Here is my sister Merilee's story. I am the oldest and she comes next out of four May girls.
I cried. It was nothing new. If I had to count, I’d probably done it nearly a thousand times in the last three years. But this time, it felt different; I knew that tides had changed and it was now “the beginning of the end.”
It had already been about three years since Dad was diagnosed with a soft tissue sarcoma cancer. He had undergone radiation, 2 surgeries, and chemotherapy. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the call from my mother saying they’d found more tumors. But I was; I was surprised and devastated, and I told her my premonition.
She denied it of course, as did my Dad. It wasn’t the beginning of the end as I claimed, it was just some tumors they found in his lungs. Just like the other tumors they’d found over the last few years. We’d have plenty of time left to enjoy our father.
Perhaps they thought I was just being dramatic, as I suppose I was sometimes during my teenage years. But as I sat in my one bedroom apartment, alone, I felt the emptiness close in around me. I was nineteen, I lived alone and feared that everyone I loved would eventually leave me. I wrote of emptiness, loneliness and despair in my journal, because I had no one I could talk to about my heartache except myself. My sister and childhood friend had moved to Utah and married by this time; it was difficult to explain the agony of watching our Dad die when she was so far away. My boyfriend had left on a mission and shouldn’t be bothered with trivial things like death. My roommate had moved out, probably because I was depressed and consumed by the fear of losing my father. No doubt I was an effective mood dampener. Who wants to deal with death when life and love await? I hadn’t yet developed a relationship with my two younger sisters to confide and call upon them for comfort and strength. In fact, my parents frequently asked me to spend time with them, help them take their mind off the stress at home. And I felt it would be a burden to talk to my mother or father; they had enough to deal with without having to deal with me. It was my job to make everyone happy, not depressed with my problems – even if they were very much the same as everyone else’s. I didn’t believe I would ever feel more alone than I did then.
On March 25th, 1993, they operated on Dad to remove the tumors in his lungs. It was then everyone learned what I already knew; it was the beginning of the end. And while it would usually feel good to be right; it felt awful and I was without the skills or life experience to truly grasp the pain of death. I didn’t fear what lied ahead for my dad on the other side, I didn’t even fear that I may never see him again. I simply ached inside, knowing I would never be ready to let go.
When they operated, they found tumors along the lining of his heart that they were unable to remove at that time. They would wait, and do it later. He spent nearly a month in the hospital following that surgery; and I visited at least once every day. What else could I have possibly done? I was consumed by the fear of his death, of not being there for him, not being ready, and not understanding how I would survive.
He called me crying one day from the hospital, afraid and unable to reach my mom. The middle class certainly didn’t have cell phones back then and she wasn’t at home. I dropped everything I was doing to rush to the hospital. I would have done anything to stop the pain, but I was helpless.
They never got do perform the surgery to remove the remaining tumors. Dad died six months later, almost a month after his 47th birthday. For all the effort I had put into being there for him when he was in the hospital for a month, I missed him the day that he died. I missed him by mere moments. My mother had called shortly before my shift began and called every hour thereafter with an update. He was progressively getting worse. Every time I insisted that I would leave work right then and be there, I was assured he would be there when I left. Five minutes before the office closed, Mom called. He had just died.
It wasn’t supposed to happen so fast, although the reality was he’d been sick for nearly four years. He only went for a doctor’s appointment. He was supposed to be home when I got off work. But he was dead. He was gone; and I knew instantly that it would be too long before I would ever see him again. I crumbled into pieces that thereafter took me years to put back together. Years before I would ever even learn to talk to my own family about the pain that I felt when he left.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Our Ride: Loss From Five Perspectives
I have often been fascinated by the different perspectives dad’s cancer and death had on each of my family members. Periodically I’ve pondered a collaborative book called “The Cancer Roller Coaster: A Different Ride for Each Passenger,” or “My Side of the Story: One Family’s Perspective on Cancer and Death.” Except for dad we are a family of females. Led by mom we are strong, independent, opinionated, and emotional women. We have five very different, uniquely individual, and deeply personal experiences to share. Thanks to my sister, Mindy, we have all written about our point of view and agreed to share them. She asked us each to write for her blog and has agreed to let me post them on my blog too.
My Ride: A View From My Seat
I’ve always felt like the odd man out in this event. Dad was diagnosed with cancer my freshman year at college. I was gleefully enjoying and majorly screwing up being independent for the first time. My family was in Washington State while I was miles away in Utah. I don’t remember any build up or warning to the phone call from my parents telling me dad had cancer. I thought it was just a routine call until they started explaining that a tumor had been found and that surgery and chemo were options. I remember feeling shocked, numb and alone. Throughout dad’s illness, I felt like I never knew what was going on. A friend from home passed me on campus and asked me if my dad was going to lose his leg. I had no idea what she was talking about. I hadn’t heard anything of the sort. I rushed to my apartment and called home. It was a small possibility my mom assured me. They hadn’t told me because it was so unlikely. I was devastated and always worried that I was missing information. I felt fearful and alone.
It was difficult to go home that summer. In a normal situation it would be tricky to return home after being on your own. There are too many observers, too many expectations, too many people. I wanted to go home and be with my family. I wanted to know what was going on and to be helpful. However, I wasn’t prepared for the awkwardness. I felt a little resentment from my siblings. I sensed they thought it wasn’t fair that I had missed out on watching dad get sick or that I’d “gotten” to be away during much of the hard work. Also, my family had been in crisis mode. They’d had to adjust, sacrifice and help out. I hadn’t been there. I couldn’t be there. This meant new roles had been taken on. Even though technically I was the oldest, I hadn’t been around to fulfill my responsibilities. The next oldest sister, Merilee, had taken on much responsibility and my role. I got home and felt like I’d lost my place in the family.
I eventually returned to college, got married and went home for vacations and visits only. I dreaded the phone ringing those years. I always worried what a phone call would bring. My memory is that in the fall of 1993 we got news that dad would probably be around through the holidays, but not much longer. We planned a big Thanksgiving reunion with dad’s family after we got the news. On October 11,1993 I received a phone call from my mother telling me that her father, Grandpa Beckstead, had passed away. She told me that he had been at home and that everyone had got to be there as he died fairly peacefully. I have to admit I was jealous. Being a bit selfish I was a little comforted when my mom told me grandpa had mistakenly called people by my name at times in the end. I know that sounds awful, but once again I felt so alone. Since, I was a poor college student and my parents were paying medical bills, I didn’t fly home to attend my grandfather’s funeral.
It was mid afternoon and between classes when my mom called me ten days later. My dad was at the hospital and the doctors said he only had days to live. I needed to arrange a flight home so I could say goodbye. Shocked, I got off the phone, called the airlines and booked a flight home first thing in the morning. I had a late afternoon class to attend, but I couldn’t do it. My husband decided to take me to a movie to distract me. We picked the comedy, “So I Married an Axe Murder.” It was the perfect distraction.
After the movie we drove to my in-laws for dinner. As we walked in the door my mother-in-law told me my mom had called and to call her back. Relaxed from the movie and thinking she was double checking my flight information, I quickly returned her call. Her news was not what I’d expected. While I had been enjoying the movie my dad had died. First, I felt guilty for going to the movie. Second, I was mad. He’d died! Why the hell did he do that? I was coming tomorrow. He couldn’t have waited one more day? I wept. I cried until my nose ran and my head hurt. My husband held me, then made arranged for both of us to fly to Washington.
I was surprised, and I’m ashamed to admit it, a tiny bit pleased, to discover, dad had robbed us all. He died before anyone, but mom could be at the hospital. It’s awful to admit, but I’m just being honest, for once in this experience I wasn’t alone.
I remember the viewing before dad’s funeral and everyone telling me I had to go see him that one last time. Many people told me if I didn’t see him I’d miss out on an important part of saying goodbye. I hated the viewing. That wasn’t my dad there in the coffin. It was a body. My sister kissed his forehead. I thought I should try that. It was cold and just reminded me he was gone. Don’t let anyone tell you how to mourn. I say the viewing is awful, but some people find it helpful. Listen to yourself.
I gave the eulogy at dad’s funeral. Mom asked me to. I said yes only if everyone helped me write it. I was so nervous I bounced my right knee uncontrollably the whole time I waited to do my part. At one point my husband reached over and tried to still me with his hand.
“You’re shaking the whole bench.” He whispered.
I shoved his hand away saying, “So.” and bounced until I had to speak.
I’ve often described cancer as a roller coaster. It’s bad, then better, then the tumor is not shrinking or spreading, but not growing. It’s years, then months, then weeks, then days. It’s devastating, then hopeful, then unpredictable. You scream, you smile, you wave your arms excitedly, you get dizzy and sometimes you almost throw up. There’s little of the fun of a carnival ride with cancer, but there’s the ups, downs, tight turns, jerky stops and relief when it’s over. The relief doesn’t come right away, but time, family and sharing like this are my best medicine.
My Ride: A View From My Seat
I’ve always felt like the odd man out in this event. Dad was diagnosed with cancer my freshman year at college. I was gleefully enjoying and majorly screwing up being independent for the first time. My family was in Washington State while I was miles away in Utah. I don’t remember any build up or warning to the phone call from my parents telling me dad had cancer. I thought it was just a routine call until they started explaining that a tumor had been found and that surgery and chemo were options. I remember feeling shocked, numb and alone. Throughout dad’s illness, I felt like I never knew what was going on. A friend from home passed me on campus and asked me if my dad was going to lose his leg. I had no idea what she was talking about. I hadn’t heard anything of the sort. I rushed to my apartment and called home. It was a small possibility my mom assured me. They hadn’t told me because it was so unlikely. I was devastated and always worried that I was missing information. I felt fearful and alone.
It was difficult to go home that summer. In a normal situation it would be tricky to return home after being on your own. There are too many observers, too many expectations, too many people. I wanted to go home and be with my family. I wanted to know what was going on and to be helpful. However, I wasn’t prepared for the awkwardness. I felt a little resentment from my siblings. I sensed they thought it wasn’t fair that I had missed out on watching dad get sick or that I’d “gotten” to be away during much of the hard work. Also, my family had been in crisis mode. They’d had to adjust, sacrifice and help out. I hadn’t been there. I couldn’t be there. This meant new roles had been taken on. Even though technically I was the oldest, I hadn’t been around to fulfill my responsibilities. The next oldest sister, Merilee, had taken on much responsibility and my role. I got home and felt like I’d lost my place in the family.
I eventually returned to college, got married and went home for vacations and visits only. I dreaded the phone ringing those years. I always worried what a phone call would bring. My memory is that in the fall of 1993 we got news that dad would probably be around through the holidays, but not much longer. We planned a big Thanksgiving reunion with dad’s family after we got the news. On October 11,1993 I received a phone call from my mother telling me that her father, Grandpa Beckstead, had passed away. She told me that he had been at home and that everyone had got to be there as he died fairly peacefully. I have to admit I was jealous. Being a bit selfish I was a little comforted when my mom told me grandpa had mistakenly called people by my name at times in the end. I know that sounds awful, but once again I felt so alone. Since, I was a poor college student and my parents were paying medical bills, I didn’t fly home to attend my grandfather’s funeral.
It was mid afternoon and between classes when my mom called me ten days later. My dad was at the hospital and the doctors said he only had days to live. I needed to arrange a flight home so I could say goodbye. Shocked, I got off the phone, called the airlines and booked a flight home first thing in the morning. I had a late afternoon class to attend, but I couldn’t do it. My husband decided to take me to a movie to distract me. We picked the comedy, “So I Married an Axe Murder.” It was the perfect distraction.
After the movie we drove to my in-laws for dinner. As we walked in the door my mother-in-law told me my mom had called and to call her back. Relaxed from the movie and thinking she was double checking my flight information, I quickly returned her call. Her news was not what I’d expected. While I had been enjoying the movie my dad had died. First, I felt guilty for going to the movie. Second, I was mad. He’d died! Why the hell did he do that? I was coming tomorrow. He couldn’t have waited one more day? I wept. I cried until my nose ran and my head hurt. My husband held me, then made arranged for both of us to fly to Washington.
I was surprised, and I’m ashamed to admit it, a tiny bit pleased, to discover, dad had robbed us all. He died before anyone, but mom could be at the hospital. It’s awful to admit, but I’m just being honest, for once in this experience I wasn’t alone.
I remember the viewing before dad’s funeral and everyone telling me I had to go see him that one last time. Many people told me if I didn’t see him I’d miss out on an important part of saying goodbye. I hated the viewing. That wasn’t my dad there in the coffin. It was a body. My sister kissed his forehead. I thought I should try that. It was cold and just reminded me he was gone. Don’t let anyone tell you how to mourn. I say the viewing is awful, but some people find it helpful. Listen to yourself.
I gave the eulogy at dad’s funeral. Mom asked me to. I said yes only if everyone helped me write it. I was so nervous I bounced my right knee uncontrollably the whole time I waited to do my part. At one point my husband reached over and tried to still me with his hand.
“You’re shaking the whole bench.” He whispered.
I shoved his hand away saying, “So.” and bounced until I had to speak.
I’ve often described cancer as a roller coaster. It’s bad, then better, then the tumor is not shrinking or spreading, but not growing. It’s years, then months, then weeks, then days. It’s devastating, then hopeful, then unpredictable. You scream, you smile, you wave your arms excitedly, you get dizzy and sometimes you almost throw up. There’s little of the fun of a carnival ride with cancer, but there’s the ups, downs, tight turns, jerky stops and relief when it’s over. The relief doesn’t come right away, but time, family and sharing like this are my best medicine.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
What Every 2nd Grader Needs to Know About 3rd Grade
I recently asked my class to list the ten most important things someone coming into third grade next year needs to know. There were a wide variety of answers. Some I expected: know your multiplication facts, read lots, you get new teachers. There were also quite a few that surprised me.
Here are a few of my favorite lists:
1. It’s hard.
2. You get desks.
3. It feels like it’s longer.
4. You get two PE’s a week.
5. You don’t get any field trips.
6. You do get fun days like Greece and Egypt Day.
7. It’s fun.
8. You get good friends.
9. You go to a new science room
10. You go to a new music room.
1. It’s really fun.
2. You should like sports.
3. Don’t complain
4. Want to earn tallies.
5. Return stuff.
6. Love to read.
7. Be competitive.
8. You have extra long music programs.
9. Learn to write carefully.
10. Like action.
1. Know your long division.
2. Know how to spell THE
3. Know how to read with a partner.
4. Know how to keep your face neat during art.
5. Multiplication
6. What 5+15= is
7. How to control being a tattle tale.
8. How to read for about an hour without messing around.
9. Fractions
10. How to keep your desk clean.
1. Listen!
2. Learn
3. Be happy
4. Don’t do the opposite of what the teacher says
5. Be quiet
6. Don’t play in class
7. Follow the class rules
8. Don’t keep secrets from your friends
9. Don’t act like a crazy hobo
10. Follow these instructions
1. It’s harder
2. You need to be smart
3. You will learn about different places
4. It’s funner
5. You need to know your times
6. You read harder books
7. You do famous people
8. Your desks move around a lot
9. Homework is harder
10. You have to work harder.
1. Be friendly
2. Don’t make Mrs. J mad
3. Be ready for lots of homework
4. Get costumes early for Egypt and Greece Day
5. Always return your library books
6. Always put your name on your paper
7. Accidents happen
8. Kickball will take over your life
9. Eat a lot
10. Drink a lot
Now you should be prepared for third grade. I guess it’s a lot harder. Also, beware of making your sports loving teacher angry, as you learn your times tables and read harder books. Good luck!
Here are a few of my favorite lists:
1. It’s hard.
2. You get desks.
3. It feels like it’s longer.
4. You get two PE’s a week.
5. You don’t get any field trips.
6. You do get fun days like Greece and Egypt Day.
7. It’s fun.
8. You get good friends.
9. You go to a new science room
10. You go to a new music room.
1. It’s really fun.
2. You should like sports.
3. Don’t complain
4. Want to earn tallies.
5. Return stuff.
6. Love to read.
7. Be competitive.
8. You have extra long music programs.
9. Learn to write carefully.
10. Like action.
1. Know your long division.
2. Know how to spell THE
3. Know how to read with a partner.
4. Know how to keep your face neat during art.
5. Multiplication
6. What 5+15= is
7. How to control being a tattle tale.
8. How to read for about an hour without messing around.
9. Fractions
10. How to keep your desk clean.
1. Listen!
2. Learn
3. Be happy
4. Don’t do the opposite of what the teacher says
5. Be quiet
6. Don’t play in class
7. Follow the class rules
8. Don’t keep secrets from your friends
9. Don’t act like a crazy hobo
10. Follow these instructions
1. It’s harder
2. You need to be smart
3. You will learn about different places
4. It’s funner
5. You need to know your times
6. You read harder books
7. You do famous people
8. Your desks move around a lot
9. Homework is harder
10. You have to work harder.
1. Be friendly
2. Don’t make Mrs. J mad
3. Be ready for lots of homework
4. Get costumes early for Egypt and Greece Day
5. Always return your library books
6. Always put your name on your paper
7. Accidents happen
8. Kickball will take over your life
9. Eat a lot
10. Drink a lot
Now you should be prepared for third grade. I guess it’s a lot harder. Also, beware of making your sports loving teacher angry, as you learn your times tables and read harder books. Good luck!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Revealing the Secret of the Art of Teaching
Trying to see the world from the perspective of someone else is something I try to teach my children and my students. It is also something that I enjoy doing as a teacher and a mother, often with humorous results. I love watching my toddler discover new things like the meaning of red lights and green lights.
“The light is green, we can go mom. Like Go Dog Go.”
A simple concept that I follow automatically daily, but it's suddenly exciting as I watch him make connections.
I asked my students to finish common ideas about teaching, education and learning. Exactly what do they think it means to be a teacher? Why is learning important? Is education important? Here are the results that I found the most enjoyable:
To teach is to... have fun.
I like a teacher who gives you...no homework.
The moment you stop learning, you...start thinking.
I am always ready to learn, but...not ready for homework.
You cannot teach a... teacher.
Anyone who stops learning is...going to have a hard time later on.
The moment you stop learning, you...are free.
I am always ready to learn, but... I get sleepy.
The art of teaching is...getting stressed.
I am always ready to learn, but... I don’t like learning.
The moment you stop learning, you...throw a party at your house or mine.
The art of teaching is...hard.
You cannot teach a...dork.
The moment you stop learning, you...become a hobo.
The art of teaching is... getting the questions asked.
I am always ready to learn, but...learning is for kids.
You cannot teach a...math class if you don’t know math.
A good teacher is like a... manager.
I am always ready to learn, but...not really.
A teacher is one who...has had lots of school.
A good teacher is like a... mom always helping.
I am always ready to learn, but...I’m not always ready to fight.
To teach is to... have fun.
The teacher who is indeed wise does not...give wrong answers.
The best teachers teach from...scratch.
A teacher is one who... loves school.
The teacher who is indeed wise does not...yell.
The object of education is to prepare the young to...complain.
And finally my absolute favorite:
The secret of teaching...the teacher’s lounge.
“The light is green, we can go mom. Like Go Dog Go.”
A simple concept that I follow automatically daily, but it's suddenly exciting as I watch him make connections.
I asked my students to finish common ideas about teaching, education and learning. Exactly what do they think it means to be a teacher? Why is learning important? Is education important? Here are the results that I found the most enjoyable:
To teach is to... have fun.
I like a teacher who gives you...no homework.
The moment you stop learning, you...start thinking.
I am always ready to learn, but...not ready for homework.
You cannot teach a... teacher.
Anyone who stops learning is...going to have a hard time later on.
The moment you stop learning, you...are free.
I am always ready to learn, but... I get sleepy.
The art of teaching is...getting stressed.
I am always ready to learn, but... I don’t like learning.
The moment you stop learning, you...throw a party at your house or mine.
The art of teaching is...hard.
You cannot teach a...dork.
The moment you stop learning, you...become a hobo.
The art of teaching is... getting the questions asked.
I am always ready to learn, but...learning is for kids.
You cannot teach a...math class if you don’t know math.
A good teacher is like a... manager.
I am always ready to learn, but...not really.
A teacher is one who...has had lots of school.
A good teacher is like a... mom always helping.
I am always ready to learn, but...I’m not always ready to fight.
To teach is to... have fun.
The teacher who is indeed wise does not...give wrong answers.
The best teachers teach from...scratch.
A teacher is one who... loves school.
The teacher who is indeed wise does not...yell.
The object of education is to prepare the young to...complain.
And finally my absolute favorite:
The secret of teaching...the teacher’s lounge.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Mom a Three Letter Word
The word “mom” is such a simple word. Just three little letters. The same forwards or backwards. When spoken it can seem an endearment one moment and a swear word the next. A tiny word that when shouted in public draws crowds and guarantees heads will turn. A simple word that can create joy and dread in the hearts of women.
“Mom,” sweetly uttered by toddlers, said in tones of awe by children, and gasped with disbelieving embarrassment by teenagers.
Mom, I’m thankful to be one, but sometimes dream of a moment to myself. Mom, a different creature completely from dad. Mom, a word that looks so simple, but is deceivingly complicated.
“Mom,” sweetly uttered by toddlers, said in tones of awe by children, and gasped with disbelieving embarrassment by teenagers.
Mom, I’m thankful to be one, but sometimes dream of a moment to myself. Mom, a different creature completely from dad. Mom, a word that looks so simple, but is deceivingly complicated.
What Standardized Tests Really Measure
Standardized testing can be a useful tool in education. Unfortunately, too much emphasis is put on testing and they are over used. A standardized test can show a piece of the puzzle when it comes to a child’s education and learning, but rarely the whole picture. Due to their misuse I view them as a necessary evil of teaching. When I’m preparing my students I tell them that these tests are for gathering information. Standardized tests help parents, teachers and schools see where kids have strengths or weaknesses. They can also show me patterns where I can improve as a teacher. Tests help the school plan. Tests are tools for gathering information, that’s how I explain it to my third graders.
However, if I were to be frank, standardized testing is the biggest, time consuming, pain in the butt. Testing is supposed to gather information about reading, writing and math, but it is just as likely to gather completely different information. Sometimes testing provides information about fine motor skills; how well can an eight or nine year old fill in a small bubble with a pencil? Other times attention span, following directions, or just remembering not to skip pages is tested. Occasionally standardized testing informs me that a student freezes when being timed. Standardized testing is just plain stressful for teachers and students.
The stress begins with filling out the front cover. At our school third grade is their first experience with standardized tests. The chaos begins with the box labeled “Sex.” Let the giggling begin. Next, comes a very long discussion about race. I explain that each of the categories has to do with where the majority of their ancestors came from. I also tell them that they should go home and discuss with their parents which bubble they should fill in. Then, almost every hand in the class goes up as every child shares their ancestry. Many want to know which bubble to fill in if they’re French, German and Irish or some other European combination. Some ask what to do if their grandpa came from Australia or Canada? When it gets this complicated and it shouldn’t be, I tell them once again, “Go ask your parents.”
The real fun commences when the actual testing begins. Part of what makes a test standardized is that they are given the same way, with the same directions. Every time we start a new test I must read a scripted set of directions. These directions only change for one of the tests. There are eight different tests. Written into the directions, twice, is: “Are there any questions?” Meaning does the test taker understand how to take the test. Remember I teach third graders. Third graders who have never taken standardized tests before. It seems to me that when they hear, “Are there any questions?” my students think they have to ask a question. It is these questions, each time I give the same directions, that make me want to laugh and cry this week. Let me share a few examples.
The test our school administers is called ERB. The name of the test has been a huge concern to my class. A few times when I have asked if there are any questions their queries have been:
“My mom said she used to take the SAT’s, why do we take the ERB’s?”
“My cousin takes a test called The Stanford, why is it different than our test?”
It is of course normal for third graders to be curious about these things, but frustrating that they are asking these questions during the directions for the test. Also, I explained last week that ERB was the brand of test. Just like there are different brands of ice cream: Dreyers, Breyers, Ben and Jerry’s, there are different companies who create tests. Our school chooses to use the ERB’s.
During the second, “Are there any questions now?” pause in the directions a hand waved wildly in the front. “Mrs. Johnson, if we are supposed to be taking the ERB’s, why does it say ERB on the bottom of the page and CTP 4 on the top of the page?”
It’s only the first day and luckily I still have patience. I calmly explain that ERB is the brand, like Ben and Jerry’s, CTP 4 is the flavor, like vanilla. This seems to satisfy all curiosity and concern.
Some other questions that were asked when I gave directions throughout the testing process were:
“Are you sure I’m white?”
“What makes a #2 pencil different?”
“Do I HAVE TO read the page with the examples?”
“Why does it list Asian, Asian American and Pacific Islander together?”
“The note said to get plenty of sleep this week. If I got seven hours of sleep last night do you think I got enough sleep?”
“Do you think this pencil is sharp enough?”
“What should I do if I accidentally drop my pencil and it rolls away?”
“Why are there two test booklets?”
“Why are there two math sections?”
“Who decides how much time we get for each test?”
“Has anyone ever gotten every question right on this test?”
“Will there be any history sections?”
“If we all fail a test will you lose your job?”
“Is this a fill in the bubble test again?”
The first page of each test tells the student how much time is allowed and how many questions. However, on seven out of the eight test one student asked, “How many pages will there be on this test?”
So, what exactly do standardized tests measure? From my experience they mostly measure a teacher’s patience.
However, if I were to be frank, standardized testing is the biggest, time consuming, pain in the butt. Testing is supposed to gather information about reading, writing and math, but it is just as likely to gather completely different information. Sometimes testing provides information about fine motor skills; how well can an eight or nine year old fill in a small bubble with a pencil? Other times attention span, following directions, or just remembering not to skip pages is tested. Occasionally standardized testing informs me that a student freezes when being timed. Standardized testing is just plain stressful for teachers and students.
The stress begins with filling out the front cover. At our school third grade is their first experience with standardized tests. The chaos begins with the box labeled “Sex.” Let the giggling begin. Next, comes a very long discussion about race. I explain that each of the categories has to do with where the majority of their ancestors came from. I also tell them that they should go home and discuss with their parents which bubble they should fill in. Then, almost every hand in the class goes up as every child shares their ancestry. Many want to know which bubble to fill in if they’re French, German and Irish or some other European combination. Some ask what to do if their grandpa came from Australia or Canada? When it gets this complicated and it shouldn’t be, I tell them once again, “Go ask your parents.”
The real fun commences when the actual testing begins. Part of what makes a test standardized is that they are given the same way, with the same directions. Every time we start a new test I must read a scripted set of directions. These directions only change for one of the tests. There are eight different tests. Written into the directions, twice, is: “Are there any questions?” Meaning does the test taker understand how to take the test. Remember I teach third graders. Third graders who have never taken standardized tests before. It seems to me that when they hear, “Are there any questions?” my students think they have to ask a question. It is these questions, each time I give the same directions, that make me want to laugh and cry this week. Let me share a few examples.
The test our school administers is called ERB. The name of the test has been a huge concern to my class. A few times when I have asked if there are any questions their queries have been:
“My mom said she used to take the SAT’s, why do we take the ERB’s?”
“My cousin takes a test called The Stanford, why is it different than our test?”
It is of course normal for third graders to be curious about these things, but frustrating that they are asking these questions during the directions for the test. Also, I explained last week that ERB was the brand of test. Just like there are different brands of ice cream: Dreyers, Breyers, Ben and Jerry’s, there are different companies who create tests. Our school chooses to use the ERB’s.
During the second, “Are there any questions now?” pause in the directions a hand waved wildly in the front. “Mrs. Johnson, if we are supposed to be taking the ERB’s, why does it say ERB on the bottom of the page and CTP 4 on the top of the page?”
It’s only the first day and luckily I still have patience. I calmly explain that ERB is the brand, like Ben and Jerry’s, CTP 4 is the flavor, like vanilla. This seems to satisfy all curiosity and concern.
Some other questions that were asked when I gave directions throughout the testing process were:
“Are you sure I’m white?”
“What makes a #2 pencil different?”
“Do I HAVE TO read the page with the examples?”
“Why does it list Asian, Asian American and Pacific Islander together?”
“The note said to get plenty of sleep this week. If I got seven hours of sleep last night do you think I got enough sleep?”
“Do you think this pencil is sharp enough?”
“What should I do if I accidentally drop my pencil and it rolls away?”
“Why are there two test booklets?”
“Why are there two math sections?”
“Who decides how much time we get for each test?”
“Has anyone ever gotten every question right on this test?”
“Will there be any history sections?”
“If we all fail a test will you lose your job?”
“Is this a fill in the bubble test again?”
The first page of each test tells the student how much time is allowed and how many questions. However, on seven out of the eight test one student asked, “How many pages will there be on this test?”
So, what exactly do standardized tests measure? From my experience they mostly measure a teacher’s patience.
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