Bridges are passageways, connectors that connote crossing, transitioning, and changing perspectives.
I am in the profession of building bridges.
In the ancient Aztec language of Nahuatl, nepantla is a word used to describe living between cultures or seeing from two or more perspectives at once. It is the space of improvisation, of finding one’s way in uncertainty. Jazz was born in nepantla—a response from a marginalized Black community forced to assimilate into a dominant white culture. It thrives in this liminal space, where musicians navigate the unknown, creating something unforeseen.
As a jazz drummer and a mathematics educator, I have been fascinated by how this concept translates to teaching and learning. Mathematics, too, is a space of improvisation. A student navigating a problem-based curriculum is like a musician stepping into a jam session—uncertain at first, but guided by rhythm, structure, and an openness to discovery. Just as jazz musicians return to motifs and themes in new ways, a spiraled math curriculum ensures that students revisit and deepen their understanding of ideas over time.
Perhaps the greatest of all pedagogical fallacies is the notion that a person learns only the particular thing [s]he is studying at the time. Learning is never linear. It is layered, cyclical, and interconnected. The beauty of jazz lies in its structure and spontaneity, its balance between discipline and freedom. The same holds true for mathematics. Too often, math is taught as a series of steps to memorize rather than a landscape to explore. A curriculum that embraces complexity allows students to pose their own questions, struggle meaningfully, and construct understanding that is uniquely theirs.
In jazz, the drummer keeps the time, responding to the soloist, adjusting to the dynamics of the group, and ensuring that the music moves forward. In the classroom, my role is much the same. I listen. I respond. I keep the rhythm steady while allowing students the space to find their own way. I encourage them to lean into the discomfort of not knowing, to sit in the nepantla of mathematics, and to persist in creating meaning where none seemed to exist before.
My mathematics classroom is inherently collaborative. It is built in conversation, in exchange, in the interplay of ideas. A flourishing classroom is not one where students quietly follow directions—it is one where they build, revise, and expand upon each other’s thinking - a figurative call and response. It is a shared space, where students maintain a sense of identity and agency, where they feel ownership over their learning, and where their voices shape the experience.
Teachers are identity workers. Our job is not only to teach content but to help students develop into thoughtful, curious, and resilient individuals. Communication, collaboration, problem-solving, and learning how to struggle through difficult moments—these are the lessons that transcend mathematics.
My perpetual focus is to develop and refine a curriculum and teaching practice that does more than teach math—it builds bridges. It invites students to step into the unknown, to embrace improvisation, and to birth new knowledge.
I am in the profession of building bridges.
In the ancient Aztec language of Nahuatl, nepantla is a word used to describe living between cultures or seeing from two or more perspectives at once. It is the space of improvisation, of finding one’s way in uncertainty. Jazz was born in nepantla—a response from a marginalized Black community forced to assimilate into a dominant white culture. It thrives in this liminal space, where musicians navigate the unknown, creating something unforeseen.
As a jazz drummer and a mathematics educator, I have been fascinated by how this concept translates to teaching and learning. Mathematics, too, is a space of improvisation. A student navigating a problem-based curriculum is like a musician stepping into a jam session—uncertain at first, but guided by rhythm, structure, and an openness to discovery. Just as jazz musicians return to motifs and themes in new ways, a spiraled math curriculum ensures that students revisit and deepen their understanding of ideas over time.
Perhaps the greatest of all pedagogical fallacies is the notion that a person learns only the particular thing [s]he is studying at the time. Learning is never linear. It is layered, cyclical, and interconnected. The beauty of jazz lies in its structure and spontaneity, its balance between discipline and freedom. The same holds true for mathematics. Too often, math is taught as a series of steps to memorize rather than a landscape to explore. A curriculum that embraces complexity allows students to pose their own questions, struggle meaningfully, and construct understanding that is uniquely theirs.
In jazz, the drummer keeps the time, responding to the soloist, adjusting to the dynamics of the group, and ensuring that the music moves forward. In the classroom, my role is much the same. I listen. I respond. I keep the rhythm steady while allowing students the space to find their own way. I encourage them to lean into the discomfort of not knowing, to sit in the nepantla of mathematics, and to persist in creating meaning where none seemed to exist before.
My mathematics classroom is inherently collaborative. It is built in conversation, in exchange, in the interplay of ideas. A flourishing classroom is not one where students quietly follow directions—it is one where they build, revise, and expand upon each other’s thinking - a figurative call and response. It is a shared space, where students maintain a sense of identity and agency, where they feel ownership over their learning, and where their voices shape the experience.
Teachers are identity workers. Our job is not only to teach content but to help students develop into thoughtful, curious, and resilient individuals. Communication, collaboration, problem-solving, and learning how to struggle through difficult moments—these are the lessons that transcend mathematics.
My perpetual focus is to develop and refine a curriculum and teaching practice that does more than teach math—it builds bridges. It invites students to step into the unknown, to embrace improvisation, and to birth new knowledge.
Zane S. Ranney
