I woke up Thursday morning with a twitch in my right eye. A highly annoying involuntary muscle spasm that no one else can see even though it felt as if half my eye was closing each time it happened. I felt like cursing, but instead I breathed a quick word of prayer for peace and calm to wash over me. And then I struggled not to throw up as my stomach was completely in knots.
I dressed, brushed my teeth (careful not to trigger my sometimes overly sensitive gag reflex), and headed to the garage to workout. Today was intervals- short sprints followed by slightly longer walking periods- on the treadmill and circuit training afterward. Everything felt wrong. My mind wandered, my feet stumbled, the weight was too heavy or too light, and there was the yellow jacket from you know where dive bombing me every few minutes. I'll admit I might have let a few curse words slip while I was under attack, but I also took the time to pray for forgiveness (for the curse words) and strength for what was to come that day.
I made coffee (extra coffee) and jumped in the shower. I decided not to shave my legs in the hopes of buying a few extra minutes and being a little earlier to school. I woke the kids early to allow them to wake up slowly and avoid arguments. I finished up my morning routine, making sure to grab a portable but balanced breakfast for my drive- cheese stick, yogurt, cereal bar, and an orange. Oh, and coffee. Lots of coffee. Thankfully (maybe my prayers worked), the kids were great and getting them ready and out the door went off without a hitch. Even so, my twitched and my stomach rolled the entire time. On the way to school I listened to the soundtrack from Barnyard blaring through the speakers and learned that Evan can count to 8,014 in the amount of time we spend on the Interstate. With my eye twitching, I thanked God for his extraordinary intelligence and prayed for patience on this day.
When I arrived at school at 7:30 I took the last parking space. I knew this was a sign of the special day. Usually the parking lot is less than half full at this hour. I went inside and set Evan up in Matthew's office playing Angry Birds (or "Mad Ducks", as Evan often calls it) on his ipad. And then I thought to myself, "I don't remember turning the lights out." I quickly grabbed my car keys and headed out to the parking lot. First, I looked at my back lights from a distance but then thought, "I'd better go and check because with the sun shining on them I really can't tell for sure." I walked out to the van and looked at the headlights. They looked off, but again it was hard to tell in the sun. I looked through the window and couldn't really tell if the switch was really in the off position. Finally I unlocked the door and found that they were, in fact, ON! (Now that I think about it, they may turn off on their own.) I triumphantly turned them off, locked the door back, turned, and began to walk back to the building so proud of myself for thinking about it, going to check, following all the way through, and catching my mistake
before I went to leave this afternoon. I was just congratulating myself on being smart and avoiding the inevitable scolding that I would have received from Matthew when a thought struck me. It hit my brain with a thud similar to the sound a head makes when its master dimwittingly walks into a tree because he was not watching where he was going. I had locked myself out. I did not have my keys to the building. I walked up to the door and peered in. Usually, there would be a flurry of teachers passing by as they readied their things for the day. On a normal day, kids would be roaming the halls on their way to tutoring or the library or computer labs. But today was not a normal day. Today there was no tutoring, no library, no labs. Today the teachers were all in another part of the building, crammed into a small, windowless room with sturdy locks on the door readying new materials for a very different kind of day. Again, I felt like cursing, but I refrained. As my eye twitched and my stomach rolled, I breathed another word of prayer. This one was not really profound. It went something like this, "Dear God (teeth gritted), please let someone open this cotton-pickin' door... SOON. I really don't have time for this today of all days.
Please. Thank you. You know I am so thankful for all of my millions of blessings, right?" Ok, the last part wasn't even there. I believe the prayer stopped at
please. It was definitely not the best prayer I've ever prayed. And because of that, I doubted it would be answered. So, as my eye twitched and my stomach did backhandsprings, I debated what to do. I couldn't call anyone because of course I didn't have my phone either. I couldn't drive around to the front because the parent drop off line was backed up to the entrance of the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. No one would ever hear me knock on the gym door where nearly 450 5th and 6th graders were gathering as they finished their free breakfast. And even if they heard me, they would never open the door when they couldn't see who was on the other side (that had been drilled into them.) I was getting ready to head off on the long hike to the front door when a gleaming silver convertible whizzed up like an angel appearing in a flash of lightning. The Reading intervention teacher had arrived. I thanked her profusely as my eye twitched. She didn't seem to notice, but maybe she was just being polite. As I entered the building, I prayed God would allow me to empty my mind of distractions and focus on the task at hand.
When I made it to the teachers' lounge I saw two untouched boxes of doughnuts, which is unheard of in our school. Doughnuts or any other treat usually disappear within minutes. Instead of drinking coffee and enjoying a sweet surprise, teachers were anxiously and busily moving about. One teacher was furiously sharpening number two pencils, two others were debating whether to project a timer onto their boards and what the potential effects on student performance would be, and a fourth was wringing her hands and lamenting over the absence of peppermint candy this year and how that would affect the outcome. I took in this scene as my eye twitched, but didn't have time to linger because I was way behind schedule. Those minutes I saved in the shower not shaving my legs were long gone. I was overdue for my turn in the small, windowless room. I quickly checked to be sure Evan was still in his dad's office playing "Mad Ducks" and then headed up the hall.
As I entered The Room I heard teachers frantically calling to each other, "I need a thirteen!" or "Where are my pencils?", "Where does little Johnny need to go?", "I only have 22 answer sheets!". Our two guidance counselors were running from table to table verifying numbers, giving directions, and answering questions. Our principal and Matthew kept watch over everything. I went right to work, heading over to the sixth grade table, I carefully filled my box with two each of thirteen different versions of purple and black books. I tallied how many I had of each version. I had it verified and signed my name to it and off I went. My eye twitched as I signed my name, but I ignored it.
I lugged my box back down to to my classroom and pulled a neatly arranged folder out. From the folder I pulled a schedule, a checklist, a direction book, and a sign with a smiley face with a zipper over his mouth. I checked the schedule. I turned to the appropriate page in the direction book. I made neat little checks on the checklist as my eye twitched with each check mark. I laid a box of newly sharpened pencils on my desk. I hung the sign on my door, locked my door, and then walked to the gym.
My stomach rolled as I stood at the gym doors. Behind those doors were approximately 450 5th and 6th graders. Approximately 119 of them would determine, beginning in about 30 minutes, whether or not I was an effective teacher. Thanks to newly passed legislation, 119 of those students would determine whether I kept my hard-earned tenure or lost it, jeopardizing my job. One hundred nineteen of those students could determine whether or not I kept my job, whether or not I continued in my career. Those 119 students, from 119 different homes, from 119 different backgrounds, with 119 different stories could determine whether I was praised or scathed in the local newspaper when our "report card" was published. Those 119 sixth graders with hormones raging, with thoughts swirling around around the latest drama to hit facebook, who were presently gossiping about the latest rumor being spread could determine if my name would be gold or mud at the local ball fields. The students who went to bed early last night, who ate a good breakfast, whose parents lovingly encouraged them to do their very best today as well as the students who slept on a dirty floor, wore the same clothes they had on yesterday and had likely slept in as well, came to school with their tummies growling because there had been no dinner the night before, cried on the bus because their moms yelled at them for waking her up would determine if I was written about on the local gossip website as a waste of taxpayer money. The students who worked hard all year and whose parents supported our initiatives to improve their students' performance as well as the ones who never had a pencil or paper, fell asleep everyday, and whose parents wrote letters complaining that their student's homework interfered with ball practice would determine if the school board would have grounds to smugly declare that we teachers didn't deserve what we were paid. The students whose parents valued education as well as the ones who ranted about those "idiotic teachers" at the dinner table would either justify or prove wrong the public whose cry is that teachers need to be held accountable because we are lazy and all we do is "babysit". The students whose parents told them they would go to college and be successful one day as well as the ones who were told daily and loudly that they were dumb and would never amount to anything would either validate my professional career or prove it to be worthless. The students who excelled academically, filled with intellectual giftedness as well as those born addicted to drugs, disabled, diagnosed with ADHD, emotionally disturbed, obstinate defiant, unable to read, autistic, bipolar, unable to process information, would all take the same test which would tell if after almost 10 years of higher education and 9 years of experience I was a level 1, level 2, level 3, level 4, or level 5 teacher. The students whose parents heard on the local news last week that the state had announced that today would in fact not make a difference in their own academic future even though a law had passed stating it would because they could not get scores back in time, would now control my future.
I paused a the doors for a moment to let my eye stop twitching. I took a deep breath to push the waves of nausea away. I put a
big, bright smile on my face and I opened the doors. I began to move up and down the rows looking for my students. I called each one by name. I looked into worried eyes, excited eyes, tired eyes, apathetic eyes, and confident eyes. I said words of encouragement. I spoke words or caution to do their best. I reassured, I reminded, and in some cases I pleaded. I gave high fives and thumbs up. I patted backs and squeezed shoulders. I told each one that they
were ready and I believed in them. When I was confident that I had seen as many of those 119 faces, some bright and shiny and some dirty and defeated that I could I walked back my room to wait.
The bell rang and students flooded the hallway. The sound of chatter was deafening. I watched as my homeroom filed in. I directed them to put everything in their cubby except their #2 pencils, to go to their newly assigned seat which was in a neat row, spaced apart from everyone else, and faced the front and sit down. I observed who quickly followed directions, who lolled around talking without a care in the world, and who meticulously arranged and rearranged their things out of anxiety. Finally they were all seated. A tone sounded and the intercom came on.
"Goooood Morning, North Middle School! It's TCAP time!"
My eye twitched and my stomach rolled. I felt like cursing, but instead I took a deep breath and prayed my heartfelt prayer yet that morning. This time it was to calm my students' nerves, to give them strength for what was to come, to give them patience to take their time on the 2 hour and 20 minute test before them, to allow them to empty their minds of all other distracting thoughts and focus on the task before them, and to
please let them get those cotton-pickin' answers right! Announcements ended, I whispered Amen, and I hung my "Testing Do Not Disturb" sign on my door. I read the directions for the test. I instructed the students to make their mark heavy and dark and I wrote the starting and ending times on the board. All of this was reminiscent of my own childhood. A student commented on the smell of the new books. I thought, "I bet that smell will stay with her a lifetime, bringing back memories of warm spring mornings spent crammed in a classroom feverishly filling in bubbles". This, my friends, is TCAP. It's been administered to students in Tennessee for years, but it is so much different than it used to be. Now it is a tool to measure teacher effectiveness, to determine if a teacher will be allowed to keep her job or not. Teach to the test? Is there any other choice? Especially when the test is so darn tricky. You have to teach the test. If you don't teach students how to reason through those multiple choice questions and pick the best answer out of 4 that could potentially be right, you have no prayer. Prayer. Sometimes this is all you have.
Sometimes all you can do is pray. The preparation had been completed. I had pretaught, taught, and retaught every standard which would be tested. I had encouraged, motivated, rewarded, threatened, and punished. I had lectured, assigned projects, used technology, given group work, used graphic organizers, shown videos, created PowerPoints, and stood on my head. I had assessed formally, informally, authentically, and formatively. I had disaggregated, analyzed, identified weaknesses, remediated, differentiated, and jumped through a few hoops. I had explained, guided, modeled, discussed, and demonstrated how to answer every single question in the practice book. And then I went back and readdressed and reassessed the questions they had the most trouble with again. I knew my content. I knew my standards. I knew how to teach. I knew how to assess. And I knew my kids. I knew which ones would score advanced with little to no effort. I knew which ones would work hard on the test, agonizing over every single question. I knew which ones just couldn't do it because they just didn't have it. I knew which ones could do it, but were physically and mentally incapable of focusing for more than about 15 minutes at a time. I could tell you which ones had improved the most this year and which ones had shut down. And I knew which ones were smart and could do it if they wanted, but just really didn't give a flip.
So, although I was sick to my stomach, I wasn't terribly surprised when I saw one such student close his book with satisfaction after just 20 minutes on the first part of the reading test. A test that allows 76 minutes. a test with 42 questions and an assortment of multiple page passages to read. I took a deep breath as I tiptoed over to him. I leaned down and whispered, "If you are finished, please go back and check over your answers."
He whispered back, "Oh, I already did."
And my eye twitched. I walked away to recollect myself. I walked back over and whispered, "You answered 42 questions and read all of the passages, and checked over your answers in 20 minutes?" He nodded. I looked him in the eye and whispered, "That's less than 30 seconds per questions, including reading the passages."
He looked me right back in the eye and said, "So?"
I met his steady gaze and said, "That's impossible." His eyes hardened. I whispered, "You have nearly 40 minutes left. If I were you I would check again." With a huff and an eye roll he opened his test booklet again. As I walked away I began to pray again. Sometimes all you can do is pray for a miracle. Especially when your future is in the hands of a 12 year old, attitudinal boy who thinks the TCAP is the biggest waste of time on the planet.
But, when all was said and done there were other prayers whispered that day. Prayers of gratitude. Gratitude for the self-satisfaction I saw on the face of a girl who is an average to below average student who worked so incredibly hard for the entire time using every strategy I had taught her and finishing the last question in the last 30 seconds of the test. Her smile when she filled in that last bubble and looked right up at me and said, "whew!" makes my career worthwhile. Gratitude for a student who is facing a terrible situation at home right now, makes terrible grades, has a horrible temper, but a good heart who worked with focus and dedication on the entire test because I asked him to. Because he trusts his teachers. Because we've believed him when others wouldn't. Because we've stood by him. Because we've stood up to his parents for him. Because we've supported him and believed in him. Because we showed him that there are adults who care for him. Because we've made him feel safe. And regardless of what his scores show, I saw how hard he worked and that we had made a difference in his life. And for that I am grateful. Because that my friends, is TEACHING. And TCAP can't take that away. Unless of course, the scores come back really bad and I lose my job.
So, now my part of the test is over. We can all breathe a sigh of relief. I am looking forward to being able to introduce my students to a new novel in the last weeks of school. One that we read for fun and work on whatever comes into our minds. I'm looking forward to fun projects that I didn't have time for while covering the curriculum. To fun field trips and school activities that had to be cut in order to ensure all standards were covered thoroughly. Although I dreamed about the test almost nonstop Thursday night, the stress is starting to fade. My eye twitches much less frequently now and the nausea is gone. I'm sure in a few days, the twitching will pass altogether. Summer is right around the corner. I don't have to worry about TCAP again until August when we start agonizing over our scores, identifying area our students were weak in, identifying students we have coming to us who may need extra help, students who may be able to push to the next level, students who may be in danger of slipping backward, and trying to decide what we need to do differently to improve.
But for now, I've survived another TCAP. Let the fun begin!
