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

Tag: proofs

  • Gerry-mean-dering

    A recent video from Howie Hua showed how if you split a collection of numbers into equal-sized groups, then find the mean of each group, then find the mean of those means, it turns out this final answer is the same as the mean of the original collection. He was careful to say it usually does not work if the groups were different sizes. Which got me to wondering: just how much of an effect on the final mean-of-means can you have by splitting a collection of numbers into different-sized groups?

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

  • Why mathematical induction is hard

    Students find mathematical induction hard, and there is a complex interplay of reasons why. Some years ago I wrote an answer on the Maths Education Stack Exchange describing these and it’s still something I come back to regularly. I’ve decided to post it here too.

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

  • Three hours in the MLC Drop-In Centre

    Last week, I had one of those days in the MLC Drop-In Centre where I was hyper-aware of what I was doing as I was talking with students and by the end I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things I had thought about. I decided that today I might attempt to process (or at least list) some of it for posterity.



    A Real Analysis student was worried about a specific part of his proof where he wanted to show that a function was increasing. The function was a kind of step function with more and more frequent steps as it approached x=1. It was blindingly obvious from our sketch of the graph that it was increasing, but every time we tried to come up with a rigorous argument we just ended up saying something equivalent to “it is because it is”. I remember thinking about whether it was just obvious enough to just say it without proof, but shared the student’s desire to make the nice clean argument. I don’t remember now if he ended up with a neat argument or not, but I do remember finishing with the moral that obvious things are often the hardest things to prove.

    Before we even got to this frustrating little bit of the proof, I was reading through what he had done already, and I noticed that he had written “x is < 1” and commented that this wasn’t a grammatical sentence because the “<” contains an “is” already – it’s “is less than”, which makes his sentence “x is is less than”. This led to quite a discussion about the grammar of “<“, which is complicated by the fact that it can be read aloud in multiple ways depending on context. We investigated some other sentences containing < or > he had seen written before to see how it was pronounced there. In my head I was reminding myself to pronounce written maths aloud more often when I’m with students so they can learn the correspondence between speech and writing in maths.


    I was called over to help a Quantitative Methods in Education student with her research assignment because she had mentioned she was struggling with statistics (and I’m the default stats support person). Eventually I helped her figure out that her problem wasn’t statistics at all, but rather that she didn’t understand the wider context of the research, or what the data actually represented, or what the actual goal was. Mainly this came about by me not understanding the context, data and goal and kept asking her questions about those things in order to try to figure out where the statistics fit into what she was trying to do. We talked about how she might go about gaining the understanding she needed in order to come up with the specific-enough questions about variables that statistics would be able to help her to answer. I could see her heart sinking, so I reassured her I would still be here next week to talk about the statistics should she need that support later, but also from our discussion that she would probably be okay with that part when it came.


    I returned to the table I came from to discover even more statistics, this time a statistics theory course in second year of the maths degree. This student was struggling to come up with a linear regression proof which was pitched in the assignment using linear algebra. For this small part of the proof, he had to show that the columns of some matrix were linearly independent. I did what I always do with linear algebra proofs and helped him remember various definitions and facts relating to the vocabulary words in the problem, then we chose a representation of linearly independent from the list we had made. He commented that I go about proofs in a very different way to him, and I said I was merely following the problem-solving advice I had already put up in that big poster on the wall, see? In the end we finished with the moral that coming up with connections between things is a great way to solve problems and to study, even if it means ignoring the goal for a moment.


    I saw a student on the other side of the room that I had talked to months ago and I went to see how she was doing. When I saw her last, she was questioning her decision to study Statistical Practice I and indeed her whole decision to come to university at all, while simultaneously worrying about letting down her son who was the one who had urged her to come to university. Now she revealed she was systematically working her way through the course content so far, making sure she understood everything before classes returned and the last set of new content arrived. She asked if that seemed like a good plan and I said I was so pleased to see her making plans for her study and persevering with her course. I suggested she do some work soon to connect together the ideas in the different topics, since it’s the connections between ideas that will create understanding. I recommended a mind-mapping idea I had seen on Twitter recently (thanks Lisa).


    At the next table I came to, some students and one of my staff were having a discussion about function notation, in order to help a student in our bridging course. They were talking about how unfortunate it is that something like f(x) could be interpreted as multiplication in some contexts and function action in another. I agreed that it was unfortunate, but it was just the way maths language has come to work and it was too late to change it now. I related this to how the word “tear” is interpreted differently depending on context, which seemed to help everyone accept the fact, but not necessarily be happy about it! My staff member brought up how it’s made more complicated by the fact that we then write “y=f(x)” or even “y(x)=…”. I flippantly said that this was making a connection between graphs and functions, which is a whole separate discussion. Of course everyone wanted to hear more about this and suddenly I was giving a little seminar on the fly about function notation and graphs and the connection between them. I was keenly aware of everyone watching me, and of the choices I had to make with my words, especially when I made some mistakes along the way. Here’s more-or-less what I said [with some of my thoughts in square brackets]:

    There are many ways to think about functions, but one of them is that a function takes numbers and for each one it produces another number. [I thought about saying it doesn’t have to be numbers, but decided that was just going to distract from the discussion today.] It could be a formula that tells you how to get this other number, or there could just be a big list that says which ones produce which ones. For example, there’s a function which takes 1 and gives you 4, takes 2 and gives you 5, takes 3 and gives you 7, takes 5 and gives you 8. It’s the one that adds 3 to every number. The brackets notation is supposed to highlight that there’s a starting number and the function is a thing that acts on it to produce a result. So we could write something like “addthree(2)=5”. [I’m not sure what motivated me to write this. I’m sure I’d seen someone talk about this on Twitter somewhere, but anyway it seemed right at the time.] Sometimes we want to talk about the function as a thing in its own right so we give it a letter-name like “f” (for function) so that we can talk about it more easily. Or we only have some information about it but don’t know what it really is, so we can give it a letter name until we know its proper name. [I was reminded at this point about a Rudyard Kipling story featuring the origin of armadillos but chose not to mention it. I also thought here that I could have done another example earlier of a function acting like lookupthelist(2), but we’d moved further than that and I didn’t want to go back.]

    And what about the connection to the graph? Well you could draw a nice number line and write down what result each number produces. [I started drawing pictures at this point.] You could visualise this by drawing a line of a length to match the result attached to each number on the line. [I accidentally drew the lines representing the input numbers when I drew my picture, and had to go back and change them later. No-one seemed to mind that much.] You could have a ruler to measure how long each of these is when you needed it. Or you could attach the ruler to the edge of the page and line up the drawn lines with it. And now suddenly you’re locating the end of each drawn line by numbers on two axes. This is coincidentally just like the coordinate grid which is something else we’ve learned about before but not directly connected to functions. In the coordinate grid, the y refers to this second number and the x refers to this first number and you can describe shapes by how the x and y are related to each other. It doesn’t have to be y = formula in x, but that is a useful way to do it if you created your shape from a function.

    I think it was at about this point that I asked the students how they felt about this. My staff member said he quite liked the “addthree(x)” thing, which he’d never seen before. The bridging course student said that really helped her too, as well as realising that there were two different things happening at once when you write y=f(x). I decided to move on at this point.


    The next student was studying Maths 1B and was doing a deceptively simple MapleTA problem which he was stuck on. It listed an open interval – I think his was (-4,5) – and asked him to give a quadratic function with no maximum on this interval, a quadratic function with neither a maximum nor minimum on this interval, and a cubic function with both a maximum and a minimum on this interval. He had answers entered for the first two questions, which MapleTA had marked correct, but he wanted to know why. He revealed a little later he had gotten these answers off a friend and that now he wanted to know how to get them himself. I’m always glad when students do this, because it’s the first step to them really understanding themselves. With the first question, we discussed what it meant to be a maximum, and how that definition played out on an open interval. Once we had done this, I decided that I should take my own advice and make the question more playful, more exploratory. So I asked him what he would need to put in in order to make the answer wrong. He was really intrigued and started thinking through what the function would have to look like in order to have a maximum. After a while, he hit upon the idea that the leading coefficient could be negative, and this is all it would take. This was followed by several attempts to test his theory by putting in bigger and bigger constant terms in order to see if they really didn’t make a difference. They didn’t, and he was most impressed with himself.

    In the second part, we talked about moving the function around until the minimum wasn’t part of the domain. I went to get a plastic sleeve and drew a parabola on it in whiteboard marker, then asked him where he could move it to get what he wanted. At first he rotated it. I congratulated him for thinking creatively but did point out that it’s not the graph of a function like it was before. After that he only moved it up and down. Finally I gently moved it a tiny bit to the left, and he caught the idea that he could move it sideways, which he did until the turning point was outside the domain. The issue then came with how to change the function to do this, and we discussed why his friend’s solution was able to achieve it. Again he went playful and started putting in really big numbers and numbers really close to the boundaries to confirm that yes really he could move it anywhere outside that domain.

    Now we moved on to the third part and we discussed how cubics look and tried to figure out how to make the two turning points higher or lower than the end points. He wanted to use derivatives, so I let him do that, and it was quite a long journey, though he learned a lot about derivatives and specifying function formulas along the way.

    At the end, he asked if he had done all of this the correct way. I replied that it was definitely a correct way. He took this to mean there was a better way, and I said there was possibly a faster way. This meant a further long discussion about specifying zeros of functions and talking about whether we needed them to be zeros or if the function could be higher up or lower down. When we had finished this he asked me to explain the steps of this method again so he could write them down. I said that he didn’t need to remember the method because he’s never going to see this question again. The point is not to remember methods of solving all questions, but to learn something, and look how much stuff you learned today!


    Even though it was very close to my home time, I decided to talk to one more student. This one was doing a course specifically designed for the “advanced” maths degree students. He had been set a problem in Bayesian statistical theory. This is not familiar to me, so he spent a lot of time explaining what was going on to me. There were a whole lot of things in his working that I thought could be solved by simply referring to facts he had learned in previous courses, and I asked if he had done those courses. He revealed that they were in fact prerequisites for being allowed to do this course, at which point I said it was okay to use results from prerequisite courses. The biggest problem at the end was that he had assumed he had to integrate the normal distribution density function by hand, because the lecturer had gone to the trouble of giving its formula in the assignment. I assured him that it was in fact impossible to find areas under that distribution by hand, and he was allowed to use a table or technology. Sometimes you just have to tell a student what’s impossible so they can do it another way.



    So that was my day. I had three hours in the MLC and talked through so many ideas about learning and studying and maths. I had to make so many decisions about my words and actions and teaching tools. And I was left with a lot to think about. I hope you’ve found it interesting too.

  • Finding an inverse function

    There is a procedure that people use and teach students to use for finding the inverse of a function. My problem with it is that it doesn’t make any sense, in two ways.

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

  • David Butler and the Prisoner of Alhazen

    Once upon a time, I did a PhD in projective geometry. It was all about objects called quadrals (a word I made up) – ovals, ovoids, conics, quadrics and their cones – and the lines associated with them – tangents, secants, external lines, generator lines. During the first two years, I did talks about my PhD research, which I could not resist calling “David Butler and the Philosopher’s Cone” and “David Butler and the Chamber of Secants”.

    At that time, my use of JK Rowling’s titles had to stop because there was no suitable mathematical thing to insert into the third title. It’s been ten long years since “David Butler and the Chamber of Secants”, and finally I have found something to use. Hence, welcome to…

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

  • Pretending not to know

    Yesterday the Maths 1M students handed in an assignment question that asked them to prove a property of triangles using a vector-based argument. It’s not my job to help students do their assignment questions per se, but it is my job to help them learn skills to solve any future problem. This kind of problem, I find, is really hard to learn generalisable skills from.

    For most students you really need to be there every step of the way as you try to solve the problem together, so that at the end you can look over what happened and figure out the sorts of things that made it possible to come up with a proof today. Students need to be hear the sorts of general self-questions you ask to help progress your thinking, even if they don’t lead anywhere straight away, and they need to see the dead-end paths you went down only to come back and go a different way.

    The big problem is that if you’ve already seen the proof of this 15 times this week, it’s very very easy to guide students down a particular path that they could never possibly think of by themselves first go. It’s very easy to ask specific leading questions rather than general questions that might not lead anywhere. It’s very easy to push them away from the dead-end paths towards something that will give a result more quickly. You want to avoid doing that as much as possible, and the only way I know to do that is to pretend you haven’t seen the solution.

    You’re going to have to pretend that you really don’t know how to do it and you really are just figuring it out with them today, and pretend to be surprised that something turned out nicely, and pretend to be frustrated when things don’t. It’s a real art and it takes a lot of practice and a lot of energy to pull it off.

    I was very pleased the other day when I did pull it off. I was helping some students with this proof, and I said and did all the right things, including the dead-ends and everything.

    After these students were happy with what we’d achieved and had a nice moral about problem-solving to take away, I turned to my other side to help the student who had been sitting there patiently. He had a whole different kind of proof to work on (mathematical induction), and I started as I often do by looking up the definition and writing that down, then saying “Now I’m not sure if this is going to help yet”. He responded to this by saying, “I don’t think I’ll ever believe you again when you say that.”

    You see, I had helped him with the geometry proof only a couple of days before, and he had patiently sat there listening to the deja vu of me go through all the same things I went through with him. I looked him in the eye at that point and he said, “That was very impressive.” And he meant it. It’s nice when someone appreciates your craft.

  • The crossed trapezium

    Recently I started thinking about the properties of the following shape, which I like to call the “Crossed Trapezium”. It has two parallel edges, which are joined by two crossing lines.

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


    These comments were left on the original blog post:

    Five Triangles 6 April 2016:

    Related factoid: in the figure you dub a “crossed trapezium”, the two triangles that were removed from the original trapezium have equal area.

    Also, this useful figure pops up in a lot of ratio problems we tweet about, such as “method 4” solution in this octagon problem:
    https://casmusings.wordpress.com/2014/11/13/squares-and-octagons-a-compilation/ 

    David Butler 6 April 2016:

    Interestingly, not only are they equal area, but their areas together are hab/(a+b). Most interesting.

    Tom A 13 September 2017:

    The relationship between the formulas for the ordinary and crossed trapezia is rather elegant. Unfortunately, the formula for the ordinary trapezium isn’t numerically well-behaved: if the two bases are the same length, then the a-b term is zero, and the result is undefined; if the two bases are nearly the same length, a-b is very small, and calculations on a computer may be inaccurate.

    An alternative formula without that problem is:

    a = 1/2 * ((b^2 + a^2 + 2ab) / (b + a)) * h

    Which is still similar to the formula for the crossed trapezium, but doesn’t have an obvious (to me) geometric interpretation! Something about the triangles cut out of the sides?

    Peter 19 September 2017:

    Thanks for sharing this interesting work. I first started thinking of areas for crossed trapezia whilst preparing lessons on motion in a straight line for my students. I have been looking at the vel-time graph for a period of constant acceleration where the sign of the velocity changes. The area trapped between the graph and the t-axis is a crossed trapezium. Interestingly, if you consider the area in the first triangle to be postive and the second to be negative (consistent with calculating displacements), the formula for the area of the trapezium is unchanged from the canonical one.

  • There is only one kind of function that distributes over plus

    There is a very common thing that students do that causes pain, distress, confusion and depression in any maths educator who witnesses it. Both the error itself and the educator’s response to it are very clearly described by this excellent picture from the blog “Math with Bad Drawings”:

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

  • The Sausage-Stacking Theorem

    It’s no secret that the powers of two are some of my favourite numbers. There are so many interesting things to say about them that often I don’t know where to begin! (In case you’re not au fait with the terminology, the powers of two are the numbers you can make by starting with 1 and multiplying by 2 over and over. The list starts out 1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 64, 128 etc.)

    Well, the other day, one of my staff (thanks Lyron) reminded me of one of my favourite facts about the powers of two. I like to call this fact “The Sausage-Stacking Theorem”.

    A 3D diagram of a stack of sausages with five on the bottom layer, four on the next layer and three on the top layer.

    First I need to set up the situation. Imagine a nice neat stack of sausages. It has a row of sausages on the bottom layer, and another row on top of that with one less sausage because they sit in the furrows between the sausages on the bottom layer. There may be other layers on top of this, each with one less sausage than the layer below.

    The Sausage-Stacking Theorem is this:

    A power of two sausages cannot be arranged into a nice neat sausage stack.

    No matter how you try, it simply can’t be done; there will always be sausages left over or not enough sausages to fill in the top row. (In mathspeak, you could say that a power of two cannot be written as the sum of two or more consecutive natural numbers, but the sausages are cuter.)

    What Lyron encouraged me think about was a way to prove this theorem without resorting to the usual mathematical notation a trained mathematician like me would normally use. Well, using the proof he showed me as inspiration, I have come up with something that is strongly visual, and it goes like this…

    Consider a number of sausages that can be made into a nice neat stack. We’ll show that it must be possible to divide this number evenly by an odd number. We’ll split it into two cases: if the stack has an even number of layers or if the stack has an odd number of layers.

    A diagram. At the top there is a stack of four layers of circles, with six in the bottom layer, five in the next, four in the next, and three in the top layer. The top two layers are highlighted in pink. A bright red arrow points to a second picture. The top two layers have been moved and put upside-down next to the bottom two layers to make two layers, each with some white and some pink circles, each with a total of nine circles.

    Suppose the stack has an even number of layers (my diagram has four, looking end-on). Imagine removing the top half of the layers, flipping them over, and joining them to the rest of the stack. (I say “imagine” because you’ll need the sausages to hang in mid-air to do this physically.) Now you have a parallelogram made of several layers, each with the same number of sausages. The number of sausages in the bottom layer was made by joining the bottom layer and the top layer of the original stack. Since the original stack had an even number of layers, the top and bottom layer are an even number and an odd number. So when you add them together you’ll get an odd number in total. Thus the new parallelogram stack has several layers, each with the same odd number of sausages. So, it’s possible to divide the total number of sausages by this odd number.

    A diagram. At the top there is a stack of three layers of circles, with six in the bottom layer, five in the next, and four in the top layer. The right-hand circles have been coloured in pink, including one in the middle that is half white and half pink. A red arrow points to a second picture. The pink circles have been turned upside-down to make three layers, each with some white and some pink circles, each with a total of five circles.

    Now suppose the stack has an odd number of layers (my diagram has three). Imagine slicing your sausage stack down the centre, flipping one side upside-down and sticking it back on. Because there are an odd number of layers, the half-sausages will join together neatly and you’ll get a parallelogram made of several layers, each with the same number of sausages. There are still an odd number of layers, so it’s possible to divide the total number of sausages by this odd number.

    So in either case, it’s possible to divide your number of sausages by an odd number. A power of two can’t be divided by any odd numbers at all, so it can’t possibly be the number of sausages in a nice neat stack.

    How cool is that?!

  • The square root of two

    In first year maths, they briefly study the five families of number: the natural numbers N, the integers Z, the rational numbers Q, the real numbers R, and the complex numbers C. In particular, they focus on the distinction between the rational numbers and the real numbers. A classic proof they are given at this time is one that the number √2 is irrational. This blog post is about some alternative proofs.

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


    The following comments were left on the original blog post:

    Jim Propp 25 May 2017:
    I really like the second proof (though some purists might object that its use of facts about reduction of fractions amounts to a tacit appeal to the fundamental theorem of arithmetic that makes the proof less elementary than the other two). For one thing, the second proof readily generalizes to show that for all positive integers n, not just n=2, the square root of n cannot be rational unless it is an integer. Nice!

    David Butler 25 May 2017:
    Yes I rather liked that you could use it to show that square roots can only be rational if they’re integers.