JB's+Draft(s)+of+Expressive+and+Reflective+Writing

What’s in a Test?
Have you ever taken anticipated good marks on a test only to be utterly dismayed by poor ones? Well, that is exactly what happened to me when I took my teaching certification tests this past summer. I didn't do poorly by state standards--even by my own, really--except in one area that I did not expect.

On the morning of the test I recall being nervous, but in a good way. It was finally time to see if I was highly-qualified material. As a prospective secondary education teacher, I had to pass Michigan's state standardized tests in my major (English) and minor (history) subject areas in order to receive endorsements to teach the courses related to them. I opted to take both the English and history tests in one day, so I was looking at four consecutive hours of reading and filling in tiny holes with graphite. Knowing that my eyes tended to get lazier as time passed, I decided to take the one requiring the most reading first. I assumed it would be English, and it was ( but it was close ). The English test posed a fair number of questions relating to literary comprehension. Vocabulary, too. It asked defining questions about genres. There were opportunities for multiple demonstrations to correctly use grammar and syntax, and it even had questions concerning teaching pedagogy. Conspicuously absent: writing—I don’t mean in understanding the mechanics, but in putting those mechanics into practice. I remember reading select passages spanning from Shakespeare to Vonnegut thinking to myself that multiple choice is not a particularly effective way to test literature. How could I be certified as a proficient writer and ultimately a writing teacher with no evaluation of how well I could put together a variety of sentences or my writing skill? Besides not being asked to prove an ability to put sentences together and to form a cohesive argument ? —thus implying the ability to teach others to do the same I was frustrated by the lack of performance testing because it seemed that I could find evidence to support my logic kernels of correctness in virtually every answer choice. How does one select the “most correct” answer in literary interpretation anyway (the operant word being interpretation) ? Regardless, I left that day feeling good—about both subjects.

Next came the waiting. Results were finally posted on-line six weeks later, and I eagerly .I followed the link that came in my e-mail notification. and read the results. I had passed both, which was exciting, and even though I didn’t consciously know I was worried about it, I must have been because I felt a degree of relief. However, my satisfaction turned into puzzlement as I inspected the breakdown the testing service provides. provided. The Michigan Department of Education only allows for a public disclosure of whether or not a person passed or failed supplemented by "+" signs to indicate how well that person performed in each of the four sub-sections. decided it was unfair of teachers to be able to use their actual scores during job interviews (hmmm…), so the mandate came down a few years back that the tests would only indicate pass/fail and then award “+” signs in each of four sub-sections corresponding to a scale of one to four. If you received one “+” sign, none or very few questions in that area were answered correctly. Contrarily, if you received four “+” signs, all or nearly all of the answers in that section were right. On the English test, I received four “+” in three of the four areas: m eaning and c ommunication, g enre and c raft of l anguage, and s kills and p rocesses. In the remaining area, l iterature and u nderstanding, I earned just one little “+” sign. I stared at the document in disbelief, reading and re-reading every word on the page looking for the loop-hole that could explain the error in my interpretation. I reflexively began laughing at the irony of my stubbornness and asked by half-empty bottle of coke, I actually laughed out loud. There I was, a forty-year-old woman sitting cross-legged on my bed wryly laughing in disbelief to an empty room. I turned to my bottle of coke and asked, “Can you believe this?!” The bottle said nothing; there was nothing to say. I did think about it, though. I have to admit, it made me second guess myself for a little while. //I thought I had a pretty good eye for recognizing themes//, I’d think out of nowhere. The shower wall agreed that my penchant for close reading was one of my strengths, or so we both thought.

Once a couple of weeks distanced me from the test results, I began to doubt myself less and doubt the test structure more (and no, I wasn’t just trying to justify my single “+” sign). I concluded that I was crippled by the denial to explain my thoughts in writing, to show the //test// the error of //its// ways. The lonely "+" sign screamed: I’m kind of a cynical person by nature so it wasn’t a hard stretch to imagine the message this test was sending: “Look here, Teacher-in-the-Making, there is only one //official// way to approach literature, so get on board!” Never before had canonicity and the benefit of writing been so evident. For that matter, never, too, had the link between writing and reading been so clear. This test made me realize how important the writing process is to organizing and justifying my point-of-view. It also reaffirmed my belief What I’ve learned studying literature is that a reader’s response is derived in some large part from the experiences the reader brings to the text.

My insecurity slowly gave way to anger as I began to understand first-hand the problem with using standardized testing as an effective measurement of performance. Surely the Michigan Department of Education must recognize that people's interpretation of a test passage will vary depending on their life experiences, values, and cultural biases so there can't be a generic a one-size fits all to literary interpretation and understanding. As I sat pondering this question, my spirits lifted for one brief minute as I considered the possibility that my experience was purposeful as an exercise in empathy. I knew better, of course, and as quickly as my hope rose, it was replaced by frustration and my old friend disappointment. How was I going to be able to teach literary interpretation so that my future students could pass such a test, if I couldn't? It is hard for me to deny that the more a person reads, the better of a writer she will become—maybe not in the way she hoped, but better nevertheless. Reading and listening to the opinions and perspectives of others has definitely had an impact on how I approach a text. I tend to inherently look at a story (or movie) as a puzzle, and I look for the pieces in everything I read (and watch). I’m always searching for a foothold. I also think that not too much separates literature from popular fiction. It’s not so much that one limits itself to posing moral and poetic questions while the other exploits fears and tries to answer its own questions, rather they are what we make of them. Reading is not just escapism; it really is, pardon the cliché, food for thought. Being confronted by a text and having a reaction to its argument or situation—especially an adverse reaction—is the necessary thrust we need to move toward forming our own thoughts and opinions. I know that I can’t help but to take up every declarative statement as a challenge. It may frustrate my husband, but it helps me reach defendable conclusions.

I recognize that the world is not perfect and not all of us get to grow up to “be” the famous writers President of the United States or ballerinas of our childhood dreams just because we imagine we can. What’s that idiom self-proclaimed über professionals like to tout? Ah, yes, he who can, does; he who cannot, teaches. Taken literally, the way most snobs mean it, it //is// kind of offensive. Taken figuratively, the way I think George Bernard Shaw meant it, I think, it’s quite true because mind and body are not always perfectly synced ;, and superiority of one over the other is nothing more than a matter of opinion and circumstance , and both are necessary and inevitable in a balanced world. Sure, not all of us are born with or practiced enough to make a living writing the great American novel or the next clever ad campaign to go viral. Likewise, not all of us who end up teaching English are built for instructing students on the //real// meaning of Louise Erdrich's //Love Medicine// or Shakespeare's //Hamlet//. and of those of us who are, not all of us fit into the brilliantly creative realm. I think I get which category I’m supposed to belong to—the technical communicator and composition teacher. After all, the Michigan Department of Education’s English test says so, so it must be true, right?