matching tracksuits

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.

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.

One of my classes is working on clauses -- recognizing them, using them, transforming them. Today we had a lower-than-usual attendance because of a Junior Beta Club field trip, so it was a somewhat relaxed day. We finished with a game of Kahoot, an online learning site that gamifies quiz-type reviews. We played a variant called Submarine Squad. According to the site,

You and your crew are stuck in the deep blue! A hungry fish is quickly approaching. Answer questions correctly to boost your submarine and follow instructions to escape.

Kahoot usually encourages a bit of competition; this particular variant encourages teamwork and cooperation. They have to work together to escape, and as the beast approaches, opens its jaws, and slowly begins to crunch down on the ship, the encouragement to each other increases.

When they do manage to escape (they didn't make it the first round), they all jump out of their chairs and cheer, giving each other high fives and doing silly little happy dances.

It's one of the reasons I love teaching eighth grade: they're still kids at heart.

The results of this test will pass into mysterious silence: the students would get more feedback about their writing from a random stranger on the street than they will from this test. Other than the practice they gain from writing yet another analytic piece about a text (which was likely painfully boring and irrelevant to them), this test is an utter waste of time.

Yet I admire these kids for the effort they are putting into a largely Sisyphean task, for even those who’d had their heads down at one point complete the test and appear to do their best. This shows a perseverance and maturity that I, in my increasingly cynical fifties, seem to lack. Were I taking this test, my temptation would be to submit a rebellious, snarky response: “We are completely sick of all this testing, and I for one refuse to participate in this charade.”

What would be the reaction of the evaluator? Would she nod in agreement, lowering her head a bit in shame at her admittedly-minimal role in the process? Would he grow indignant, frustrated that the student didn’t see the value of a test he regards so highly, angry at the student’s teacher who so obviously neglected to impress upon the student the critical nature of the test? In short, just how much faith do the creators and evaluators of these tests have in the tests themselves? It’s hard to imagine how they could see any value in today’s test that will be unevaluated and provide students with absolutely no feedback, so we’re all left wondering just why we did it. We all, teachers and students alike, develop the sense that test in general is just a tool to provide numbers to some group of bureaucrats so they can create for educators arbitrary comparisons and goals to provide these bureaucrats with a false sense of effort and accomplishment. We’ve recognized the problem, determined its scope, and created (or rather, ordered the creation of) a set of tests sure to solve the problem. And if they do not solve the problem, we can always create still more tests and metrics that ignore the actual issues but can serve as a balm for our consciences.

This all assumes that something will be done with the test. For all we know, the responses could simply be saved on some computer somewhere, completely forgotten soon enough and totally meaningless as a result.

This year, we are trying a new approach to scheduling. Different times of the day affect kids in different ways. Medications that in one class were effectively helping kids control their impulses have declined in effectiveness. The energy levels of some kids increase through the day and of other kids decrease. Some periods during the day are closer to times when kids have eaten, and this can make them sleepy as the blood starts to shift to their digestive systems or tired as they run out of fuel to help them move and think. Some teachers have more patience at the beginning of the day; some teachers have more energy at the end of the day. And all these facts interact with each other, affecting students’ learning and teachers’ effectiveness. All this means that some kids will learn better earlier in the day and some kids will learn better later in the day. REcongizing this, our principal enacted a shifting schedule this year: at the start of each new quarter, the order of the core classes (math, English, science, and social studies) flips — the last class becomes the first class, and the first the last.

The difference for my inclusion class, which is a mix of regular education students and special education students, is remarkable. When they were my final class, they were my most challenging class. They were tired; I was tired. Their meds had worn off; I was hoping for any kind of medication myself. Now that I see them first, they are a different class. A joy to work with.