-- F. says her mother, who grew up in Mexico, wants her to obey whatever the school says.
-- S. says he wants to know how well he can do.
-- J. kicks the desk and says his dad wouldn't let him out of it: "He says I can always learn something."
-- C. shrugs.
-- L. points out that their peers who have refused to take the test are required to sit silently in the next room. "I might as well take the test."
*
2. I read the directions from a thick book, and the students open Chromebooks, type in codes, click "sign in". I'm not allowed to say anything but what is printed in the "SAY" boxes.
*
3. Begin.
*
4. The test administrator book contains a special section for "extreme weather situations". If there's a tornado, I am supposed to ensure the kids' safety and then return to secure the tests on each of the Chromebooks.
*
5. The daffodils blooming in the tall slim glass vase on my table this morning made me happy. M. left me and TK a note: "This is how I feel now that I've met you both." That makes me happy, too. I walk around and around the testing room, thinking about M.
*
6. J. must be clicking random answers. Only nine minutes into the 90-minute testing period, he raises his hand and tells me he's finished. He eyes the football in his cubby, and leans back in his chair as far as he can. "Did you do your best?" "Sure."
*
7. In Georgia, twelve teachers are currently on trial for participating in systematic cheating on state tests in 2009. They are being charged with racketeering, and if convicted, could serve twenty years in prison. They erased student answers and filled in the correct ones. Maybe they did it because administrators threatened their job security, or maybe they did it because demonstrated school progress would translate into raises for teachers. Or maybe they did it because they were just scared.
*
8. Twenty years in prison. In how many ways would that change a life?
*
9. Outside the window, there is no tornado. Inside, the students tapping on keyboards, J. tilting back in his chair again, me walking and walking in circles.
*
10. If education meant reading all of the thousand books in this classroom, we would live in a radically different world.
*
11. On Sunday, M., TK and I shared breakfast on the front porch: waffle sandwiches with bacon and scrambled eggs, a side of chopped cucumber and tomatoes. The sun warmed us and Fable stretched out at our feet, his nose quivering in his sleep. When I looked at M., I thought: I almost forgot the world was this lovely.
*
12. C. is working harder on this test, which counts for nothing and means nothing, than he ever does in class. His brow is furrowed. Some days, it's difficult to get him to write more than a sentence or two on an assignment, but he is typing furiously. I don't know what, since I signed my name to a contract promising I would not look at the test screen or discuss any part of the test with students.
*
13. The 1st and 2nd graders have just been released to recess. They run pell-mell from the door toward the playground. I see TK isn't wearing her jacket, as usual, and she is grinning, racing her friends to the tire swing, where they will spin and spin. J. catches me watching them, shakes his head sadly. I hear his thoughts: not fair.
*
14. It is sacrilege to keep quotes from e.e. cummings ("be nobody but yourself") and Emerson ("I am a transparent eyeball") and Mary Oliver ("What will you do with your one wild and precious life?") on the walls when students are taking a computerized standardized test in a silent room.
*
15. The British-based publishing giant Pearson has made millions of dollars from its contracts with states like Colorado. S. asks me in the hallway: "Is that taxpayer money?" He's fourteen, asking the important questions. I nod. "And they're British?" I nod again.
*
16. Next week at this time, I'll be in a car with M. and TK, driving across the red canyonlands of Utah. For five laps around the room, I pretend I'm walking through a canyon at Arches, and that I'm entirely alone. A red-tailed hawk calls, but otherwise the world is silent. Abbey's world. He'd tell me to hightail it out of this square room, these standards, these kids who would prefer to look at mindless games on their phones than engage, engage, engage. Abbey, of the Monkeywrench Gang. Where's the weak spot in this testing infrastructure? What can I sabotage, and how?
*
17. Two kids are still working. The others sleep, or flip the pages of books. Why are these two kids pouring so much time and effort into this test? It won't count. It can't. They wouldn't judge our eighth graders' performance based on just one-fourth of our population. Would they?
*
18. We don't need no education. We don't need no mind control. Teachers! Leave those kids alone! R. and J. try to communicate with invented sign language across the room, and I shoot them a look. Why? R. would rather spend all his time playing video games. J. just wants a ball in his hand. In my social studies class, they want to play war games, and they stop paying attention when we debate freedoms and basic rights.
*
19. I'm burned out. Burned up. Burning. Not fired yet, but not firing from all cylinders. Fired up. I'm a good teacher, but it's the scores that matter. The data. Bill Gates announces tests must be standardized so we have a measurement for all Americans. Pearson sets the cut line. Cut. Cut up. Cut down. Cutting edge. Cut me and I'll bleed.
*
20. All the kids have finished. Now we are supposed to sit in silence until the administration tells us all the testing rooms are done. Silence is the only gift these tests give us. No phones, no music, no conversation. I sit down on a blue plastic chair, gaze at the far wall and let myself be silent. I don't know where else to begin.
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