How Standardized Testing Made Me its Bitch

Once upon a time, I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up, but somehow, I've ended up majoring in poverty (music).

 How did this happen?

Well, it all started one fateful day in the 6th grade.....

(Let's do the time warp, again...)

I had only been living in Missouri for a year and I had not yet become fully assimilated into the Yankee culture. (No one whistles Dixie in Missouri. I felt VERY out of place.)

About halfway through the year, my science teacher uttered these fateful words: STANDARDIZED TEST.

Somewhere, in the back of my little 6th grade mind, a flash of recognition occurred.

"Standardized tests... TerraNova.... Oh yeah, I know those. Fill in the bubbles neatly, answer multiple choice, have lots of free time to read Star Trek novels in class..."

WRONG

In Missouri, standardized tests, called the MAP Test (Mutilating All Pupils) are EVIL, FOUL THINGS!

The teachers tell you that your future hangs in the balance if you don't get every answer correct and even worse, there are ESSAY QUESTIONS!

Having just left "Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy-Multiple-Choice Land", "Evil-Sulfurous-Hate-Essay-Question Land" came as a shock to my poor 6th grade system.

Imagine your greatest fear. Spiders, death, Oprah Winfrey, whatever. That's what the MAP Test became for me. It was my Oprah Winfrey.

I can honestly say that the preparation for the MAP Test went pretty well. However, this was obviously a plot created by all of the teachers at my school to trick me into thinking it wouldn't be so bad. I was a
fool.

Test day came and I found myself sitting in science, crappy fantasy novel in hand, ready to fly through the test and escape to the magical world Shannara. Little did I know that I was about to get my shit rocked by a speeding train of essay question and pure, unadulterated hate.

This is how it went:

 

 I sat in that room for 3 hours staring at the same questions: "How are stars born," "what is photosynthesis," and "can you explain the nitrogen cycle."

3 hours. 

The kid who was still a paste-eater at age 12 had finished an hour and a half ago. I was obviously floundering.

I made it through the test and actually did pretty well, but on that day, I had my first panic attack. They've been screwing with my life ever since.

Along with the panic attacks came a secondary symptom: a tremor. This is where we (FINALLY) come back to the point of this blog. 

Surgeons with shaky hands are surgeons with high legal fees.

 

And so died my dream of becoming a famous pediatric oncologist at St. Jude's Hospital.

Now, all I have to look forward to is becoming an opera critic and shaping the opera world in my image.

(Guess who I'm knocking off first?)

Goals

I came to a realization at the beginning this semester.

Everyone needs goals.

This started safely enough. I wrote a flurry of lists filled with goals focused on self-improvement and healthier living.

• Go to bed at 11 every night

• Wake up and eat breakfast every morning

• Practice an hour every day

But then, as shit is wont to do, shit got out of hand.

• I made running every day a goal.

• I made finding and possibly stalking Leontyne Price, my favorite opera singer, a goal.

• sub-goal: Find and destroy Renée Fleming, my least favorite opera singer.

and worst of all....

• I made saying only nice things to people a goal....

 If you know me, you know that as much as other people need oxygen, I need sarcasm. My face's default setting is judgmental and my heart is as black as the deepest pits of the earth. 

Well, maybe it's not that bad, but I do enjoy lacing every conversation with sarcasm and wit. It keeps people on their toes. 

In fact, I usually tell people, "If I make fun of you, it's because I can tolerate your existence. It's when I'm overly nice that you should be afraid." (You know who you are.)


Not a lot of people know I set this goal (Other than those who might remember that terrible week freshmen year, when it was forced upon me by my voice teacher.) Needless to say, it didn't last long.


I kept finding my head filled with snide comments and smart remarks. It was kind of like a maelstrom of bats decided that my skull was the place to be and they started screeching and flapping around in there. 

Have you ever had a maelstrom of bats inside of your head? It's not a pleasant experience. (Some, less creative person, started calling it a migraine a few years back. Mine is better.)

So, finally, in class, I let a comment fly directly into the face of one of my fellow students. Sadly, they received the culmination of 4.5 hours (Like I said, it didn't last long) of Grade A Verbal Bitchslap. It was probably kind of like get clawed in the face by a bat.


I actually felt a little bad, but the whole experience taught me some important lessons:

• Keeping sarcasm inside of your head is dangerous. After all, bats carry rabies, and brain rabies is probably what created the first zombie.

• Setting goals is great, but keep them small. Stuff like "I will brush my teeth," "I will not eat 12 brownies at dinner," and "I will not commit murder" is probably safe.

• Sometimes ridiculous goals ARE ok. I found Leontyne Price's address online and I'm writing her a letter.

(Watch your back Renée. I'm coming for you.)