I will never blog again. Blogging is just not natural for me. I do not express myself through writing. Some people said that they sometimes found it difficult to write when the prompt didn't inspire them, but at other times the writing flowed naturally. The writing never flowed naturally for me, even when the prompt provoked a strong internal dialogue or an interesting opinion. I literally have to sit at the keyboard and force the words out every time. Maybe I don't think linearly enough, or maybe I'm secretly a babbling lunatic, but I have to jump around the page, writing down multiple ideas at one time. This is after I've picked a topic, after I know what I'm writing about, and after I have some semblance of a plan for what I'm going to write. I'd still rather gouge out my eyes than write a blog post. It feels like trying to walk on my hands blindfolded or being lost in a cornfield with no shoes or eating Raisin Bran with eyeglass screws mixed in. It's uncomfortable, disorienting, and exhausting.
The only time the writing even came close to flowing was during my post about how it feels to be freshman, a post which I am not including in this 'best-of' because I don't know whether or not I agree with the conclusions I drew in it. The beginning of the post was great--telling the story of my first few weeks on campus was almost fun, even though I was writing it; however the point of the post was to describe freshmen's opportunities to interact with upperclassmen, and I don't really think I accomplished that at all. I just can't imagine that my experience freshman year is generalizable enough to comment on all 7000 freshmen's chances to talk to juniors and seniors, especially since I was definitely not seeking those relationships myself at that time.
The first post I am including is this one about zebra mussels. I think this post is pretty indicative of my writing before the course. I wrote in report format: that is the only type of writing I knew. I think I was able to provide a detailed picture of the situation, and I think my writing was competent; however, I don't think that my tone was at all developed. I was writing a report, not a blog post. I was being objective, not subjective. I was telling about a situation, not commenting on it. No matter how well or poorly written the post was, it missed the point of the blogging medium.
The second post I am including is this one about alignment. By this time, I think that I had developed more of a blog-type voice. I was writing more from my point of view rather that as an outsider. I was voicing an opinion, not just fact. I think some of my personality came through, especially at the end. I really am a humorous person, although I wouldn't guess that that has become apparent through my blog or my interactions with others in the class. The one sentence that I wrote all semester that best reflects who I am and my attitudes toward the world in general is the last one of the post: "The pessimist in me wants to return to the rowing analogy: When we pull together, we go places, but we're all still slaves on a Roman Galley." Incidentally, I feel much more qualified to write a 'worst-of' than a 'best-of.'
The third post I am including is this one about thought processes and communication. This post was a long time in coming. I had been struggling with issues regarding communication the whole semester, and they really came to a head when I was writing my book review and receiving feedback about it. I just couldn't seem to communicate what I thought about the book in any sort of manner that allowed others to pick up on it. I don't think my views of the book were not valuable, and I don't think they were any less valid for being mostly negative. At the same time, I just couldn't convey what I thought without sounding as if I'd entirely missed the point of the book. I also tried something new with this post: I brought in an idea that I'd been thinking about outside of class; that is, the mental and physical selves (which Senge talks about too on p151-156! The theme is echoed throughout the section on mental models, though I don't think the terminology arises again) . I tried to write what I knew rather than trying to develop entirely new ideas. I tried to be an expert for a bit instead of always venturing a novice's guesses. Ironically, this post about communication had a rough comments section with some failures of communication present.
The last post I am including is this one about learning. I really liked this post because of the serendipity that allowed me to write it. I had some well-formed ideas about my own learning, but I didn't have any way to make them interesting. I had no story. I had no framework for expressing my ideas. I went to the EWS computer lab after one of my classes to sit down and hash out the blog post, and that was when I inadvertently chose a seat next to someone who was taking some of the classes I took freshman year. It provided me with a perfect 'grab' for the beginning of the post to get the reader's attention. It allowed me to write about more abstract ideas through a concrete example. The situation gave me a grounded topic to write about--something I've struggled with all semester. This was the closest I ever came to actually wanting to post something to my blog because I had a current, relevant situation in my life to write about.
I learned a lot by blogging. I developed a new skill. I am proud of what I've written. I am glad I took the class. I still don't think I will blog again. Writing a post feels like running a mile: it's a huge chore, but I feel like I've improved myself. Even though I do think I will continue running, blogging is simply too painful for me.
Showing posts with label CHP class reflection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CHP class reflection. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
shared vision
I don't think I have the proper perspective to comment on shared vision at the University. What is the University's vision? To promote education? To graduate well-educated students? What would it mean for me as an individual student to be compliant with this vision? Would that entail simply being committed (or even compliant) towards being a good student? What would being committed to the University's vision entail? I don't have the answers to these questions.
I do think that I can comment on what it means for an individual student (namely myself) to be committed towards an education.
I like to think that I am a committed student. I try to find value in all my courses beyond boosting my GPA and fulfilling my graduation requirements. That isn't to say that I am not also a compliant student: I study for exams; I learn what is asked of me in the way I'm asked to learn it. I memorize facts for closed-book exams. I prepare equation sheets for technical classes. I go to lecture on a regular basis. I complete my homework.
During this process, however, I am continually asking myself whether I am learning. If what's asked of me simply isn't cutting it, I'll do what I think I need to do to learn what I think is important. One way I really know that I am committed to a class or a subject is if I revisit the material after the class has ended. Whether reading Indian Country Today three years after my Introduction to American Indian Studies class, or helping students with calculus and physics, I can see my commitment to the material when I continue to pursue it after the course has ended.
These ideas tie in closely to the ideas of intrinsic and extrinsic motivation, presented in Senge and the subject of a previous blog post. Commitment is closely aligned with intrinsic motivation, and compliance can have aspects of both.
One example of commitment vs. compliance vs. apathy in a classroom setting is the very class I'm writing this blog for: Designing for Effective Change.
Students committed to their blogs didn't need a prompt, or at least not much of one. They had taken complete ownership of their writing. They understood the blogging process and its facility in helping them learn. They wrote not necessarily what was asked of them, but what would help achieve the goals of blogging and of the class that they had internalized.
Students compliant with their blogs saw the value of blogging in terms of helping them learn. They were more than happy to write a blog post every week, and they generally felt comfortable following the prompt. They did not take the authority to write whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. They constrained themselves to the system set in place by the class, and they used it to work towards the goals of the class.
Apathetic students didn't care about the class or about blogging, and didn't do much of it.
In the case of the class, part of the shared vision might be the promotion of blogging as a tool for fostering intellectual discussion--those committed to this vision will probably continue to blog. Those only compliant with this vision may not. The apathetic students still don't care.
In terms of engagement vs. disengagement, language which we've used throughout the semester, both commitment and compliance can produce engaged students. Whether or not this engagement is enough to buy into the shared vision of the University, I do not know.
I do think that I can comment on what it means for an individual student (namely myself) to be committed towards an education.
I like to think that I am a committed student. I try to find value in all my courses beyond boosting my GPA and fulfilling my graduation requirements. That isn't to say that I am not also a compliant student: I study for exams; I learn what is asked of me in the way I'm asked to learn it. I memorize facts for closed-book exams. I prepare equation sheets for technical classes. I go to lecture on a regular basis. I complete my homework.
During this process, however, I am continually asking myself whether I am learning. If what's asked of me simply isn't cutting it, I'll do what I think I need to do to learn what I think is important. One way I really know that I am committed to a class or a subject is if I revisit the material after the class has ended. Whether reading Indian Country Today three years after my Introduction to American Indian Studies class, or helping students with calculus and physics, I can see my commitment to the material when I continue to pursue it after the course has ended.
These ideas tie in closely to the ideas of intrinsic and extrinsic motivation, presented in Senge and the subject of a previous blog post. Commitment is closely aligned with intrinsic motivation, and compliance can have aspects of both.
One example of commitment vs. compliance vs. apathy in a classroom setting is the very class I'm writing this blog for: Designing for Effective Change.
Students committed to their blogs didn't need a prompt, or at least not much of one. They had taken complete ownership of their writing. They understood the blogging process and its facility in helping them learn. They wrote not necessarily what was asked of them, but what would help achieve the goals of blogging and of the class that they had internalized.
Students compliant with their blogs saw the value of blogging in terms of helping them learn. They were more than happy to write a blog post every week, and they generally felt comfortable following the prompt. They did not take the authority to write whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. They constrained themselves to the system set in place by the class, and they used it to work towards the goals of the class.
Apathetic students didn't care about the class or about blogging, and didn't do much of it.
In the case of the class, part of the shared vision might be the promotion of blogging as a tool for fostering intellectual discussion--those committed to this vision will probably continue to blog. Those only compliant with this vision may not. The apathetic students still don't care.
In terms of engagement vs. disengagement, language which we've used throughout the semester, both commitment and compliance can produce engaged students. Whether or not this engagement is enough to buy into the shared vision of the University, I do not know.
Friday, November 20, 2009
It's tough to be a freshman
The first couple weeks of your freshman year are a whirlwind. Everything is new. It's the first time you are on your own. It's the first time you've lived in a dorm. It's probably the first major lifestyle change you've had to make in your life up to this point. It's kind of surreal: it feels like summer camp or a retreat. It feels impermanent, like a dream from which you will soon awaken. It does not feel like the next phase of your life. Classes are starting, and they are completely different from high school in every way--the way they're taught, their scheduling, the number of them you have to take, and the number of people in them. You're getting lost on campus. You are meeting hundreds of new people--in your dorm and classes especially. You barely have time to think.
You can't anticipate some problems you'll face because everything is so new. Typical problem: "What do you mean I 'missed' dinner? It's only 7:45! I usually eat at 8 or 9! How can I even 'miss dinner'? If the dining hall is closed, then just what am I supposed to eat?" You are dealing with the bottom rungs of Maslow's hierarchy. You are asking everyone around you for advice, but they are probably all freshmen, too. You don't know what to ask, let alone whom to ask. The RAs are helpful, and can help you navigate your new life, but there are not many of them. They are also most useful only when dealing with dorm issues--dining, roommate troubles, transportation trouble, etc. You'll outgrow them quickly.
A push from your RA will send you to quad day. You were overwhelmed before; now the inundation of new information is practically overpowering. The crowds are oppressive. The upperclassmen yelling at you from their booths are intimidating. Everyone wants a piece of you. You write your email down countless times on mailing list after mailing list. You're drowning in free pencils, fliers, cups, pamphlets, and even a houseplant from the horticulture club. The sheer volume of opportunities on campus leaves you in awe. You leave quad day dazed, and wondering just what you're in for with this whole college thing.
You didn't know it, but signing up for RSOs was your one chance to meet with upperclassmen on a regular basis. You won't see many of them in your dorm. You will see even fewer of them in your classes. RSOs do have upperclassmen. What's more, if you find that one day you're needing some career or academic advice from an upperclassman, your one hope was to sign up for a particular RSO: your professional society.
A love of Seinfeld, or the month of October, or skydiving can unite people, and these things are the basis of some RSOs; however, the bonds of friendship formed through these organizations may not be the most useful for establishing a mentoring relationship in terms of education and career goals. People in your professional society (e.g. Biomedical Engineering Society) have been through what you are going through. They know your curriculum. They know what is out there in terms of careers. Often it is part of the mission of your professional society to help freshmen like you who need guidance.
If you missed quad day, don't worry. You're probably being forced to take ENG100 or BUS101 or LAS100. You can be sure that your TA (who is probably an upperclassman, not a grad student) will present you with the opportunity to join your professional society. The class itself will also act as a sort of guide, introducing you to campus and your major. You will learn about what it means to be a student and the opportunities available to you. You will be presented with even more information, and you will need to take it, sort through it, and figure out what you still need to know.
This struggle to deal with the new realities of college life is strongest during those first few weeks, but it persists. Just as the newest freshmen don't even know to ask or worry about what time the dining hall closes, freshmen in general don't know what to ask about their major, their field, and their life goals. They don't know what they should be asking about. They don't know what is important. They can't be proactive about their careers because they can't anticipate the opportunities they'll have, let alone the problems they'll encounter.
RSOs, especially professional organizations, are a great way for freshman to learn to know upperclassmen, who can help them sort through the sensory overload of their first two semesters. The college introductory classes (ENG100, etc.) are also a great tool to get students thinking about why they are at the university, and what they hope to accomplish during their undergraduate careers. Only when freshmen get this initial understanding of what it means to be at their university, in a specific college, studying a specific field, will they have the tools to seek out formal mentoring or continue the informal mentoring that can help them successfully harness the opportunities at the university.
You can't anticipate some problems you'll face because everything is so new. Typical problem: "What do you mean I 'missed' dinner? It's only 7:45! I usually eat at 8 or 9! How can I even 'miss dinner'? If the dining hall is closed, then just what am I supposed to eat?" You are dealing with the bottom rungs of Maslow's hierarchy. You are asking everyone around you for advice, but they are probably all freshmen, too. You don't know what to ask, let alone whom to ask. The RAs are helpful, and can help you navigate your new life, but there are not many of them. They are also most useful only when dealing with dorm issues--dining, roommate troubles, transportation trouble, etc. You'll outgrow them quickly.
A push from your RA will send you to quad day. You were overwhelmed before; now the inundation of new information is practically overpowering. The crowds are oppressive. The upperclassmen yelling at you from their booths are intimidating. Everyone wants a piece of you. You write your email down countless times on mailing list after mailing list. You're drowning in free pencils, fliers, cups, pamphlets, and even a houseplant from the horticulture club. The sheer volume of opportunities on campus leaves you in awe. You leave quad day dazed, and wondering just what you're in for with this whole college thing.
You didn't know it, but signing up for RSOs was your one chance to meet with upperclassmen on a regular basis. You won't see many of them in your dorm. You will see even fewer of them in your classes. RSOs do have upperclassmen. What's more, if you find that one day you're needing some career or academic advice from an upperclassman, your one hope was to sign up for a particular RSO: your professional society.
A love of Seinfeld, or the month of October, or skydiving can unite people, and these things are the basis of some RSOs; however, the bonds of friendship formed through these organizations may not be the most useful for establishing a mentoring relationship in terms of education and career goals. People in your professional society (e.g. Biomedical Engineering Society) have been through what you are going through. They know your curriculum. They know what is out there in terms of careers. Often it is part of the mission of your professional society to help freshmen like you who need guidance.
If you missed quad day, don't worry. You're probably being forced to take ENG100 or BUS101 or LAS100. You can be sure that your TA (who is probably an upperclassman, not a grad student) will present you with the opportunity to join your professional society. The class itself will also act as a sort of guide, introducing you to campus and your major. You will learn about what it means to be a student and the opportunities available to you. You will be presented with even more information, and you will need to take it, sort through it, and figure out what you still need to know.
This struggle to deal with the new realities of college life is strongest during those first few weeks, but it persists. Just as the newest freshmen don't even know to ask or worry about what time the dining hall closes, freshmen in general don't know what to ask about their major, their field, and their life goals. They don't know what they should be asking about. They don't know what is important. They can't be proactive about their careers because they can't anticipate the opportunities they'll have, let alone the problems they'll encounter.
RSOs, especially professional organizations, are a great way for freshman to learn to know upperclassmen, who can help them sort through the sensory overload of their first two semesters. The college introductory classes (ENG100, etc.) are also a great tool to get students thinking about why they are at the university, and what they hope to accomplish during their undergraduate careers. Only when freshmen get this initial understanding of what it means to be at their university, in a specific college, studying a specific field, will they have the tools to seek out formal mentoring or continue the informal mentoring that can help them successfully harness the opportunities at the university.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Learning
I'm sitting in the EWS [engineering workstation] computer lab on the fourth floor of Engineering Hall. The guy next to me is pretty busy doing Physics 212 homework online (electricity and magnetism), and he has so much going on that his papers are spilling over onto my desk. One of these interlopers is an old Differential Equations exam. This guy could have been me, way back in second semester freshman year: same classes, same problems, same computer lab, same paper overload.
Ever curious, I take a closer look at the diff. eq. exam. The visible problem asks the student to find the general solution for the homogeneous problem given an inhomogeneous linear second order differential equation, y'' + (w^2)y = x cos(x). The exam goes on to ask the student formulate the first step toward solving the equation using the method of undetermined coefficients.
I took the class Differential Equations, and I like to think I learned something about the subject of differential equations from the course: It was an important pre-req that has been built upon in many of my subsequent classes.
There's a problem, though. I can't remember what it is that distinguishes the homogeneous differential equation from the inhomogeneous one. I certainly can't remember the method of undetermined coefficients. I can't solve this exam problem. I know that I learned these concepts, in part because I was tested on them while I took the course, in part because I've learned higher level concepts in later courses that use these concepts as building blocks, and in part because I have the hard-to-define feeling of simply knowing that I had learned them. But if I learned it, why can't I solve it?
Which brings me to the topic at hand: How do I know if I've learned something? I know only if I'm tested--in an academic setting or in any other experience in general. I know I've learned something if I approach a situation I've encountered before in a new way. I know I've learned something if I act differently than I would have before I learned. I know I've learned something if I can apply what I've learned.
This makes it sound like I must be cognizant that I'm applying what I've learned, and, in the vast majority of cases, I think I am. Whether it's something small, like the fact that the hot and cold faucet handles are switched in my grandparents' bathroom, or something large, like a cultural awareness fostered by Introduction to American Indian Studies, I think that I am usually aware that I am acting in a new way based on what I've learned.
[A 'small' thing would be something that only impacts a few of my actions/interactions/aspects of my life--like washing my hands when I visit my grandparents. A 'large' thing would be something that impacts me daily--like my perceptions of culture, my perceptions of my culture, and my attitudes towards interpersonal interaction.]
This sentiment of learning manifested as changing behavior is certainly not new. Virtually all of my classmates wrote variations on the same thing in this past week's reflections. [I was going to link to all of them, but that would have been ridiculous, so you get this obnoxious aside instead.] All had slightly different takes on the subject, but the essence of most of what I read was that learning is proven by demonstration of that learning, or as I would say it, that learning involves the changing of thought processes, and that the outward manifestation of these changes is behavioral.
If you are so inclined, see my previous post for my views on the workings of the mind. From this lens, learning is like trying to communicate with yourself: you can only learn if you are able to overcome your current thought processes and forge new connections in your brain. People have different learning methods because different things help them to form these new connections--for some (e.g. me) the auditory stimuli of a lecturer combined with diligent note-taking and a receptive attitude is the preferred combination.
A quick dip into the internet (<10 min.) has reacquainted me with homogeneous differential equations and the method of undetermined coefficients. I was able to 're-learn' this material much faster than I learned it the first time. I think that this is because the connections to deal with differential equations already exist in my brain; they had just become re-discovered. Someone exposed to differential equations for the first time would obviously need much longer than 10 minutes to decipher the problem given on this exam, much less begin to solve it. The upshot seems to be that learning isn't permanent: just as connections can be made, so too can they be lost.
Incidentally, for anyone who cares, the solutions are:
y=A cos(w*x) + B sin(w*x)
yp [which is the particular solution] =(Ax+B)cos(x) + (Cx+D)sin(x)
Ever curious, I take a closer look at the diff. eq. exam. The visible problem asks the student to find the general solution for the homogeneous problem given an inhomogeneous linear second order differential equation, y'' + (w^2)y = x cos(x). The exam goes on to ask the student formulate the first step toward solving the equation using the method of undetermined coefficients.
I took the class Differential Equations, and I like to think I learned something about the subject of differential equations from the course: It was an important pre-req that has been built upon in many of my subsequent classes.
There's a problem, though. I can't remember what it is that distinguishes the homogeneous differential equation from the inhomogeneous one. I certainly can't remember the method of undetermined coefficients. I can't solve this exam problem. I know that I learned these concepts, in part because I was tested on them while I took the course, in part because I've learned higher level concepts in later courses that use these concepts as building blocks, and in part because I have the hard-to-define feeling of simply knowing that I had learned them. But if I learned it, why can't I solve it?
Which brings me to the topic at hand: How do I know if I've learned something? I know only if I'm tested--in an academic setting or in any other experience in general. I know I've learned something if I approach a situation I've encountered before in a new way. I know I've learned something if I act differently than I would have before I learned. I know I've learned something if I can apply what I've learned.
This makes it sound like I must be cognizant that I'm applying what I've learned, and, in the vast majority of cases, I think I am. Whether it's something small, like the fact that the hot and cold faucet handles are switched in my grandparents' bathroom, or something large, like a cultural awareness fostered by Introduction to American Indian Studies, I think that I am usually aware that I am acting in a new way based on what I've learned.
[A 'small' thing would be something that only impacts a few of my actions/interactions/aspects of my life--like washing my hands when I visit my grandparents. A 'large' thing would be something that impacts me daily--like my perceptions of culture, my perceptions of my culture, and my attitudes towards interpersonal interaction.]
This sentiment of learning manifested as changing behavior is certainly not new. Virtually all of my classmates wrote variations on the same thing in this past week's reflections. [I was going to link to all of them, but that would have been ridiculous, so you get this obnoxious aside instead.] All had slightly different takes on the subject, but the essence of most of what I read was that learning is proven by demonstration of that learning, or as I would say it, that learning involves the changing of thought processes, and that the outward manifestation of these changes is behavioral.
If you are so inclined, see my previous post for my views on the workings of the mind. From this lens, learning is like trying to communicate with yourself: you can only learn if you are able to overcome your current thought processes and forge new connections in your brain. People have different learning methods because different things help them to form these new connections--for some (e.g. me) the auditory stimuli of a lecturer combined with diligent note-taking and a receptive attitude is the preferred combination.
A quick dip into the internet (<10 min.) has reacquainted me with homogeneous differential equations and the method of undetermined coefficients. I was able to 're-learn' this material much faster than I learned it the first time. I think that this is because the connections to deal with differential equations already exist in my brain; they had just become re-discovered. Someone exposed to differential equations for the first time would obviously need much longer than 10 minutes to decipher the problem given on this exam, much less begin to solve it. The upshot seems to be that learning isn't permanent: just as connections can be made, so too can they be lost.
Incidentally, for anyone who cares, the solutions are:
y=A cos(w*x) + B sin(w*x)
yp [which is the particular solution] =(Ax+B)cos(x) + (Cx+D)sin(x)
Friday, November 6, 2009
The Bioengineering Curriculum
The Bioengineering curriculum is jam-packed. There are 132 required hours, which averages out to 16.5 hours per semester for a typical 4-year student. 1 hour is devoted to introducing bioengineering freshman to their major, college, and university through Engineering 100 and Bioengineering 120. BIOE 120 specifically consists of guest lecturers in the field of bioengineering; this course allows students to see the applications of their chosen program, which is important as they take the generic math, biology, and chemistry classes first semester.
34 hours comprise the "foundational mathematics and science," which includes two semesters of chemistry and lab, 4 semesters of calculus/differential equations, and 3 semesters of physics. These courses provide the basic scientific fundamentals that are needed for all engineering disciplines.
52 hours are components of the "technical core," which includes most of the courses that are actually in the bioengineering department as well as a lot of biology. There are also statistics and organic chemistry courses. 2 additional hours are an ethics/professionalism component of Senior Design, the capstone course in the Bioengineering sequence.
15 hours are used for the track electives, which allow the student to develop their program of study in one of five tracks: Biomechanics, Biomolecular, Cell and Tissue Engineering, Computational and Systems Biology, or Imaging and Sensing. I am in the Imaging and Sensing track, and my track electives have included electrical engineering classes that have given me a background in medical imaging methodologies such as ultrasound and MRI.
18 hours are devoted to social sciences and humanities. Students must fulfill a variety of requirements through these general education classes, including taking classes with both a Western and a non-Western cultural component. An additional 4 hours are taken by Rhetoric 105, which introduces students to effective writing techniques.
The remaining 6 hours are set aside as free electives. Students are allowed to use these hours in any way they wish.
I don't think there is any way to reduce the foundational course load. The foundational courses are aptly named: They really are important for a basic scientific background, and the skills learned through them are called on throughout the curriculum and in industry as well. Calculus and differential equations are important in almost every engineering application, both in the university setting and elsewhere. The physics and chemistry skills are essential for understanding the concepts of the upper level courses, and important background skills for engineering applications as well.
The core courses are a slightly different story. Depending on the path you choose, you may not need the skills and knowledge learned in a specific course that is part of the core curriculum. For instance, a engineer who works with a pharmaceutical company may not need to know the electrical systems learned about in Bioinstrumentation. That being said, I personally would not feel comfortable calling myself a bioengineer without having had all the core classes, even though I may not be using everything in my job after graduation.
One big reason I feel this way is that most people do not have the same job their whole lives. A degree gives you something to fall back on, and if you remove some of the importance and depth of the degree, it is not as valuable. Obviously a classroom setting is not the only way to gain the learning needed for a degree, but the core classes offer a breadth of knowledge that cannot be replaced by experiential learning unless those experiences are in the right sub-fields of bioengineering, and then it would serve little purpose to replace the core courses.
The track electives allow for a depth of learning in one specific branch of bioengineering. I can only speak to the Imaging and Sensing track, which I am in. If anything, I think that the track could benefit from more courses. 15 hours is just barely enough to catch up with the electrical engineering knowledge and specific applications to bioengineering. There is certainly no room to prune any hours.
What is left? The social sciences/humanities hours and the 6 free hours. These hours are designated by the College of Engineering (not the Bioengineering Department) to round out the education. The specific requirements are supposed to ensure that students are getting an education that includes a lot of different viewpoints and skills. ('supposed to' because engineering students often take soft options to satisfy these requirements, like Technical Writing for the advanced composition requirement. This is understandable if you consider that 15 technical hours is a lot of work in one semester--no one wants a lot of work in a gen-ed class they probably aren't all that interested in on top of that.)
Removing hours from the engineering courses to devote to free electives does not make sense to me. There are simply no hours to spare from the curriculum. If the goal the university education were to fully develop life skills (like learning to learn, communications skills, and a sense of citizenship) with just enough technical skills to pass into a job, then a dramatic restructuring of the curriculum would be in order. I think the university presents an opportunity to become an expert in a field: that is what a degree signifies. Obviously life skills are important, but they can be developed through other avenues than class (i.e. experiential learning). I could have amazing life skills, but I would not feel comfortable with my degree without the depth and breadth of knowledge and skills in my field conferred by the curriculum as it stands.
34 hours comprise the "foundational mathematics and science," which includes two semesters of chemistry and lab, 4 semesters of calculus/differential equations, and 3 semesters of physics. These courses provide the basic scientific fundamentals that are needed for all engineering disciplines.
52 hours are components of the "technical core," which includes most of the courses that are actually in the bioengineering department as well as a lot of biology. There are also statistics and organic chemistry courses. 2 additional hours are an ethics/professionalism component of Senior Design, the capstone course in the Bioengineering sequence.
15 hours are used for the track electives, which allow the student to develop their program of study in one of five tracks: Biomechanics, Biomolecular, Cell and Tissue Engineering, Computational and Systems Biology, or Imaging and Sensing. I am in the Imaging and Sensing track, and my track electives have included electrical engineering classes that have given me a background in medical imaging methodologies such as ultrasound and MRI.
18 hours are devoted to social sciences and humanities. Students must fulfill a variety of requirements through these general education classes, including taking classes with both a Western and a non-Western cultural component. An additional 4 hours are taken by Rhetoric 105, which introduces students to effective writing techniques.
The remaining 6 hours are set aside as free electives. Students are allowed to use these hours in any way they wish.
I don't think there is any way to reduce the foundational course load. The foundational courses are aptly named: They really are important for a basic scientific background, and the skills learned through them are called on throughout the curriculum and in industry as well. Calculus and differential equations are important in almost every engineering application, both in the university setting and elsewhere. The physics and chemistry skills are essential for understanding the concepts of the upper level courses, and important background skills for engineering applications as well.
The core courses are a slightly different story. Depending on the path you choose, you may not need the skills and knowledge learned in a specific course that is part of the core curriculum. For instance, a engineer who works with a pharmaceutical company may not need to know the electrical systems learned about in Bioinstrumentation. That being said, I personally would not feel comfortable calling myself a bioengineer without having had all the core classes, even though I may not be using everything in my job after graduation.
One big reason I feel this way is that most people do not have the same job their whole lives. A degree gives you something to fall back on, and if you remove some of the importance and depth of the degree, it is not as valuable. Obviously a classroom setting is not the only way to gain the learning needed for a degree, but the core classes offer a breadth of knowledge that cannot be replaced by experiential learning unless those experiences are in the right sub-fields of bioengineering, and then it would serve little purpose to replace the core courses.
The track electives allow for a depth of learning in one specific branch of bioengineering. I can only speak to the Imaging and Sensing track, which I am in. If anything, I think that the track could benefit from more courses. 15 hours is just barely enough to catch up with the electrical engineering knowledge and specific applications to bioengineering. There is certainly no room to prune any hours.
What is left? The social sciences/humanities hours and the 6 free hours. These hours are designated by the College of Engineering (not the Bioengineering Department) to round out the education. The specific requirements are supposed to ensure that students are getting an education that includes a lot of different viewpoints and skills. ('supposed to' because engineering students often take soft options to satisfy these requirements, like Technical Writing for the advanced composition requirement. This is understandable if you consider that 15 technical hours is a lot of work in one semester--no one wants a lot of work in a gen-ed class they probably aren't all that interested in on top of that.)
Removing hours from the engineering courses to devote to free electives does not make sense to me. There are simply no hours to spare from the curriculum. If the goal the university education were to fully develop life skills (like learning to learn, communications skills, and a sense of citizenship) with just enough technical skills to pass into a job, then a dramatic restructuring of the curriculum would be in order. I think the university presents an opportunity to become an expert in a field: that is what a degree signifies. Obviously life skills are important, but they can be developed through other avenues than class (i.e. experiential learning). I could have amazing life skills, but I would not feel comfortable with my degree without the depth and breadth of knowledge and skills in my field conferred by the curriculum as it stands.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The biological/psychological (non)dichotomy
You cannot separate mind from body. We frequently do in everyday conversation and in the way we approach ourselves, but, at a fundamental level, our biological and psychological selves are the same. Even if you consider the body and mind separate entities, you have to acknowledge that they are entirely dependent upon each other: a body without a mind will not move, will not eat, will not care for itself, will die. A mind without a body cannot see, hear, feel, taste, or smell; it cannot sense anything; it cannot communicate; it cannot be.
This notion of symbiosis, that the physical and mental rely on one another in an intimate fashion, does not go far enough, though. Our physical and mental selves are linked even more fundamentally than this. Your mind is not housed in your body; rather, it is an extension of your physiology:
You have a brain. You have a physical organ made of millions and millions of neurons, connected in wonderfully complicated ways, conducting action potentials along their lengths, transmitting signals to one another through chemical molecules called neurotransmitters. You have a biological network of neural cells encased in your cranium. Everything that you think, everything that you sense, and everything that you do is dependent on that incredibly complex collection of neurons, your brain. All your thoughts and thought processes depend on the transmission of electrical signals through that tissue. Your sense organs (ears, eyes, skin, etc.) detect stimuli and transmit electrical signals to specific areas of your brain. These signals are processed in incredibly intricate ways, spinning paths through your neural network. Your actions depend on the signals reaching the motor center of your brain, causing you to move your limbs, form words with your lips and throat, and place your hands on the keyboard and type.
Raise your hand.
Okay, you can put it down.
How were you able to get your hand get up in the air? You might say, "The same way I move any other part of myself. I am in control. I think, and I move." The process is more biological than that, though. Initially, you received a visual stimulus from the computer screen, which interfaced with the photoreceptors of your eye, transmitting a signal along your optic nerve to the occipital lobe of your brain. Some processing center in your brain identified the signal as words, which were decoded into meaning by another area of neurons. The meaning was transmitted to your motor centers, which sent a signal to the muscles in your arm and shoulder, and your raised your hand. Unless you didn't. If you didn't raise your hand, it is because another pathway intervened. Maybe you are in a public place and didn't want to look foolish. Maybe you aren't engaged and are just skimming this post. Maybe you don't normally acquiesce to odd written requests. In any case, the signal encountered a group of neurons that did not send it on to your motor cortex. It took a path through your neural network that did not involve movement.
Another important point is that you may or may not have been conscious of your decision to raise your hand. Our brains operate and process stimuli much more thoroughly and deeply than we are aware of. (Many debatably reputable sources will give you ways to harness this unused power--just google 'subconscious.') The point is, your brain is like a biological supercomputer, making innumerable connections and subtle distinctions through complex neural interactions, upon which your conscious mind is entirely dependent.
Raise your hand.
Did you do it that time? It was the same visual stimulus. If you had different responses to the commands, it means that the stimulus activated different pathways each time.
Highly trafficked pathways correspond to familiar thoughts or important subconscious processes (like facial recognition and decoding of written words). New stimuli require the development of unused pathways. Making connections between ideas literally involves making connections between neurons in your brain. That's also why we 'fall into an old way of thinking' of 'get stuck in a rut'; we are playing out the same mental pathways that are present in our brains.
Drucker wrote about this in 1974 in "Functioning Communications." He delineates the effort required by the communicator to reach the listener due to differences in mental processes. Communications can fall upon deaf ears when the communicator fails to take into account the listener's mindset. People hear what they want to hear. People's brains are hard-wired to process stimuli in certain fashions. Drucker writes how communication is almost a battle: As the communicator, you have to bring the listener around to your way of thinking. You have to bypass the natural route in the listener's mind and develop new pathways. Otherwise, they will hear what they want to hear, and not what you want them to hear.
Effective communication from the communicator's standpoint demands messages that speak to the audience. Effective communication from the listener's standpoint demands a receptive attitude and a commitment to the consideration of new ideas. This is a hard thing to accomplish when so much of the information processing that goes on in our brains occurs below our consciousness. It's almost like holding you breath: you can only do it for so long before your natural processes take over.
I recently have been tangling with this issue regarding the interpretation of Gladwell's The Tipping Point. In my mind, Gladwell writes about the population dynamics that allow epidemics to spread. He frames his argument using the spread of syphilis in Baltimore. He explains the concept of the tipping point using a model of a disease. He then generalizes to all sorts of epidemics like fashion trends and waves of violence. The first time I read the book, I viewed it as a study in transmission. Gladwell did everything short of writing a mathematical model with variables like the number of individuals within a population contacted and the probability of spreading the contagion to explain the spread of epidemics. The second time I read the book, I saw the same thing. The specifics of what I have been calling the contagion do not matter--if it can be transmitted, Gladwell is talking about it. It doesn't matter whether it infects through a hostile takeover of the host's cells or by forging new pathways in the recipient's brain to develop a new way of thinking or a new desire for a product. The ultimate goal of the book, only partially achieved, was to elucidate the path that every contagion must take to become an epidemic.
Someone else who read this book saw exactly the opposite. Gladwell's use of syphilis was only a useful starting point toward getting his audience to think about headier, more abstract issues. The point of the book was not to study transmission in general, but to study the diffusion of innovation, of new ideas, and of positive changes in the world. The specifics of a model do not matter. What matters is the elucidation of tools that can be used to create change in society, in our thinking patterns, and in the way we spread our messages. The distinction between biological epidemics and those that really matter is huge: everyone knows that disease spreads; that is disease's basic function; who cares. If we want to spread things that really matter, such as anti-crime waves and learning, we need to identify ways that will help these things, which are not inherently transmitted, to spread to epidemic proportions.
As I stated, I am having a hard time making that distinction. The preceding paragraph sounds like a load of bunk to me. Due to the eccentricities of my own mental pathways, the transmission aspect of the book is most important to me. If a model can be developed that describes transmission throughout a population, that model should yield generalizable conclusions that can be applied to the spread of anything. The mechanism of actually infecting each individual is irrelevant. It is taken for granted. There may be some indication of 'transmissibility' (e.g. only 5% of contacted individuals will be infected), but the actual underlying reason that this phenomenon spreads does not matter.
I think that I am being asked to view Gladwell' Tipping Point from a different vantage point. Rather than focusing on some model, I should be focusing on _________. I'm still not sure. It's nice to talk about the spread of various positive ideas or halting the progress of negative epidemics, but without something generalizable to take away, I am just left with a bunch of anecdotes. I am trying to be receptive to a new interpretation of the book, but I cannot escape the thought processes of my brain that lead me back to the same conclusion every time I try to consider it from a different angle: We can create a model of the spread of a contagion throughout a population of dissimilar individuals; this model will allow us to engineer our own epidemics.
Our "minds" are products of our biology. If we are cognizant of the fact that our thought processes are biological processes, we can try to overcome the limitations imposed by following these same neural pathways over and over again.
Do you find this trivial? Do you think to yourself, "Who cares where our thoughts arise from. There is a distinction between my mind and body. I acknowledge that keeping an open mind is important for communication, but it doesn't matter what underlying physiological phenomena are responsible for this."
I have tried to present my thoughts in an accessible fashion. I hope that I have been able to pioneer an undiscovered path in your brain. I urge you to realize the limits imposed on your mind by your body, and try to overcome them.
This notion of symbiosis, that the physical and mental rely on one another in an intimate fashion, does not go far enough, though. Our physical and mental selves are linked even more fundamentally than this. Your mind is not housed in your body; rather, it is an extension of your physiology:
You have a brain. You have a physical organ made of millions and millions of neurons, connected in wonderfully complicated ways, conducting action potentials along their lengths, transmitting signals to one another through chemical molecules called neurotransmitters. You have a biological network of neural cells encased in your cranium. Everything that you think, everything that you sense, and everything that you do is dependent on that incredibly complex collection of neurons, your brain. All your thoughts and thought processes depend on the transmission of electrical signals through that tissue. Your sense organs (ears, eyes, skin, etc.) detect stimuli and transmit electrical signals to specific areas of your brain. These signals are processed in incredibly intricate ways, spinning paths through your neural network. Your actions depend on the signals reaching the motor center of your brain, causing you to move your limbs, form words with your lips and throat, and place your hands on the keyboard and type.
Raise your hand.
Okay, you can put it down.
How were you able to get your hand get up in the air? You might say, "The same way I move any other part of myself. I am in control. I think, and I move." The process is more biological than that, though. Initially, you received a visual stimulus from the computer screen, which interfaced with the photoreceptors of your eye, transmitting a signal along your optic nerve to the occipital lobe of your brain. Some processing center in your brain identified the signal as words, which were decoded into meaning by another area of neurons. The meaning was transmitted to your motor centers, which sent a signal to the muscles in your arm and shoulder, and your raised your hand. Unless you didn't. If you didn't raise your hand, it is because another pathway intervened. Maybe you are in a public place and didn't want to look foolish. Maybe you aren't engaged and are just skimming this post. Maybe you don't normally acquiesce to odd written requests. In any case, the signal encountered a group of neurons that did not send it on to your motor cortex. It took a path through your neural network that did not involve movement.
Another important point is that you may or may not have been conscious of your decision to raise your hand. Our brains operate and process stimuli much more thoroughly and deeply than we are aware of. (Many debatably reputable sources will give you ways to harness this unused power--just google 'subconscious.') The point is, your brain is like a biological supercomputer, making innumerable connections and subtle distinctions through complex neural interactions, upon which your conscious mind is entirely dependent.
Raise your hand.
Did you do it that time? It was the same visual stimulus. If you had different responses to the commands, it means that the stimulus activated different pathways each time.
Highly trafficked pathways correspond to familiar thoughts or important subconscious processes (like facial recognition and decoding of written words). New stimuli require the development of unused pathways. Making connections between ideas literally involves making connections between neurons in your brain. That's also why we 'fall into an old way of thinking' of 'get stuck in a rut'; we are playing out the same mental pathways that are present in our brains.
Drucker wrote about this in 1974 in "Functioning Communications." He delineates the effort required by the communicator to reach the listener due to differences in mental processes. Communications can fall upon deaf ears when the communicator fails to take into account the listener's mindset. People hear what they want to hear. People's brains are hard-wired to process stimuli in certain fashions. Drucker writes how communication is almost a battle: As the communicator, you have to bring the listener around to your way of thinking. You have to bypass the natural route in the listener's mind and develop new pathways. Otherwise, they will hear what they want to hear, and not what you want them to hear.
Effective communication from the communicator's standpoint demands messages that speak to the audience. Effective communication from the listener's standpoint demands a receptive attitude and a commitment to the consideration of new ideas. This is a hard thing to accomplish when so much of the information processing that goes on in our brains occurs below our consciousness. It's almost like holding you breath: you can only do it for so long before your natural processes take over.
I recently have been tangling with this issue regarding the interpretation of Gladwell's The Tipping Point. In my mind, Gladwell writes about the population dynamics that allow epidemics to spread. He frames his argument using the spread of syphilis in Baltimore. He explains the concept of the tipping point using a model of a disease. He then generalizes to all sorts of epidemics like fashion trends and waves of violence. The first time I read the book, I viewed it as a study in transmission. Gladwell did everything short of writing a mathematical model with variables like the number of individuals within a population contacted and the probability of spreading the contagion to explain the spread of epidemics. The second time I read the book, I saw the same thing. The specifics of what I have been calling the contagion do not matter--if it can be transmitted, Gladwell is talking about it. It doesn't matter whether it infects through a hostile takeover of the host's cells or by forging new pathways in the recipient's brain to develop a new way of thinking or a new desire for a product. The ultimate goal of the book, only partially achieved, was to elucidate the path that every contagion must take to become an epidemic.
Someone else who read this book saw exactly the opposite. Gladwell's use of syphilis was only a useful starting point toward getting his audience to think about headier, more abstract issues. The point of the book was not to study transmission in general, but to study the diffusion of innovation, of new ideas, and of positive changes in the world. The specifics of a model do not matter. What matters is the elucidation of tools that can be used to create change in society, in our thinking patterns, and in the way we spread our messages. The distinction between biological epidemics and those that really matter is huge: everyone knows that disease spreads; that is disease's basic function; who cares. If we want to spread things that really matter, such as anti-crime waves and learning, we need to identify ways that will help these things, which are not inherently transmitted, to spread to epidemic proportions.
As I stated, I am having a hard time making that distinction. The preceding paragraph sounds like a load of bunk to me. Due to the eccentricities of my own mental pathways, the transmission aspect of the book is most important to me. If a model can be developed that describes transmission throughout a population, that model should yield generalizable conclusions that can be applied to the spread of anything. The mechanism of actually infecting each individual is irrelevant. It is taken for granted. There may be some indication of 'transmissibility' (e.g. only 5% of contacted individuals will be infected), but the actual underlying reason that this phenomenon spreads does not matter.
I think that I am being asked to view Gladwell' Tipping Point from a different vantage point. Rather than focusing on some model, I should be focusing on _________. I'm still not sure. It's nice to talk about the spread of various positive ideas or halting the progress of negative epidemics, but without something generalizable to take away, I am just left with a bunch of anecdotes. I am trying to be receptive to a new interpretation of the book, but I cannot escape the thought processes of my brain that lead me back to the same conclusion every time I try to consider it from a different angle: We can create a model of the spread of a contagion throughout a population of dissimilar individuals; this model will allow us to engineer our own epidemics.
Our "minds" are products of our biology. If we are cognizant of the fact that our thought processes are biological processes, we can try to overcome the limitations imposed by following these same neural pathways over and over again.
Do you find this trivial? Do you think to yourself, "Who cares where our thoughts arise from. There is a distinction between my mind and body. I acknowledge that keeping an open mind is important for communication, but it doesn't matter what underlying physiological phenomena are responsible for this."
I have tried to present my thoughts in an accessible fashion. I hope that I have been able to pioneer an undiscovered path in your brain. I urge you to realize the limits imposed on your mind by your body, and try to overcome them.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Reflection 3
"My thoughts on academic cheating"
The sole purpose of cheating in an academic setting is to secure a higher grade. Cheating may be spur-of-the-moment, a crime of opportunity. Perhaps the student studied hard but was presented with a question that he did not come across when studying--he might feel that he had studied enough and deserved a good grade, so peeking at his neighbor's exam would not be an issue, especially if peeking were easy. If the exam seems arbitrary, why not use arbitrary means to pass it? Cheating may be pre-meditated, planned far in advance, a substitute for studying as a means of securing a good grade. Perhaps the student didn't care about the material or the class, and it just seemed easier to cheat. A student's decision to cheat is dependent on the student's relation to the subject matter. Furthermore, a decision to cheat may be influenced by opportunity.
Some forms of examinations are more resistant to cheating. In a technical class, the work done to arrive at a solution to a problem must often be shown; the method used to solve the problem may even be worth more than the final answer. In exams based on essay questions, it is easy to see if two students' work is very similar. Both of these types of exams present barriers to cheating. Multiple-choice exams, on the other hand, offer students an easy way to copy work with little chance of detection. The type of exam can contribute to a student's decision to cheat. Multiple-choice exams are often the norm, especially for large classes, perhaps due to the ease of grading. This further exacerbates the problems with large classes that were discussed in class.
In a perfect world, the grade given would be a perfect reflection of the student's ability. In the real world, a disconnect can exist between the grade and the mastery of the material. Part of the problem that can exist between the students' ability and the grade are the criteria used to assign the grade. Professors are fallible, and exams can be poorly written. In one extreme case, a professor's exams were barely comprehensible, and the choices given for the multiple choice questions were often contradictory or included more than one correct answer. What should a student do when presented with a poor method of evaluating his ability in the subject? A student's perception of the relevance and fairness of an exam can influence the decision to cheat.
As discussed in class, students' personal relationships with the professor are a further factor in their decisions to cheat. Closely related to this is the subject of class size; smaller classes are correlated with stronger student-professor relationships, and students are less likely to cheat when they know and respect the professor. Large classes also tend to be introductory classes, which may not be interesting to students. This lack of interest can add to the decision to cheat. Large classes are also more likely to use standard multiple-choice exams as a means of evaluation as previously mentioned, which could worsen cheating. Both students and professors are more invested (and more likely to put forth good effort) when classes are smaller.
The sole purpose of cheating is to secure a higher grade. At the risk of becoming too existentialist, the only reason to have exams is to give students grades. In my mind, the primary purpose of classes and education should be to increase students' knowledge and improve their abilities. Grading students is an imperfect attempt to measure the success of the class, the professor and the students. What purpose do grades serve? Are they an absolute, or rather a relative, ranking of the students' ability? Are they a good indicator of students' acquisition of knowledge and skills? How good is the correlation between grades and ability? Do exams measure significantly more than the students' proficiency at exam-taking? Are the exams valid?
Cheating undermines the validity of grading. Smaller class sizes may help to decrease students' desire to cheat by increasing courses' quality and students' investment in those courses. In a system where measuring the effectiveness of courses and the abilities of students was not important, there would be no need for grades or cheating. Because we are interested in the performance of students, we must assess and grade them as validly as we can. Because we grade them, they try to secure the best grades they can, regardless of their personal commitment towards learning the material at hand.
The sole purpose of cheating in an academic setting is to secure a higher grade. Cheating may be spur-of-the-moment, a crime of opportunity. Perhaps the student studied hard but was presented with a question that he did not come across when studying--he might feel that he had studied enough and deserved a good grade, so peeking at his neighbor's exam would not be an issue, especially if peeking were easy. If the exam seems arbitrary, why not use arbitrary means to pass it? Cheating may be pre-meditated, planned far in advance, a substitute for studying as a means of securing a good grade. Perhaps the student didn't care about the material or the class, and it just seemed easier to cheat. A student's decision to cheat is dependent on the student's relation to the subject matter. Furthermore, a decision to cheat may be influenced by opportunity.
Some forms of examinations are more resistant to cheating. In a technical class, the work done to arrive at a solution to a problem must often be shown; the method used to solve the problem may even be worth more than the final answer. In exams based on essay questions, it is easy to see if two students' work is very similar. Both of these types of exams present barriers to cheating. Multiple-choice exams, on the other hand, offer students an easy way to copy work with little chance of detection. The type of exam can contribute to a student's decision to cheat. Multiple-choice exams are often the norm, especially for large classes, perhaps due to the ease of grading. This further exacerbates the problems with large classes that were discussed in class.
In a perfect world, the grade given would be a perfect reflection of the student's ability. In the real world, a disconnect can exist between the grade and the mastery of the material. Part of the problem that can exist between the students' ability and the grade are the criteria used to assign the grade. Professors are fallible, and exams can be poorly written. In one extreme case, a professor's exams were barely comprehensible, and the choices given for the multiple choice questions were often contradictory or included more than one correct answer. What should a student do when presented with a poor method of evaluating his ability in the subject? A student's perception of the relevance and fairness of an exam can influence the decision to cheat.
As discussed in class, students' personal relationships with the professor are a further factor in their decisions to cheat. Closely related to this is the subject of class size; smaller classes are correlated with stronger student-professor relationships, and students are less likely to cheat when they know and respect the professor. Large classes also tend to be introductory classes, which may not be interesting to students. This lack of interest can add to the decision to cheat. Large classes are also more likely to use standard multiple-choice exams as a means of evaluation as previously mentioned, which could worsen cheating. Both students and professors are more invested (and more likely to put forth good effort) when classes are smaller.
The sole purpose of cheating is to secure a higher grade. At the risk of becoming too existentialist, the only reason to have exams is to give students grades. In my mind, the primary purpose of classes and education should be to increase students' knowledge and improve their abilities. Grading students is an imperfect attempt to measure the success of the class, the professor and the students. What purpose do grades serve? Are they an absolute, or rather a relative, ranking of the students' ability? Are they a good indicator of students' acquisition of knowledge and skills? How good is the correlation between grades and ability? Do exams measure significantly more than the students' proficiency at exam-taking? Are the exams valid?
Cheating undermines the validity of grading. Smaller class sizes may help to decrease students' desire to cheat by increasing courses' quality and students' investment in those courses. In a system where measuring the effectiveness of courses and the abilities of students was not important, there would be no need for grades or cheating. Because we are interested in the performance of students, we must assess and grade them as validly as we can. Because we grade them, they try to secure the best grades they can, regardless of their personal commitment towards learning the material at hand.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Reflection 2
"Invasive species"
Gawande's discussion of the fight against Polio in "The Mop-Up" describes a concerted effort to vaccinate millions of children in India following the appearance of a single outbreak of the disease. Thousands of volunteers went house to house in the region of the outbreak, carrying the refrigerated vaccine, attempting to vaccinate every child. Sometimes children weren't home. Sometimes parents refused the vaccination for their children, due to mistrust (rumors had circulated that the vaccine was causing infertility or other problems.) The vast majority of children were vaccinated, however. After a successful vaccination, a mark was made on the child's fingernail to record that the vaccination had taken place. Similar attempts had been made in the past in an effort to eradicate Polio from the planet, but the disease has kept cropping up. In theory, if every single child were vaccinated, the disease would simply vanish for lack of hosts. Despite the diligence of the vaccination effort, it has proven very difficult to vaccinate every child. Compounding the problem is the resilience of the disease: it can remain latent and contagious for long periods. In short, the effort to stop Polio can only be successful when the virus is eradicated entirely, and efforts thus far, despite massive investments of money and manpower, have only been able to quench the majority of the disease.
Invasive species are species that are not native to an ecosystem, but whose introduction causes economic or environmental harm. Invasive species are difficult to control, often occupying the niches of natural fauna. Foreign to an ecosystem, they often grow unchecked, wreaking havoc. The only way to control the most insidious invasive species is to remove them from the ecosystem, just as we attempt to remove polio from the world: eradication.
Zebra mussels are an invasive species in the Great Lakes region. Introduced sometime around 1990, the zebra mussel has colonized vast areas of the Great Lakes and surrounding water basins. The mussels are so prolific that they clog water intakes of power plants, factories, and other enterprises. The mussels interfere with almost any endeavor that deals with the lakes, growing on any smooth, hard surface. The mussels crowd out native species by eating all the algae and nutrients in the water. In some cases, the mussels actually kill other species by growing on them: native clams populations have plummeted due to zebra mussels.
Any effort to control the mussels has failed. The mussels are seemingly too prolific. A single mussel can release millions of offspring every year. They exist in a microscopic larval stage until they find a suitable substrate to grow on; these larva are nearly impossible to detect, let alone control. Efforts have instead turned to creating surfaces that the mussels cannot attach to, as well as preventing the spread of the species to other waterways. In one sense, the use of surfaces that the mussels cannot attach to has largely alleviated the problem as far as industrial usage of the water resources is concerned; however, the ecological ramifications of the mussels have been unaffected. The mussels continue to spread, being carried on boats, for example, despite public education efforts to curb the species' range. Any effort at eradication in existing affected ecosystems is neutralized by the shear scope of the problem. Introduction of predators of the mussel cannot hope to overcome the shear number of mussels that exist.
Metzger Marsh in western Lake Erie is one such area that has been inundated with zebra mussels, but is unique in that native clam populations have been able to survive. In 1994, a large-scale project was undertaken to restore the wetlands of Metzger Marsh, which had been in decline since the 1940's due to human overuse. This plan was not intended to curb the zebra mussel population (because zebra mussels are so difficult to control) but rather to restore the natural wetland habitat. The plan to restore the marsh included a three-year transition period in which the water of the marsh would be drained and restored, with native species being relocated and then reintroduced after the water level had been returned (most fauna would not survive the low water levels).
A survey of the wildlife in the marsh indicated extensive zebra mussel infestation and patchy areas of native clams (among other animals); however, the population of native clams was found to be much more extensive than initially estimated during the relocation phase beginning in 1996. This indicated that perhaps the mussel problem either was not as terrible as believed, or perhaps had a solution; in any case, over 7000 individual specimens of native clams were removed from the marsh to a facility for the duration of the water-level fluctuations. Reintroduction of the clams in 1999 proved successful, although zebra mussels continue to colonize the area. What was unexpected was the persistence of the native clams despite the mussels' presence. In this instance, the invasive species was not eradicated, but it still did not seem to be as detrimental as could be expected.
Much research revealed the reasons why: The waters of Metzger Marsh were slightly warmer than other waters of the area. This caused the clams to burrow down into the mud, effectively scrubbing off any zebra mussel larvae that had attached to their shells. Additionally, the silt where the unaffected clams lived had smaller-sized particles that the silt of other areas; evidently the zebra mussels were unable to grow on such a substrate. This offers little hope of a solution to the zebra mussel problem: all that has allowed these clams to survive is a lucky coincidence of climate and geology. If zebra mussels are to be eradicated from the Great Lakes and surrounding watersheds, an effective way of removing them must be found.
Lessons from the efforts to stop Polio can be directly applied to the zebra mussel problem. Some families refuse the Polio vaccine, meaning that a pool of potential hosts for the virus exists. To stop the spread of the zebra mussel, all aquatic vessels must have all mussels removed if they travel between various waterways. The transmission of the mussels does not seem like it will be stopped, however: the problem is simply too unimportant for the vast amount of effort it would take to inspect every boat or motivate every boat owner to take the initiative in preventing the spread of the mussel. The zebra mussel is incredibly resilient, just as the Polio virus is. To eradicate it would take a relentless (diligent) effort using an as of yet undiscovered method of killing the mussel.
Gawande's discussion of the fight against Polio in "The Mop-Up" describes a concerted effort to vaccinate millions of children in India following the appearance of a single outbreak of the disease. Thousands of volunteers went house to house in the region of the outbreak, carrying the refrigerated vaccine, attempting to vaccinate every child. Sometimes children weren't home. Sometimes parents refused the vaccination for their children, due to mistrust (rumors had circulated that the vaccine was causing infertility or other problems.) The vast majority of children were vaccinated, however. After a successful vaccination, a mark was made on the child's fingernail to record that the vaccination had taken place. Similar attempts had been made in the past in an effort to eradicate Polio from the planet, but the disease has kept cropping up. In theory, if every single child were vaccinated, the disease would simply vanish for lack of hosts. Despite the diligence of the vaccination effort, it has proven very difficult to vaccinate every child. Compounding the problem is the resilience of the disease: it can remain latent and contagious for long periods. In short, the effort to stop Polio can only be successful when the virus is eradicated entirely, and efforts thus far, despite massive investments of money and manpower, have only been able to quench the majority of the disease.
Invasive species are species that are not native to an ecosystem, but whose introduction causes economic or environmental harm. Invasive species are difficult to control, often occupying the niches of natural fauna. Foreign to an ecosystem, they often grow unchecked, wreaking havoc. The only way to control the most insidious invasive species is to remove them from the ecosystem, just as we attempt to remove polio from the world: eradication.
Zebra mussels are an invasive species in the Great Lakes region. Introduced sometime around 1990, the zebra mussel has colonized vast areas of the Great Lakes and surrounding water basins. The mussels are so prolific that they clog water intakes of power plants, factories, and other enterprises. The mussels interfere with almost any endeavor that deals with the lakes, growing on any smooth, hard surface. The mussels crowd out native species by eating all the algae and nutrients in the water. In some cases, the mussels actually kill other species by growing on them: native clams populations have plummeted due to zebra mussels.
Any effort to control the mussels has failed. The mussels are seemingly too prolific. A single mussel can release millions of offspring every year. They exist in a microscopic larval stage until they find a suitable substrate to grow on; these larva are nearly impossible to detect, let alone control. Efforts have instead turned to creating surfaces that the mussels cannot attach to, as well as preventing the spread of the species to other waterways. In one sense, the use of surfaces that the mussels cannot attach to has largely alleviated the problem as far as industrial usage of the water resources is concerned; however, the ecological ramifications of the mussels have been unaffected. The mussels continue to spread, being carried on boats, for example, despite public education efforts to curb the species' range. Any effort at eradication in existing affected ecosystems is neutralized by the shear scope of the problem. Introduction of predators of the mussel cannot hope to overcome the shear number of mussels that exist.
Metzger Marsh in western Lake Erie is one such area that has been inundated with zebra mussels, but is unique in that native clam populations have been able to survive. In 1994, a large-scale project was undertaken to restore the wetlands of Metzger Marsh, which had been in decline since the 1940's due to human overuse. This plan was not intended to curb the zebra mussel population (because zebra mussels are so difficult to control) but rather to restore the natural wetland habitat. The plan to restore the marsh included a three-year transition period in which the water of the marsh would be drained and restored, with native species being relocated and then reintroduced after the water level had been returned (most fauna would not survive the low water levels).
A survey of the wildlife in the marsh indicated extensive zebra mussel infestation and patchy areas of native clams (among other animals); however, the population of native clams was found to be much more extensive than initially estimated during the relocation phase beginning in 1996. This indicated that perhaps the mussel problem either was not as terrible as believed, or perhaps had a solution; in any case, over 7000 individual specimens of native clams were removed from the marsh to a facility for the duration of the water-level fluctuations. Reintroduction of the clams in 1999 proved successful, although zebra mussels continue to colonize the area. What was unexpected was the persistence of the native clams despite the mussels' presence. In this instance, the invasive species was not eradicated, but it still did not seem to be as detrimental as could be expected.
Much research revealed the reasons why: The waters of Metzger Marsh were slightly warmer than other waters of the area. This caused the clams to burrow down into the mud, effectively scrubbing off any zebra mussel larvae that had attached to their shells. Additionally, the silt where the unaffected clams lived had smaller-sized particles that the silt of other areas; evidently the zebra mussels were unable to grow on such a substrate. This offers little hope of a solution to the zebra mussel problem: all that has allowed these clams to survive is a lucky coincidence of climate and geology. If zebra mussels are to be eradicated from the Great Lakes and surrounding watersheds, an effective way of removing them must be found.
Lessons from the efforts to stop Polio can be directly applied to the zebra mussel problem. Some families refuse the Polio vaccine, meaning that a pool of potential hosts for the virus exists. To stop the spread of the zebra mussel, all aquatic vessels must have all mussels removed if they travel between various waterways. The transmission of the mussels does not seem like it will be stopped, however: the problem is simply too unimportant for the vast amount of effort it would take to inspect every boat or motivate every boat owner to take the initiative in preventing the spread of the mussel. The zebra mussel is incredibly resilient, just as the Polio virus is. To eradicate it would take a relentless (diligent) effort using an as of yet undiscovered method of killing the mussel.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Reflection 1
“What I expect to get out of this class” –or– “What blogging means to me” –or– “Meta-blogging”
Besides expanding my views of the world, identifying/implementing effective change, taking part in intellectual conversation, etc. , two things that I expect to get out of my time in CHP 396 are an understanding of blogging and an ability to meaningfully contribute to the blogosphere.
I have never written a blog before, and indeed have never even kept a journal. The form, caught somewhere between a formal essay and a personal self-dialogue, is entirely foreign to me. I am driven by finding solutions to problems. I have never felt the urge to write my thoughts out in an extended fashion and publish them for the world to read; it strikes me as somewhat exhibitionist. I also question the validity of my opinions constantly, and am loath to share them; I am most comfortable with facts.
A brief flirtation with Google unearthed this post from Dave Sherman about the purpose of blogging, and that led to this post and this post from Dr. Frank Buck’s Blog, as well as others. It seems to me that some people blog purely to say what is on their minds, but that the most successful and most interesting blogs have a unifying theme, be it an ongoing critique of the American educational system, horticultural tips, the answers to the daily crossword puzzle, or whatever. A “personal blog”, in which the writer merely writes about whatever he is thinking about, is the form that I have in the past most associated with blogging; it is this form that has always kept me away because it strikes me as tedious, pretentious, and boring to read. With this blog, the theme will be reflections on readings for class. I hope that this will allow me to avoid the sort of mental dumping that repulses me, although this post is turning out to be less grounded and less interesting than I’d like.
I am a fan of brevity, of conveying only the most important points as concisely as possible: If I were to write 1000 words about one topic, I would almost surely edit it mercilessly, probably sacrificing some intricacies of the ideas present, until the post was little more than a sentence. For example, here is this blog post as I am naturally inclined to write it:
“From this class, I hope to develop an appreciation of blogging, a foreign concept to me.”
Hopefully, in the future I will avoid blogging about blogging (meta-blogging?) and instead concentrate on crafting meaningful posts about material relating to class. I hope that I will be able to offer unique insights into focused topics. I hope to deepen my views of the material (and, by extension, the world). I hope to increase the fluidity of my writing so that I am able to express myself more quickly and clearly (this post has taken far longer to write than many would believe). I hope that eventually I will enjoy this blogging process.
Besides expanding my views of the world, identifying/implementing effective change, taking part in intellectual conversation, etc. , two things that I expect to get out of my time in CHP 396 are an understanding of blogging and an ability to meaningfully contribute to the blogosphere.
I have never written a blog before, and indeed have never even kept a journal. The form, caught somewhere between a formal essay and a personal self-dialogue, is entirely foreign to me. I am driven by finding solutions to problems. I have never felt the urge to write my thoughts out in an extended fashion and publish them for the world to read; it strikes me as somewhat exhibitionist. I also question the validity of my opinions constantly, and am loath to share them; I am most comfortable with facts.
A brief flirtation with Google unearthed this post from Dave Sherman about the purpose of blogging, and that led to this post and this post from Dr. Frank Buck’s Blog, as well as others. It seems to me that some people blog purely to say what is on their minds, but that the most successful and most interesting blogs have a unifying theme, be it an ongoing critique of the American educational system, horticultural tips, the answers to the daily crossword puzzle, or whatever. A “personal blog”, in which the writer merely writes about whatever he is thinking about, is the form that I have in the past most associated with blogging; it is this form that has always kept me away because it strikes me as tedious, pretentious, and boring to read. With this blog, the theme will be reflections on readings for class. I hope that this will allow me to avoid the sort of mental dumping that repulses me, although this post is turning out to be less grounded and less interesting than I’d like.
I am a fan of brevity, of conveying only the most important points as concisely as possible: If I were to write 1000 words about one topic, I would almost surely edit it mercilessly, probably sacrificing some intricacies of the ideas present, until the post was little more than a sentence. For example, here is this blog post as I am naturally inclined to write it:
“From this class, I hope to develop an appreciation of blogging, a foreign concept to me.”
Hopefully, in the future I will avoid blogging about blogging (meta-blogging?) and instead concentrate on crafting meaningful posts about material relating to class. I hope that I will be able to offer unique insights into focused topics. I hope to deepen my views of the material (and, by extension, the world). I hope to increase the fluidity of my writing so that I am able to express myself more quickly and clearly (this post has taken far longer to write than many would believe). I hope that eventually I will enjoy this blogging process.
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