I am a proud middle school teacher. I teach hard and high standardized test scores follow. Recently, our state ended the test for my subject and grade level in a feeble attempt to relieve the strain. When I was part of the standardized fray, I provided sunshine to a few whose testing days had always been filled with gloom. Though I’ve never paused long enough to look, and probably couldn’t tabulate if I did, (Hey, I teach history, not math), my special education students passed our state test at an unusually high rate. For this, I’ve received my fair share of praise. Upon hearing such compliments, my answer attempts to shift the accomplishment to the kids, “Thanks, but they took the test, not me.”
I know, we’re talking standardized tests. I wish they would completely go away too, but these were children who get kicked into the dirt by state assessments year after year. They arrive in my history classroom, with the understanding that they’re “not good at school.” And why should they think otherwise? That belief has been officially confirmed by the commonwealth of Virginia no less than 7 times by the time they hit middle school. The pressure I felt came not from administration; I focused on changing their testing fortunes, their self-esteem. Apparently quite often, I did. You should have seen their doubtful faces light up when I delivered the news, “You passed!” A colleague once noted that my special education students outperformed the rest of our district by a double digit percent. Often, history stood as that lone glimmer of hope, “Maybe I can be good at this school.”
Perhaps it has something to do with my energy, storytelling, humor and mnemonic tricks. Personally, I think my ability to relate to their young world resonates with kids who have traditionally been sentenced to long days of worksheet work. I mean, I was “dabbin’” before these kids even knew what a “dab” was (maybe I shouldn’t brag about that). The so-called teaching “gift” of relating to my students has led my wife to often comment, “I raise four boys.” I always thought we had three. But hey, as I said, I don’t teach math.
Nevertheless, the praises and accolades continued to pile. Upon hearing them, I was certain to remain my students’ humble servant. At the same time, it was hard to keep that (over)confident swagger from creeping in. It feels good to have what some have called a “magic touch” with a population that has a reputation for being untouchable. The state tests in language arts and math still loom large on my grade level, I now use my history class to be a catalyst of that "I think I can, I think I can" spirit. A constant shower of warm well-wishing from parents often lifts me to take a stroll among the clouds.
But it doesn’t take much to bring me slamming down from my lofty perch of “master teacher”. In the business of educating kids, confidence is a fleeting thing. Within a moment, I’ve gone from “Mr. Handsome” to “Eww! Your breath smells like coffee, did you brush?” In this line of work, thick skin is a necessity.
During a recent geography lesson, I got a wake-up call for the ages. The hopeful glimmer provided by annual testing success blew a fuse.
I was going through my time tested tricks, helping my students remember the eight geographical regions of the US. When we got to the location of the Coastal Plain, no trick is needed. One only needs to know where one lives, no sweat. I asked the class, “How many of you have done that 3-hour drive from the DMV (District Maryland Virginia) to the coast…you know, how many have hit the beach?” Every hand went up. This’ll be easy. “Great. Which beach?” I asked, wearing a confident smile. From every corner of the classroom, students answered, “Virginia Beach,” “Ocean City,” “Rehoboth.” Piece of cake. I went on. “Remember how you ran across the hot sand toward those chilly crashing waves?” Smiles all around. “Now describe that beach.” A variety of answers came forth until we arrived at the word I was looking for… flat. “When you ran across that beach, you were on the Coast,” I said, “and it was flat so that’s a Plain” I reminded. “Get it? Coastal Plain! The region closest to where we live is the Coastal Plain!” Believing my job complete, we moved on through other regions not so near, Basin and Range, Rockies... Things were coming together.
Fast forward to the day before our Unit Test, the final review. After a series of rapid-fire questions, our review session began to sputter. What was the snag? The easy one, the whereabouts of the Coastal Plain, that flat sand beach not so far away. “Can someone please show us the location of the Coastal Plain?” Not one moved. “Come on now, you all are not shy. You know this remember? It's the region closest to where we live.” I finally decided to have a volunteer come up to the SmartBoard and mark where we live, just a few miles from our nation’s capital. One of my more lively students coolly sauntered past me, grabbed the SmartBoard marker and proceeded to make a red mark right next to the capital…of Idaho. Careful, not to embarrass this brave soul whose saunter seemed to sag, I calmly asked another to try. Washington (state)? I beckoned yet another courageous student. Maine? California? Montana? After watching Mexico come into play, I decided to stop this review gone awry. After a hard swallow, it was time for my go-to girl in the front row to once again save the day. Confidently, she touched the electronic marker down in the middle of the Tar Heel State.
📷
Houston, we have a problem.
How could this be? What’s happening in elementary? In their homes? In our schools? In my classroom? What responsibility do these 12-year-olds have in this? Somehow, these very capable students, many of whom speak two languages, have missed a lesson on where the heck on earth we are. I shudder to think what I would have witnessed had I presented them with a map of the world. All my efforts placed into passing a test suddenly felt like I was selling them fool’s gold, a short term gain only to lose in the long run. Some real soul searching would be needed after seeing this. But first, I had a teachable moment to fulfill. Thank you, Google Earth.
How did these students, half of whom do not wear an academic label of any kind, get so far in life without mastering this basic map skill? Suddenly, those annual testing accolades meant nothing. I’d always despised those tests and conveyed some compelling arguments for their abolition, but something about success sucked me in. What a clear example of “missing the forest for the trees”. Public education in large portions of our country has become so test-driven that children are missing the basics. Capitalization, complete sentences, cursive writing, spelling, showing work in math, using the correct side of a sheet of paper, multiplication facts, meeting a deadline, handwriting, accountability, homework, book reports, pencil ownership, grammar, hand raising, keyboarding, oral presentations, round-robin reading and apparently geography have gone the way of the chalkboard.
That glimmer of hope I help some achieve by passing a 45-minute state assessment is little more than a flash in the pan. To be a true “master teacher” has nothing to do with how well students do on a test. We need to become a “master community”, the wound is that deep. We are going to have to help students fill in the educational gaps, or in some cases, gaping holes that appear as a result of this nationwide emphasis on standardized testing. Or there’s going to be a hefty price pay, first for the individual, then society as a whole.
Here’s to the master community.