Thoughts on Proctoring

As I look out at the top of 22 adolescent heads, bent attentively over their test booklets and answer sheets, my heart swells.

At moments when they glance up, I can catch glimpses of their younger selves. The second-grade versions of these high school juniors. They are short and sweet, with clearer skin and smaller feet. They are still hopeful and eager -- most of them -- at least. Their world is so much smaller and simpler, the scope of their desires so much narrower and easier to satisfy. Some of them still believe in the Tooth Fairy.

There is still room for such hope in their hearts. Hope that the world can offer possibilities they have yet to explore.

As I watch the 22 bowed heads, frowning as they read, scribbling and erasing, propping their chins in their palms as they struggle to pick the one "best" answer or to translate their thoughts into just the right words, I see those same kids learning to read, who still confuse their lower-case "b's" and "d's" when they print, but whose hearts still are open to learning. They sit, criss-cross-applesauce, on the carpet square and listen with rapt attention as their teacher reads to them from Charlotte's Web. They are unashamed to show emotion: they exclaim, laugh, and cry uninhibited by the judgment of their peers.

They want so much to make her happy. To see the star or smiley face or sticker she puts at the top of the paper. They crave her affirmation and affection; they long to hear her say "great job!" or "good work!" For some of them, these are the only encouraging words they will hear all day.

As I watch them now, in the rows of maroon and gray desks, the tall boys in the back of the row, legs sprawled out to the sides, I can see hints at the circumstances that shaped them. Some of them struggle to stay awake; last night's sleep interrupted by their mother's boyfriend who barges drunkenly through the living room where they sleep with their siblings on a pull-out couch. Some of them stare off into space blankly, their hunger distracting them from staying "on task"; no one was awake yet at home to make sure they had any breakfast before they walked to school. Some of them squirm and fidget in their seats, they no longer take the ADHD meds because their dad's job refuses to pay for his insurance. The kids have changed, but the circumstances have stayed the same. They have made it through twelve years of school in spite of all these things and manage, somehow, to continue because, really, what other choice do they have?

These kids still want to do their best and get that approval, even if it now comes on a form letter saying "Proficient" rather than on a smiley face in the top margin. But their open hearts have closed up, their desire to learn slowly sapped away by years of seeing "Below Basic" or memories of the teacher who believed that they were only capable of what the data showed they were.

As I watch these 22 bowed heads I see all that is terrible and wonderful about public education. As they so earnestly scrawl their constructed responses, I know that, unlike their younger selves, they realize the significance of these tests. They have come to realize that, for the most part, "Below Basic" means that they are a failure and, after years of form letters, they've come to believe it.

But here's the wonderful part: despite all this, a tiny spark of hope remains. All it needs is a whisper of encouragement to get it to glow and more kindling to make it ignite. Even though it may be too late to make up for years of low reading scores, it is not too late to make up for years of low expectations. Even as high school juniors, it is possible to intervene and convince these kids that, despite their test scores or their sixth-grade teacher's hurtful words, they can still be successful. That even though they may not be able to figure out the difference between a noun and a verb, that they can still figure out the difference between truth and lies. They can still analyze a situation and determine right from wrong. They can still be the kind of person who chooses the best answer when it really counts.

As I watch these 22 kids, I think of the millions of other kids who are sitting in rows of desks in some other school in some other state, with the very same story. But then I also think of the millions of others who are sitting, criss-cross-applesauce, with open hearts and minds, who look up at their teacher with the hope only a child can have. And I know that we have another chance.