Matching Tracksuits

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.

Today was the first day of state standardized testing, and it was, as I expected, a mess. The company that our state pays to do the testing is DRC Insight. I’m not sure why: we’ve never had a smooth testing experience with them. We’ve staggered starts by grade; we’ve staggered by grade and then hall; we’ve staggered by grade, and then hall, and then room — nothing has ever produced a simple experience where all students get logged on immediately and start the test without issue.

How many millions of dollars are we spending for this substandard, time-wasting torture?

For my part, it’s hellish because I’m not allowed to do anything other than watch the students test. We don’t want them cheating, you see. But the truth is, students know this test really has no impact on their lives, and while they usually do their best, they’re not overly worried about it.

And this led me once again to cynicism: as I walked around the room, I crafted a sentence. I took a moment and jotted it down, then continued walking around the room, looking at the tops of students’ heads. I thought of edits and changed the sentence. I repeated the process until I’d eliminated all unnecessary words to express the simple truth of standardized testing:

Standardized testing quantifies students and teachers to provide politicians scapegoats for their failed education policies.

For about four years now, each of my classes during the book fair has picked out a poster that seems uniquely out of character for me, which they then all sign, and I hang it on the wall.

Previous years’ posters include two BTS posters, a Riverdale poster, and several kitty posters.

Today was our day in the book fair, so all classes picked a poster. They’ll be signing it tomorrow, and they should be on the wall by the end of the week.

This year, more kids seemed more interested in picking the poster. Usually, it’s just a handful of students in each class; this year, the whole class at times was inspecting the poster and making suggestions about which one to buy.

It made me feel exceptionally good.