation and felt like you were reliving a scene from a book or movie? Well it happened to me the other day when I went to visit my daughter’s school. I felt exactly like I was the piper in the Pied Piper of Hamelin, because an ever-growing crowd of children followed me across the oval as I walked in.

    And why were they following me? Well I had brought a Stage 4 model of the Sierpinski Sponge with me for my daughter’s Show and Tell. She had come with me to university the day before to help me make Stage 6, and we thought the other kids would be interested – and my goodness they were!

    At this point I should probably tell you more about the Sierpinksi Sponge Project…

    The Sierpinski Sponge is a fractal constructed in the shape of a triangular pyramid. It has a giant hole in the centre, and each of the corners around this hole is a copy of the whole thing. This means that each corner is a pyramid with a big hole in the middle, and each corner of those pyramids is a pyramid with a hole in the middle, and each … and you go on like this forever until you have an object with a great number of holes (infinitely many in fact) – hence the name “sponge”.

    Of course, you can’t make a real Sierpinksi Sponge because it goes inwards forever; you can make a decent model though. What you do is you get four small pyramids and you join them together at the corners to get a bigger one with a hole in the middle. Then you take four of these bigger pyramids and you join them together to get a bigger one with a hole in the middle. And so on. The individual small pyramids are called Stage 0, then when you join four together you get to Stage 1, and then Stage 2, and so on. We made a Stage 6, which contained 4096 individual pyramids.

    (To see video of the Stage 6 Sponge and us making it, check out the YouTube videos: http://youtu.be/A7YbmITSck8  , http://youtu.be/W0uLbhRR-Hw  .)

    So back to the story… on the day after we made Stage 6, I walked through the school yard with a Stage 4 Seirpinski Sponge, and all the kids crowded around to see this remarkable thing and ask questions. And then in the classroom, the kids just couldn’t keep quiet with the questions and fought over who would be first to hold the smaller models. Their little eyes lit up as they imagined standing inside Stage 6, and imagined the awesomeness of Stage 7, Stage 8 and Stage 100.

    But it did make me think: We made our Stage 6 in a public place in the Uni where hundreds of people walk past a day. Several people looked at it as they walked past, and a few came close to touch and ask questions, and a handful of those actually stopped to help make it bigger. Before construction day, I had spent every train journey sticking pyramids together, usually reaching Stage 4 by the time I got to my destination. On one particular day I finished a Stage 5 on the train and carried the metre-wide pyramid it through the crowds. Not one person stopped to look or ask about it. Yet the schoolchildren couldn’t keep themselves away.

    When did all the adults lose their sense of wonder? Because even the the Stage 4 Sponge is truly wonderful to me (and to hordes of children too).

    What would it take for adults to crowd around like the children in the Pied Piper of Hamelin?