Just Teach: Chapter 7, Testing, Testing

I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep.

I can go to sleep. By the time I open the front door to our house, kids tumbling in ahead of me, I am exhausted. I drag myself though the evening routine: dinner, conversation, TV, bath, books, bed. I always think I am going to spend some time grading or planning or reading those EdWeek articles I have saved for later, but instead I fall asleep. Usually it’s on the couch, while Mark watches his show or works on his laptop next to me, as if mere proximity can make a marriage, but sometimes I manage to pull myself up the stairs to my bed. I want to do nothing but sleep.

But then I wake up, at one or two or three, and I am in the middle of a thought. I have been lesson planning. I will have to pull The House Next-door for the purple reading group, or maybe they are reading for Up the Stairs to Nowhere, and then I’ll cut out the sight word cards that are on my desk… I am two weeks behind in the math curriculum. I should be on lesson 7, so tomorrow I will… Or I am strategizing. I need to fill out the paperwork for Tyson’s glasses. I need to prepare for Marc’s IEP. I need to figure out what’s making that smell under the sink.

I need to figure out what to do about Angela.

I throw a t-shirt over Mark’s head so the light won’t wake him up. I put on my glasses and write in my notebook.

Angela

Yesterday I asked her to pick up the papers beneath her desk.

“Angela, clean up your mess.” That’s all I said. She had been so calm, eyes bright. I think she was even smiling. The day before she had happily tidied the whole sink area without me even asking.

Then, with a gust, she picked up her desk, dumped the entire contents on the floor, and swung the legs in a large arc, nearly hitting Charles and Perfection. She’s strong, this one. Mighty. Then she tossed the table on the floor with the detritus and walked out the door.

When I saw the fear in Perfection’s eyes, I wondered if mine had the same look. I just said, “Sorry about that. Who wants to help Angela with this mess?” The Ericas took care of it, as they do most things.

I called the office. “Can you get someone to find Angela?” I could only assume that they did because I didn’t see her until dismissal when she came to pick up her things, looking content.

Email Ms. Lazarus about Angela

Because I do not know what to do about the girl who is so curious and intelligent. Her mind receives every piece of new information like a catcher’s mitt, tossing each detail into a basket for recollection when she needs to hold it against you. The girl who is always listening, even when she is screaming. I picture myself holding her on my lap, in my arms, rocking her while we both cry, until her body relaxes. I have absorbed her tension and extinguished it neatly, so that all that is left is the little girl with the big mind and heart.

That would be my superpower.

Or, maybe, the ability to sleep.

Erica R. comes in carrying a plastic garbage bag. When I greet her at the door, she tells me, “I have something to share.” I have learned through experience that it is essential to pre-screen all share topics. Two years ago Cody Brown brought in his brother’s bb gun, which earned him a suspension and got me my first official write-up. Last year Cayla Carson shared that she got her period, which led to a whole lot of questions and reactions to which I just kept saying, “We’ll talk about it during the health unit.” So this year I insist that everyone tell me their share topic first.

“What do you got in there?” I ask. She waits until her classmates have filed past her to enter the room and we are alone. Then she opens the trash bag to reveal a human arm. I stifle a scream.

“It’s my new arm,” she says proudly. “I told you.”

She lets me look for just a second more. It is a plastic arm, extending from just above the elbow to a set of elongated adult-sized fingers. I reach in to touch it. The surface is slightly supple. Maybe it’s made of silicon or rubber. The color is somewhere between pink and yellow, not the creamy coffee of Erica’s skin. It’s creepy. Tyson skips up to the door and Erica closes the bag quickly.

“What’s that?” he asks. “A cat?” That kid is so smart.

“It’s a surprise,” she tells him, and they both go inside to get ready.

The morning announcements and pledge take longer than usual because the third and fourth grades are taking their standardized assessments today. Mr. Wright has to read off the schedule and remind us of the rules. “It is very important that you try your very best on this test!” he pleads over the speaker. “We want to know what you know so we can see how you grow!” That, and so we can get USE off the list of failing schools.

We really should start getting into our testing groups, but I know Erica is excited about her share, so I say, “Okay, guys. In a minute we’ll transition to testing, but Erica has something special to share today.” All eyes turn to Erica who is sitting in the Share Chair, regally awaiting their attention.

Without a word, she removes the arm from the bag.

Tami screams. Angela yells, “What is that?!” Tyson bursts out laughing. Erica, unmoved by their reactions, says proudly, “This is my new arm.”

Erica’s old arm is an object of the fascination of her peers. Just below her left elbow she has five pink nubs. I often catch her tickling the sensitive underside of a friend’s forearm, or letting someone hold her bicep and circle her digits around the palm of their hand, generously patient and tender. She is able to write and type and draw and play softball and jump rope. She does not need a new arm, but here it is.

“Why you need a new one?” Adam asks astutely.

“The doctor gave it to me,” she pauses. They wait for the real reason. Then she adds, “It’s so I can go to the store and nobody will stare.”

Then they beg her to put it on.

I help Erica slide her real arm into the fake one and attach it with the velcro strap. It seems awkward. It feels heavy. It is, honestly, hideous. But I say, “Hey, pretty cool. Do you like it?” Erica shrugs. She would like to like it. She has been waiting for this thing for so long. “Well, you can try it today, if you want,” I suggest. “But I think you don’t really need a new arm in school. The one you got seems to work pretty well.”

Her classmates, however, are very impressed with this new piece of technology, so she keeps it on and we rush to prepare for testing.

Daniel, Marcia, Timothy and Hope, who work more slowly, and need extended time, will test with Ms. Steele in the library.

Ana, Veronica, Claudia, Erica A., Harry and Julian, who are still learning English, and may need select words or phrases translated or explained (but only on the math test), will work with Mrs. Dudley in the ESOL office.

Marc and Tami, who have a diagnosed language based learning disability, and have accommodations as stipulated by their IEP, will work with Mrs. Blake, the special educator. She gives candy incentives for per*se*ver*ence. They will go to the Resource Room.

Tyson will need most of the test read aloud to him, so he’ll be with Mrs. Truman in the alcove.

The test is designed to take 90 minutes, but for many it will take most of the day.

They will not learn anything today.

I will not teach anything today.

The test is paramount.

I send half the class to their small groups so they can give their best shot at demonstrating proficiency in math. Can you add multiple digit numbers with regrouping? Can you tell what a question is asking? Can you explain your methods? Can you determine the main idea and supporting details in a passage and provide evidence for your analysis?

At age eight.

Can you?

The others stay with me. I pass out pencils and scrap paper and read from the script:

SAY

You cannot have any personal communications

device,

including a cell phone,

with you during

this test

or during

any breaks,

such as a restroom visit.

Such

devices

include,

but are not limited to:

■■ Cell phones

■■ iPods

and MP3 players

■■ iPads,

tablets,

and other eReaders

■■ Laptops, notebooks, or any other personal computing

devices

■■ Cameras, other photographic

equipment, and personal scanning

devices

■■ Wearable

devices/

smart wearables, including

smart watches and health wearables with a

display

■■ Headphones,

headsets, or in-ear headphones

such as earbuds, and

■■ Any other

device

capable of recording

audio,

photographic,

or video content,

or capable of viewing

or playing back such content,

or sending/receiving text,

audio,

or video messages

If you brought any of these items to the building today,

and have not already stored

it in your locker

or turned it over

to me,

a test monitor,

or school official,

you must

give

it

to

me

now.

SAY

You may not keep your cell phone or any of these items with you,

or near you,

including in your pockets,

backpack,

desk,

etc.

If you keep a cell phone

or any of these items with you,

your examination will be

invalidated

and you will get

no score.

Is there anyone who needs to give me any of these items now?

This is your last opportunity

to do so

before

the test

begins.

SAY

Here are some suggestions to help you do your best:

■■ Be sure to read all the directions

carefully.

■■ Most questions will make sense only when you read

the whole passage.

You may read

the passage

more than once

to answer a question.

When a question includes a quotation

from a passage,

be sure to keep in mind what you learned from reading

the whole passage.

You may need to review

both the quotation

and the passage

in order to answer the question

correctly.

■■ Read each question

carefully

and think about the answer

before

making

your choice.

SAY

Are there any questions?

*From the “New York State Testing Program: 2020 Grades 3–5 English Language Arts Paper-Based Tests Teacher’s Directions”

There are no questions. No one was listening. I am worse than the teacher in Charlie Brown. I am a bucket of sloshing mud.

Today is the reading test. I set the timer, write the time on the board, and they begin. Within ten seconds, Cynthia’s hand shoots up. I walk over to her desk and kneel down.

“What does Pass Age mean?” she asks. She is just reading the directions at the top of the page, the italicized words that most children skip over. But Cynthia does not skip anything.

“I can’t tell you,” I say.

“But it says, read the Pass Age. What is that?”

“I just read it like ten times in the directions.”

She just stares at me. So I say, “Just do your best.”

“But how can I -”

I drop my voice to a whisper, “It means read the story, okay? Passage. The passage is the story, or article, or whatever you are reading.” I have deviated from the script. I do not think it’s an unfair advantage. The kid just wants to know what the word means. But to make sure everyone is on equal ground, I stand up and address the whole class, “Sorry to interrupt, but I need your attention!” Everyone but Charles stops working. “The word passage means the text, like the story or the article or whatever. The paragraphs! Passage is another word for writing! Okay?” They look at me like they have no idea why a pile of mud would be speaking. “Alright, just keep doing your best!” They go back to work.

I should have taught them the word “passage.” Before the mid year assessments, I should also teach them “interpret,” “analyze,” “selection,” and “excerpt.” As well as, “context,” “determine” and “illustrate.” I will definitely add them to the Word Wall.

As I circulate, I peek at their computer screens and scratch paper to see how they are doing. Charles and Alice are cruising along. Julian got at least that one right, and is using his scratch paper, as are Cynthia and Hope. So far so good.

Then, less than six minutes into the 90 minute block, Angela says, “I’m done!” and raises her hand. No. No no no. She can’t be done, she just started. I rush over to her screen and sure enough her score is reported: BR. Angela is not a Beginning Reader. She knows her letters. And how to sound out any word put in front of her, and she can even tell you the main idea of a passage (yes, passage!) when she actually reads it, which, admittedly, is almost never.

“Angela, what did you do?” I ask her.

“What? I answered all the questions.”

“You’re supposed to read everything first.”

“I did,” she insists.

“Impossible. You finished that test in less than ten minutes.”

She just shrugs. “I can’t take tests,” she tells me. “I’m stupid.”

I happen to have seen this child’s full psychological evaluation and she is anything but stupid. But I’m too angry to tell her so.

I stand up and remind the class, “Do NOT click on End Test Session before you check all of your answers! And ask me if you are done first!” It makes no difference what I say. I am mud. I tell Angela to just sit and wait. “No, you may not draw.” She pouts and starts tearing little bits out of her scrap paper. Angela, of all people, should be testing in a small group. But somehow no one checked off that box for her, and she has no accommodations.

I pace the room like a mother wolf. When Faith gets close to question 36, I am ready to pounce and remind her to, “Go back! Read them again! Check your answers!” She does. I see her click through the questions perfunctorily, without reading, before nodding and saying, “Done.” Okay, whatever. I exit her from the test.

After 20 minutes the hands start to pop up like corn. They have tried their best. They are already exhausted. I let them pretend to check their work and then stare out the window or pick at the gummy residue of old tape on their desks. Angela turns her attention to something deep inside her desk which makes a banging noise. I ignore her and hope the other students can do so, too. I am not allowed to send students to the office during testing.

With fifteen minutes left, only five students are working. I notice that Erica R. is still on question 12. She has more than half of the test to go. “Erica,” I whisper. “You have to pick up the pace, dear. Only fifteen minutes left.” She nods, but her attention is not on me or the computer. Then I see that she is not working because she is supporting her plastic appendage with her right hand. Her left arm has turned a funny shade of purple. I must have tied the strap too tight.

“Oh boy. Hey, can I just take this thing off?” I ask her. She nods, her eyes filled with panic and relief. I remove the prosthetic. There is a dark red mark from where the plastic has rubbed against her skin. Jesus Christ, I should have watched a Youtube video or something at least before putting this thing on. Poor kid. “Darlin’, I think you should go to the nurse to have her check this out, okay?” No one said I couldn’t send kids to the nurse. Erica would like to cry, but she is too brave. Instead, she nods again. I ask Angela to go with her, which will take care of the noise.

Erica R. stands to leave, then she asks, “But what about my test?” The test is paramount. This, at least, she has learned.

“Don’t worry about that,” I assure her. “You can finish later.” I have no idea if that is true. The testing window ends tomorrow. I click on Exit Testing Session and let her go.

When everyone has finished, I let them talk and draw and do whatever they want until it is time for art. They have done enough work for today. And I have done enough damage.

When I pick them up from art, Erica R. has rejoined the class. She has a bandage around her elbow where the prosthetic was rubbing, and the impotent arm is back in the bag.

“I guess you don’t need a new arm,” I suggest.

“I’ll just use it at Walmart,” she says.

“Good idea,” I tell her. Although I hope she doesn’t.

Before I leave for the day I send a report to the testing office. I do not include the detail that I had to explain the word Pass Age.

What difference could a single word possibly make?