Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 38
Common Core Confusion

Second grade started on a Tuesday, warm and humid, with Ash now seven years old and confident in his routine. School was boring but tolerable, made bearable by recess and gym and the fact that he'd made solid friends. Baseball and swim team filled his afternoons and weekends. Life had settled into a comfortable pattern.

His new teacher, Mr. Patterson, seemed young and energetic. Fresh out of teacher's college, according to the welcome letter sent home over summer. The classroom was decorated with posters about growth mindset and "Mistakes Help Us Learn!"

"Welcome to second grade!" Mr. Patterson said that first morning. "This year we're going to do so many exciting things. We'll learn multiplication, we'll read chapter books, we'll do science experiments!"

Ash half-listened, doodling baseball plays in the margins of his notebook. Multiplication. He'd learned that in what, third grade originally? This would be easy.

The day proceeded normally enough. Reading time—they were starting a chapter book about a kid detective. Still below Ash's reading level, but at least it was a story with some plot. Writing time—journal entries about summer vacation. Ash wrote about baseball camp and swim meets and kept it simple.

Then came math time.

"Alright, everyone!" Mr. Patterson said, pulling up a presentation on the smart board. "This year we're using a new math curriculum. It's called Common Core, and it's going to help you understand math in a deeper way!"

Ash barely paid attention as Mr. Patterson launched into an explanation. Math was math. Numbers followed rules. He'd understood this decades ago.

"So when we add numbers, we're not just going to memorize facts anymore. We're going to understand WHY numbers work the way they do!" Mr. Patterson was clearly excited about this. "Let's start with a simple problem. What's 8 + 7?"

Fifteen. Ash thought it automatically, the answer appearing in his brain without conscious calculation.

"Now, instead of just knowing it's fifteen, let's break down HOW we get to fifteen using number bonds and the make-ten strategy!"

What?

Mr. Patterson drew on the board:

8 + 7 = ?

Step 1: Break 7 into 2 + 5
Step 2: Add 8 + 2 = 10
Step 3: Add 10 + 5 = 15

Ash stared at the board. That was... the longest possible way to solve that problem. Why would you break 7 apart when you could just... add them?

"See how we made a ten first? Ten is a friendly number! It's much easier to work with tens!" Mr. Patterson looked thrilled. "Now let's try another one. Everyone take out your math journals. We're going to solve 9 + 6 using this strategy."

Ash opened his journal, wrote "9 + 6 = 15" and waited.

"Noam, I need to see your work," Mr. Patterson said, walking by his desk. "Show me how you used the make-ten strategy."

"I just added them."

"But we need to show our work. That's how we prove we understand the concept." Mr. Patterson pointed to his example. "Break the 6 apart. What do you need to add to 9 to make 10?"

"One."

"Right! So we break 6 into 1 and 5. Then we add 9 + 1 to get 10, and then add the 5. Can you show me that in your journal?"

Ash stared at the page. This was absurd. He knew 9 + 6 was 15. Why did he need to perform this elaborate dance of breaking numbers apart to prove he knew something obvious?

But Mr. Patterson was waiting, so Ash wrote it out:

9 + 6 = ?
Break 6 into 1 + 5
9 + 1 = 10
10 + 5 = 15

"Perfect! See how much clearer that is?" Mr. Patterson moved on to help another student.

Clear? It was the opposite of clear. It was taking a simple operation and making it complicated for no reason.

The weirdness continued. That afternoon, they got their first homework packet. Ash flipped through it and stopped at the math section.

Problem: 27 + 15 = ?

Show your work using the break-apart strategy:

Below was a diagram with boxes and circles and arrows, something called a "number line" that wanted him to jump by tens and ones, and instructions to "draw a picture" showing his thinking.

Ash knew 27 + 15 was 42. He'd known this instantly. But apparently he needed to:

1. Break 15 into 10 + 5
2. Add 27 + 10 = 37 (and show this on a number line)
3. Add 37 + 5 = 42 (and show this too)
4. Draw circles or blocks representing the numbers
5. Write a sentence explaining his strategy

For one addition problem.

At dinner, Dad asked about the first day. "How's second grade? Is Mr. Patterson nice?"

"He's fine. But the math is weird."

"Weird how?"

Ash pushed his homework across the table. "Look at this. They want me to do all this stuff just to add two numbers."

Dad studied the worksheet, his brow furrowing. "What is... what's a 'number bond'?"

"I don't know. It's this new way they're teaching math." Ash pointed to the elaborate diagram. "I just want to add 27 and 15. Why do I need to draw all this?"

Mom leaned over to look. "Oh, this is that Common Core math I've heard about. It's supposed to build deeper understanding."

"But I already understand. 27 plus 15 is 42. Done."

"But can you explain WHY it's 42?" Dad asked, playing devil's advocate.

"Because... it is? Because when you add 7 and 5 you get 12, so you put down the 2 and carry the 1, and then add 2 and 1 and 1 and you get 4, so it's 42?"

"Show me that method," Dad said.

Ash wrote:

  27
+ 15
----
  42

"That's the traditional algorithm," Dad said. "But I think they want you to show it this new way. With the boxes and the number line."

"But this way is faster!"

"Maybe faster, but they're trying to teach you to understand what addition actually means. The 'why' behind the math." Dad smiled sympathetically. "I know it seems silly when you already know the answer, but just humor them. Do the work they're asking for."

Ash spent twenty minutes on that one addition problem, drawing number lines and boxes and circles, writing out his "thinking," explaining his "strategy" in complete sentences.

By the end, he'd produced a full page of work for what should have been a five-second calculation.

The next day in class, they moved on to subtraction.

"Who can tell me what 14 - 6 equals?" Mr. Patterson asked.

Eight. Obviously eight.

Several hands went up. Emma called out, "Eight!"

"Great! Now, who can show me how to THINK about that problem using our number line strategy?"

A boy named Tyler went to the board and drew a number line. Started at 14, jumped back 6 spaces, landed on 8.

"Excellent! See how Tyler showed his thinking? Now let's try a harder one. 32 - 17."

Ash knew it was 15. But apparently knowing wasn't enough.

Mr. Patterson introduced something called "counting up" where instead of subtracting 17 from 32, you counted up from 17 to 32 and figured out the difference that way.

17 + 3 = 20 (to get to the friendly number)
20 + 10 = 30 (another friendly number)  
30 + 2 = 32 (to reach our target)
So 3 + 10 + 2 = 15
Therefore 32 - 17 = 15

"Isn't that clever?" Mr. Patterson beamed. "We turned subtraction into addition! Much easier to think about!"

Ash blinked at the board. That was the most convoluted solution he'd ever seen. Just subtract. Line them up, borrow if you need to, subtract. Done.

But no. They had to count up and find friendly numbers and make tens and draw number lines and explain their thinking.

The worksheet that day asked him to solve 43 - 28 using THREE different strategies:

1. Number line (jumping back)
2. Counting up
3. Draw a picture showing base-ten blocks

Ash sat there, staring at the problem. 43 - 28 = 15. He knew this. Why did he need to prove it three different ways?

Marcus leaned over. "Are you stuck?"

"No, I just don't understand why we have to do all this extra stuff."

"Mr. Patterson says it helps us understand numbers better." Marcus had already drawn an elaborate number line. "I kind of like it. It's like a puzzle."

"It's annoying," Ash muttered, but started working on the problems.

By the time he finished, his hand hurt from drawing so many number lines and base-ten blocks. The worksheet that should have taken five minutes had eaten up the entire math block.

That weekend, Ash complained to Eden when she visited.

"The math in second grade is stupid."

"Stupid how?" Eden was helping Mom set the table while Ash did homework at the kitchen counter.

"They make you show all this work for easy problems. Like, I know what 8 plus 7 is. But I have to draw pictures and number lines and write sentences explaining it."

Eden came over to look at his homework. "Oh wow. Yeah, this is... complicated. What's a number bond?"

"This thing." Ash pointed to a diagram that looked like a weird tree. "You put the whole number at the top and the parts at the bottom. So for 15, you might put 8 and 7, or 9 and 6, or 10 and 5."

"That actually seems kind of useful for seeing how numbers relate to each other," Eden said thoughtfully.

"But I already know how numbers relate to each other!"

"True." Eden smiled. "But the other kids don't. Not the way you do. This is probably really helpful for them."

Ash huffed but knew she was right. The other kids in his class seemed to need these strategies. They struggled with mental math that felt obvious to him. The number lines and pictures genuinely helped them visualize what was happening.

But for him, it just felt like busy work.

"The worst part," Ash said, going back to his worksheet, "is that I actually have to think about it now. Not about the math—I know the math. But about how to show the work they want. I have to remember which strategy is which and draw the pictures right and use the vocabulary they want."

"So school is finally challenging for you?" Eden teased.

"Not in a good way!"

"Maybe it's good though. Maybe it's time you actually had to try at something academic instead of coasting." Eden ruffled his hair. "Welcome to what school feels like for everyone else."

That stung because it was accurate. For years, school had been mind-numbingly easy. He'd sleepwalked through lessons, bored but unchallenged.

Now he actually had to pay attention to figure out what they wanted from him. Had to decode the new methods and strategies. Had to think about how to explain his thinking in ways that matched what they were teaching.

It was still easy math. But it was no longer easy school.

At baseball practice that afternoon, Coach Williams asked how school was going.

"Fine. The math is weird though."

"Weird how?"

"They make us show all this work. Draw pictures and number lines for every problem."

Coach Williams laughed. "Oh, you got hit with Common Core math. Yeah, my oldest went through that. Drove me crazy helping with homework. I kept wanting to just tell her the answer, but she had to do all these steps."

"It takes forever."

"It does. But my daughter's teacher said it actually helps kids who struggle with math. Gives them strategies instead of just memorization." Coach Williams tossed him a ball. "You're probably finding it annoying because you don't need the strategies. But be patient. And hey—at least you're getting challenged a little now, right?"

Everyone kept saying that—at least he was being challenged. As if struggling to decode unnecessarily complicated teaching methods was the same as actual intellectual challenge.

By the end of September, Ash had grudgingly adapted to the new math teaching. He could draw number lines in his sleep now. Could explain his thinking using the vocabulary Mr. Patterson wanted. Could break apart numbers and make tens and count up and use all the strategies.

It was annoying, but he'd gotten good at performing the work they wanted, even when it felt like teaching a calculator to show its work.

The homework that used to take five minutes now took twenty, but at least his worksheets came back with "Excellent work!" and gold stars.

At a parent-teacher conference in October, Mr. Patterson praised Ash's progress.

"He's really embraced the new math curriculum! His understanding of number relationships is exceptional."

Dad raised an eyebrow. "He was complaining that it was too complicated."

"At first, yes. But now he's excelling. Look at this." Mr. Patterson showed them a recent worksheet where Ash had used the break-apart strategy perfectly, with neat diagrams and clear explanations. "This is exactly the kind of mathematical thinking we want to develop."

In the car afterward, Dad laughed. "So you figured out the weird math?"

"I figured out how to do what they want," Ash clarified. "It's still the long way to solve problems."

"Maybe. But you're learning flexibility. Different ways to approach the same problem. That's actually valuable." Dad glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Even if it is annoying."

That night, doing homework at the kitchen table, Ash worked through a set of subtraction problems. Each one required showing work using at least two different strategies.

His hand moved automatically now, drawing number lines, breaking apart numbers, writing explanations. He'd mastered the performance of Common Core math, even if he still thought it was unnecessarily complicated.

Mom came to check his work. "This looks great, honey. You've gotten so good at showing your thinking."

"It's still faster to just subtract."

"Maybe. But when you get to harder math—algebra, calculus—knowing multiple strategies will help." Mom kissed the top of his head. "You're learning problem-solving skills, not just arithmetic."

After Mom left, Ash stared at his homework. Multiple strategies. Problem-solving skills. Mathematical thinking.

They weren't wrong. Learning to approach problems from different angles was useful. Understanding the why behind operations mattered.

But it was still annoying that 8 + 7 required a paragraph of explanation and three different diagrams.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to himself, though the words were more habit than conviction now. "I'm twenty-nine years old, and second grade math is actually kind of challenging."

Not because the math was hard. But because decoding what they wanted, performing the thinking strategies, showing work in their specific way—that required actual mental effort.

For the first time in years of school, he couldn't just coast.

And maybe that was good. Maybe it was making him a better student, a better thinker, someone who understood concepts instead of just knowing answers.

Or maybe it was just annoying busy work.

Probably both.

He finished his homework, packed his backpack (now covered in swim team patches and baseball pins), and got ready for bed.

Tomorrow was Wednesday. School, then baseball practice. This weekend was a swim meet.

The routine of a seven-year-old athlete who was finally, grudgingly, being challenged academically.

Even if that challenge came from having to explain why 8 + 7 = 15 using number bonds and make-ten strategies.

Five thousand and ninety-eight days to go.

But he'd mastered Common Core math.

That had to count for something.

Even if it was ridiculous.