MCAS MANIA

Two weeks ago the principal sidles up to me in the hallway and says, "So, you must be nervous, huh?"

Nervous?  Why would I be nervous?

"In two weeks?  Nervous, huh?"  She is clearly making a point.  I am clearly not getting it.

I start wondering if she's asking about my thesis.  Yes, I am damn worried about that, to be honest.  Damn, damn worried.  Well, semi-worried.  At the time I was wicked worried; now I'm only a little anxious.

"MCAS," she explains, like I'm some idiot from another planet.  MCAS, for you out-of-staters, is the Massachusetts Comprehensive Assessment System, or something like that.  We here in-state call it the Massachusetts Child Abuse System.  It's like those old bubble tests but on steroids.

In short, the MCAS is a state-funded ploy to keep Ticonderoga #2 pencils in business.

It takes me about five seconds to compute what the principal is saying and where she's going with it.  Clearly she knows I take the test seriously, but she mustn't know me too well.  My students are ready for the MCAS.  I teach them everything I know about the test.

I don't teach to the test; I teach them about the test.

I teach them what the graders are looking for and how the graders are all trained like lemmings to follow the same check-sheet rubric.  I teach them to play Where's Waldo with the multiple choice: "The answers are in there," I assure them.  "You just have to find 'em."  The stuff they do daily in all of their classes are the same kinds of things they'll be doing on the test.  It's a reasonably valid test.  If I'm teaching to the test, then I haven't actually taught them anything except how to waste a huge chunk of academic time.

Why should that make me nervous? Now I'm nervous that I'm not nervous.  Should I be nervous?  Should I be nervous that I'm starting to get nervous about not being nervous?

I take a deep breath and look at the principal.  "Nervous?  Nah.  These kids are ready.  They'll be fine.  Just fine."

I mean that.  I honestly mean that.

Today is day #1 of the state-mandated testing for Massachusetts.  It is the most tightly policed portion of all of the state tests:  The Long Composition for grades 4, 7, and 10.  By 8:15 in the morning, we will all know what the long comp prompt is for my grade level, as no one is allowed to sneak a peek until we crack the test open at the same time across the entire state.  It's like Fort Knox in the school today.  This portion of the state testing gets more security than the president.

I'm not nervous.  I'm absolutely psyched.  I can't wait.  I am so totally excited by this part of the test that I can barely stand myself.  The adults who designed the test always think they'll outsmart the kids with a grammar trick, or a capitalization trick, or including commonly misspelled/confusing words like accept vs. except.  But we're ready.  Bring it on, MCAS.

Nervous?  Nah.  The most nerve-wracking thing about the MCAS is whether or not someone will give me a potty break when I need it.  Maybe that's what the principal is asking me.  I should've answered, "Yes, I am nervous!  Make sure someone comes down to relieve my around 9:30 so I can pee!"

And I should've walked away.

Then the principal would be the nervous one.  And she'd be nervous about being nervous because she would think I am serious.  And folks, the thought of me being serious really should make people nervous.  I know it makes me nervous.  I'm serious.

And there you have it.  See you on the other side of the long composition, folks.  I'll be in lock-down until noon-time.  Wish me luck!