Epistemological Ramblings about Nouns
One day I asked a group of students to differentiate between abstract and concrete nouns. We were building up to a discussion of symbolism in literature and my students were having trouble seeing beyond the literal elements of storytelling. Sure, Mary killed Patrick with a frozen leg of lamb. But what did that leg of lamb represent given the context of Mary’s life as a soon-to-be-single 1950s American woman?
- Lamb= Abstract or Concrete?
- Love = Abstract or Concrete?
I can reach out and pet a lamb. I can experience it with one or more of the five senses, so it must be concrete. It exists. But love also exists. I just can’t experience it with one of the five senses. So it must be abstract. It’s just an idea. Expressions of love can be concrete. I can smell a rose. But the thing itself is literally out of reach.
The nouns I provided were easily classified. The trouble began when we went looking for nouns in other places: books, websites, other kids’ writings. The kids wanted a sort of litmus test. One kid found the word “day.” Abstract or concrete? I can literally experience a day with multiple senses. Sunshine or rain affect the temperature of my skin. Each day comes with a unique set of smells or sights or sounds. But what about the figurative “day”? As in, I think I’ll retire from teaching one day. What about that “day”? It does not yet exist.
So here’s what I told the kids:
If the noun exists outside of your heart or head, then the noun is concrete. If the noun only exists in your heart or head, then it is abstract.
After that, we were able to classify almost every noun we could find. But there were two types that left us stumped. What about nouns that refer to specific measurements of time and space? Do time and space exist outside of our hearts and heads, or only within them? And that’s where I’m stuck. All I could prove to the kids was that I didn’t know. I pointed to a desk three feet from me. “Feet” is a noun. Everyone agreed that three feet was the same for me as it was for them. So “feet” must be concrete. But then I told them we must consider the math involved in determining space. I asked them this: “How many times can I divide the distance between me and this desk by two?” We eventually came to agree that, in theory, in our minds, we could divide 36 inches by two until the cows came home or Jesus came back or the sun exploded because you can always divide any number by two.
A kid asked the obvious question. “Well, Mr. Walz, can you touch the desk?” And I could. I did. I divided the space between me and the desk until my hand made contact. I think the only thing I really taught the kids that day was that we know what we know, even when the theory behind that knowledge contradicts our experiences.
This got me thinking about some of the educational theory I’ve been kicking around in my brain and in my classroom. I love theory, but I’m beginning to see experience as more important. There are a great deal of theories out there proclaiming to have the answer: here’s how to divide the space between the teacher and the student’s brain by two until we make contact. But experience teaches teachers that there is always a way to get closer to the goal. We can always divide the distance by two. Not the distance to the desk. The distance to the student.