Matching Tracksuits

We started the day (as in right after roll) with a final fire drill. All the eighth-grade students went to the area by the basketball courts and lined up as always. Almost. The difference was immediately visible: only about a third of the students were there today.

After spending a little time outside, I had kids help me pack up all my books, which I have to do every single year, which is really a pain.

And we also said goodbye to a kid who changed everyone’s life on the eight-grade hall for the better.

The whole grade has taken him under their wing, to use the cliche. Everyone loves H. Everyone gives him high-fives. Everyone cheers for him.

And today, everyone was eager to get him in the circle to dance.

Most of the eighth-grade students went on a field trip today to Dollywood in Tennessee. I was one of the teachers who stayed back to watch the kids who didn’t go. On our team, which usually has 110 students, only 14 were there today. We had a social-emotional learning session (we watched Inside Out), had a nice lunch, and spent some time outside.

One of our students, who just moved to the States this year, came to me with an American football and gestured (he doesn’t know much English yet) that he wants to learn how to throw it.

We worked on it a while — I hadn’t realized how many things go into throwing a football, little motions and rotations that I never even thought of. He struggled a bit, but it was all laughs and high-fives.

It was a good day.

At the start of the year, I have my English I students write 500-word letters of introductions to me. I want to know what makes them tick, and I want to know what concerns they have about English — their strengths, their weaknesses, their goals.

“Five hundred words!?” They are incredulous. “And it’s due tomorrow.”

I read the letters then make notes from them that I share with the other teachers on our team so we can all get to know the kids quickly at the beginning of the year.

At the end of the year, I give them back. Their reactions are always the same. Most of them have forgotten all about the letters; all of them have forgotten what they wrote about. They read their letters, laugh at what they wrote about, laugh at how they wrote, and they read each others’ letters, and the laughter just swells.

“Mr. Scott, we’ve changed so much!” becomes the common refrain.

Tomorrow, this year’s students write their letters to next year’s students — a major grade and an overwhelming assignment when I tell them about it at the beginning of the year. Now, after a year of me hounding them, none of them are terribly worried about the assignment.

But just to give them perspective, just in case they were still casting about for ideas about what they’ll write tomorrow, I gave them their letters back today.

We’re done testing for the year, at least eighth-grade teachers and students are finished with the unmitigated hell that is state testing.

Perhaps what is most annoying to me is how we treat these kids, who have been taking these tests three or four times a year for the last several years, like they’ve never had a test like this in their life. The Test Administrator Manual (TAM — that damn TAM) includes what we’re to say, with the explicit instructions to say things. Rather SAY things:

Every single test, we say the same things. We start with that quote above and then state the most obvious lie:

It is important that you do your best in answering the test questions.

TAM

It is, in point of fact, completely irrelevant whether students do their best or not. It might affect their placement, but by this point in their schooling, they’re in the track they’re in: moving from on-level to honors happens rarely at this stage of the game.

SAY: This is a secure test. During this test, you may not have any electronic or other device with you that can be used for communication, timing, imaging, or accessing the Internet. These devices include, but are not limited to, tablets not approved for this test, smart phones, cell phones, mp-3 players, e-readers, smart watches, or any other electronic imaging or photographic devices.

You may not use any device, including the device you are using for testing, to copy, save, send electronically, or post to the Internet, any test content.

TAM

I read these instructions as fast as I can because everyone’s heard them. Multiple times. I can rattle off “smart phones, cell phones, mp-3 players, e-readers, smart watches, or any other electronic imaging or photographic devices” as fast as I can say anything. It even has a certain rhythm to it.

This is a secure test, we tell them, and we pass out test tickets that allow them to log on. And as if to show how completely irrelevant these tests are (Can any of the people who create the tests remember their scores? I doubt it.), they have this lovely jumbled juxtaposition in the instructions:

So an outline of the test instructions would be this:

1. Do your best on the test.
2. This is a secure test.
3. Click on the link to log in.
4. Do your best on the test.
5. Here’s the ticket for your test.

It’s ridiculously badly written.

From there, we read directions aloud, even telling them when to click “Next.”

It’s difficult to restrain the urge to include snarky comments while reading the instructions, but that would be a testing violation, I’m sure, and there’s no need to risk that for a few giggles from students.

What’s the point of all this for students? There is none.

What’s the point of all this for teachers? There is none.

It’s all about the politicians.