Looking out my Backdoor: Testing, testing, testing

Funny how some things never change. Remember back in school days when you had a big test coming up? Perhaps you went to bed worried and woke queasy, not wanting breakfast? I’m sure we all approached tests differently yet we each felt tinges of apprehension, dreadlocks of fear?

I did well on tests, especially essay tests. I disliked multiple choice, gambler’s choice, because I had a tendency to overthink the possibilities. I could generally reason out how A, B, C and D could all be the correct answer. So which one is more correct?

Why so much fear? We all want to do well. We do not want to be counted a “failure.” Some people test well and some don’t. Think about those whose pre-test anxiety renders them unable to even understand the question. Think about those students who are dyslexic. I know a man who can take any oral test with ease yet is paralyzed by the written word.

Think about students who can’t see well, or who have trouble hearing, or aren’t properly fed, kept warm, or perhaps have to work after school and fall into bed at night, exhausted.

Do you still think school testing is an equitable measure of ability and learning and knowledge? I can make a sensible and logical argument to eliminate testing in schools. I believe it to be a false measurement. Those of us who easily “parrot” answers sail through while others, more intelligent and able, get Velcro-ed with negative labels, some of which never fall off.

When I first moved to Mexico, I signed up for an on-line Spanish language class and worked it diligently for a few months. When one day I realized I had dropped out of class, I rationalized that I was learning more from simply being in my neighborhood. Oh, I’m good at rationalization.

I’ve been in Mexico a number of years now. As far as language, I get by. But I’m far from being as fluent as any two-year-old toddler.

I’ve no idea what motivated me, but several months ago I opened the teaching site on my computer and began again, from scratch. Guilt? Shame? Embarrassment? They all are great motivators. If they work, why argue.

I sailed through the first months, diligently working every day, surprised at how much I had actually learned.

Then, of course, lessons began introducing concepts beyond ordering food and locating the nearest bathroom. I struggled through, wanting to know why this and why that. Finally, I said to myself, this is not a language learned by English rules. A basic concept that I was slow to pick up. I learned to just keep going and eventually I began to understand, a little, of the hows and whys.

There is a pattern to these lessons and when I saw that I was coming to an end of this particular pattern, I never gave it a thought. What I didn’t know, was that to unlock the next set, I had to pass a test.

So I took a big gulp, and with heightened blood pressure, muscles tightened into knots, held breath, and bathed in sweat, I began the test. Unlike the lessons, there were no little hints, no clues, no helpers. I passed. Don’t ask me how. I moved onto the next set of lessons.

The difference now is that when I saw that I was coming to the end of the set, and this took months, I knew what monster lurked around the corner. I slowed my pace. Rather than aim for 120 points a day, I slid down the ramp to 60, to 45, to 30. Eventually, of course, I hit the blank wall, nowhere to go.

I took the test. It was a bugger. I was introduced to words I’d never heard, never learned, and from context, had to figure the answer so I could move forward. By the end, I was parched, exhausted, dry-mouthed and felt like I’d run a marathon. But I broke the ribbon—I aced every question. Put it down to blind luck. That’s all I can figure.

My competency level moved upward on the scale. I was given all kinds of kudos and atta-girls. I unlocked the next set of lessons and can move forward again without fear, hopefully, for several more months.

All I want to do is become more competent in the language. I don’t care about the kudos and gold stars and good marks. Nothing is worth the heart-pounding fear generated by those tests. I’ll keep going, motivated solely by my own desire to learn. And, yes, no doubt my pace will slow to the frozen trickle of the Milk River in January when I spy the next test on the horizon.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.