Standard Deviations nosleep

The test is God.

I can see them in the corner screen of my monitor: my students, all 110 of them, packed alphabetically by last name into eleven rows of laptop computer screens in the testing center. A police officer stands at every row. They prowl. They proctor.

That used to be my job, back when I first got into education. Teachers administered their own tests. But such a thing would be unthinkable now. Crazy talk.

A hand goes up, and a cop delivers scratch paper. Another hand goes up. Tissues, this time. There’s been an unusual amount of pollen this year. Allergies are out of control. But this kid, Marjorie, is just crying.

These are the Second-Rounders. They’ve all been through remediation. I’m their Second Chance teacher, promoted because of my success in mainstream classrooms. I was good. I was too good. Now I’m here.

I open up the progress tracker on the far left of the screen. I find her name. She’s thirty-five questions in, fifteen to go. She’s missed ten so far. She’s right on the line. She might fail. There’s no way for her to really know this—she can’t track her progress, like I can—but she knows anyway.

I’m alone in the observation chamber. These are my kids, no one else’s. My test. And it’s cold in here. That’s for the equipment, I’m told, and not just the computers. There’s a lot of data storage in this room, all locked behind steel cabinets. And then there are the refrigerators, a whole wall of them. Inside these, there are rewards. If everything goes well, I’ll get to distribute them later.

A boy named Jamie finishes and closes his laptop. Score: 512. Pass advance. Good for him. He’ll move up. He’s shown progress.

Good for me. I need to fall within a reasonable range of the average for my results to be considered effective. Of course, if the needle points far enough to the right, I’m a teacher rock star and a hero. But if my scores drift too far to the left of the standard deviation, adjustments will be made. My status could change to “monitor” for years. I could be replaced. They won’t simply return me to my old classroom and let do what I was born to do.

Teachers move up and down, in and out, same as the kids. No one stays in one place for long. It’s all about progress. It’s about growth, or correction.

Lizzy finishes and closes her laptop, even as Jamie allows himself to be led from the center by one of the cops. This, too, is “standard.” He won’t know his score until they’re all done. He’ll wait in one of two rooms. He passes Lizzy but makes no sign. His lips remain tightly shut, his eyes focused, straight ahead, as the cop grips his elbow, ushering him out.

Lizzy’s score is 600: perfect. She’s been hunting and pecking for three solid hours. She, too, is led from the room, when the escort officer returns. His expression is utterly inscrutable. He is well trained. Lizzy’s gait is characterized by a slight, weary stagger, but she seems relieved to be led through the same door as Jamie. Smart kids, even the Second–Rounders, figure out things quickly.

Ten minutes later, Brenda is the first kid to fail the test: 398. She doesn’t know it yet as she presses the laptop shut with a soft click—but in spite of her score on these last two tests, she’s got enough common sense to know it’s probably a bad thing when she’s ushered toward the other room, the one Jamie and Lizzie weren’t waiting in. Not definitely, but probably.

She cries, passing through, but that’s all. Later, when it’s obvious to everyone which door is which, kids will have to be dragged through that second door. There might even be fighting. I’ve seen it before.

Two passes, both advanced—and one failure. 66.6% success rate. I don’t get any extra credit for “pass advance” or even perfect scores. All that matters is the pass-fail ratio. And 66.6% is not good. It’s far to the left of standard deviation. I hope the other 107 kids are taking their time, doing their best work.

It didn’t always use to be like this.

*

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like anyone gets killed over test scores. Not really.

But my little hometown in Northern Virginia really has seen a boost in student performance since it agreed to pilot this program two years ago. It operates under the premise that all children can learn, and who could argue with that? Certainly not me.

I was a rising figure when I met the program administrator and remediation coordinator, Dr. Quarterman. I’d been recommended toward administration courses. Not me, though. Becoming an assistant principal or, worse yet, a principal, would flood my day with every aspect of the job I hated: paperwork, discipline, budgeting. And it would take me from what I love most: the classroom.

I should have done it, though. I really should have. We all have things we’d do over, I guess.

Dr. Quarterman explained the program to me when I was reassigned to the Second-Rounders. “The idea of failure not being an option is not just a phrase anymore,” he said. “We take it quite literally, and that distinguishes us from other programs. If a child should fail, that child should be retrained. Re-motivated. Retested.”

*

Marjorie has ten questions to go. I’ve always liked her. She’s such an inquisitive child. She wants to do well. It’s intrinsic for her. She wants to please the adults in her life, particularly me. She’s a joy to have in the classroom, in spite of her difficulties.

Surgery was supposed to have corrected her particular form of dyslexia, which consisted mainly of letter and number reversal. She has a permanent implant for control of her attention deficit, too. There’s no reason to think she wouldn’t have mastered the material by now—unless the surgeon had slipped, or something.

She wipes sweat from her forehead. A cop brings her more tissues. She answers another question. Another miss. She’s going to have to finish strong. I say a prayer for her. She deserves to succeed.

As for the others, half of them are done. My students are now at an 88% pass rate, much better than when only three had finished—and also a good enough number to be counted as “effective” only last year. But we believe in progress in this little hometown of mine, and this year, I need to get to 90% to fall within the acceptable norms.

There hasn’t been any fighting yet. No dragging. Maybe it won’t happen.

Outside, the parking lot is full. Two floors down, in the lobby, two hundred or so mothers and fathers wait. A certain percentage of them will soon have reason to celebrate. A large majority of them, in fact. If things go well, they’ll find me available, and I’ll be invited to more parties than I can possibly attend. Not that I would go to any of them. I tend to dwell on the failures. It’s just the kind of guy I am.

*

Last year, things went so well. So said the data, anyway. They called me a miracle worker. They let me open the cryogenic refrigerators and present the kids with their rewards. It would be straight to the hospital for them, after that.

No big deal. Reattachments were made in no time. Within hours, they were home, all 88% of them, eating their favorite foods and opening presents with their friends. I heard that Dr. Quarterman made the rounds, congratulating them

When the rest of the kids are done here today, I’ll be able to return Jamie’s teeth to him. Lizzy will get back both of her fingers. The refrigerators contain a wide variety of incentives. They’re all carefully labeled.

I sit. I wait. Another hour passes. No lunch is served. The remaining kids work and work and work. I doubt they’re hungry, anyway.

I’m sure as hell not hungry.

And in the end, it’s only Marjorie. She’s the very last of them. Her percentage is at the leftmost edge of standard deviation, and she has just one question left to answer. The correct answer is “C.” I have the answer key right in front of me.

Choose “C,” I try to project to her in my mind. C’mon, kid. Choose “C.” When in doubt, that’s what you’re always supposed to choose, right?

My personal effectiveness score now rests at 89%, one percent higher than it’s ever been, and yet one little question away from—well, to be honest, I don’t know. They never tell that kind of thing. We know the incentives in advance, but they don’t advertise the consequences.

She adjusts her monocle, blinks away sweat. She’s testing for the return of her left eyeball—which is the most nearsighted one. If she gets it back, they’ll even fix it for her.

Marjorie uses her scratch paper. She takes her time. She does her best.

Maybe they’ll just change my assignment, I dare to hope. They won’t hurt me. I’m worth too much to them.

Her finger hovers over the keyboard, shaking. And at last, she picks one. She answers the question.

I pray they’ll go easier on her, this time.

The last of the police officers disperse. It’s all over. A couple of them, I know, will be headed my way.

Oh, well, I tell myself. I’m tired of teaching first grade anyway.

Submitted May 21, 2017 at 12:47AM by MarcusDamanda http://ift.tt/2qCzD7R nosleep