You get a free homework pass if you know who this is.*
Another day of testing, and I'm roaming around the classroom quietly as kids take their yearly state-issued standardized exams.
"Yes!" I think to myself as I see a kid get an answer right.
As I continue to roam around, I notice a few kids getting easy questions wrong. I think to myself,
"Hey, I taught you that!
You had it for homework!
You had it in class!
You had weekly quizzes!
And always you passed!
You answered my questions--who what why and how.
You showed me you mastered it, but why why not now?"
"Hey, I taught you that!
You had it for homework!
You had it in class!
You had weekly quizzes!
And always you passed!
You answered my questions--who what why and how.
You showed me you mastered it, but why why not now?"
I'm not sure why kids do this on standardized tests--get easy questions wrong--questions for which I really prepared them. Maybe we make too much out of the testing. Maybe in stressing their importance, we stress out the kids. Year after year, I clench my teeth during testing. Sometimes my kids do really well, and sometimes not so well. I strategize, I teach them the standards, I have them practice and hone their test-taking skills, and yet--on that fateful day of testing--I am sure of only one thing: that I prepared them for the test. In no way am I ever sure that they will actually demonstrate that.
It comes down to this: I know I did my job. Will they do theirs?
It comes down to this: I know I did my job. Will they do theirs?
I had one kid--Richard--who was arguably the best reader in my class. He was taking a weekly Open Court Reading comprehension test, and as he handed in the test, I quickly glanced at it. He missed four out of ten multiple choice questions.
"Richard," I said, "go back and check your answers before you hand this in." He glanced at it quickly, wrote his name at the top, and handed it back to me. "Sorry 'bout that," he said.
I grimaced. "Richard, not your name. Your answers. Check your answers." Again, he looked at it, scanned from top to bottom, and handed it back.
"Look, Richard. Go back to the story and write down the page number where you got the answer." Five minutes later he had written down the page numbers but hadn't changed one answer.
That's when I decided to sit down with him--just him--and go over every single question. He read the questions out loud, and then read each multiple choice answer. Finally the light bulb went on. "Oh, that's wrong. Why did I do that?" In response to his rhetorical question, I said nothing. He quickly went through the test, silently, and corrected all of his wrong answers.
Richard was one of my gifted students who underperformed in the state's standardized test the previous year. The tests give out five levels of results: Advanced, Proficient, Basic, Below Basic, and Far Below Basic. Last year, Richard scored "basic" in language arts. "Basic" is basically not passing. To pass, you need "proficient" or higher. This kid, who has a very high level of reading comprehension when you talk to him, was unable to demonstrate his reading skills consistently when he took a written test. The key word here is consistently.
During the year, I worked closely with him to make sure that he slowed down and paid attention to his tests. But on that fateful day in May, I worried--will he be too nervous to remember? Will he show the world that he's capable of scoring "advanced" on the language arts section? Or will he space out, yet again?
I'm talking about Richard in this post because it's important for everyone to understand that these standardized tests measure one very specific thing: how kids perform on this particular test. I knew Richard learned what I taught him this year. If you sit down and talk to him about anything he has read, he can speak volumes in a critical voice. He can tell you about figurative language, use a thesaurus, and write a persuasive essay. This kid is smart and applies his learning--both in his speech and his writing. But put a multiple choice test in front of him, and it's a crapshoot. Sometimes he does well, and other times--not so well.
You might argue--well, if he truly understands the material, he should be able to answer any question put in front of him. To be honest, it depends on the question. And the day of the week. Or his mood. What he had for breakfast. Oh--and are there police helicopters hovering above our school at the time?
He did do well on one particular type of multiple choice test--our Accelerated Reader program. In previous posts I mentioned how Richard had passed enough reading comprehension tests to enable him to be the first student at my school to read a million words, and later, two million words. On those 10-20 question tests, he routinely scored 90% or higher.
So, why did he score consistently well on Accelerated Reader, but not on the Open Court weekly tests?
Well, that's easy. He cared. With Accelerated Reader, we had class goals to meet (for example, one million words before Halloween). He chose the books he read, and which quizzes to take. He had a friendly competition with another student to see who could reach one million first. He had classmates cheering him on as he came closer to the two million word goal. His achievements on these daily tests were a classroom event, and the positive vibe in the class kept him motivated, interested, and smiling.
So, on that fateful day in May as Richard took his state standardized test and police helicopters circled above, I hoped and prayed and crossed my fingers. I know you can do it, Richard--now let's show the world.
Ultimately, Richard did extremely well on his test, improving his language arts score by two levels--he scored "advanced." I knew he could do it--he was prepared, after all. All he had to do was care. And for this test, in this year, he did.
Yeah, I taught him what he needed to learn in the fourth grade. But at the end of the day, what really makes a difference is what each individual kid brings to the table. And the most important thing Richard brought was: he cared.
* Robert Goddard, the father of modern rocketry
That's when I decided to sit down with him--just him--and go over every single question. He read the questions out loud, and then read each multiple choice answer. Finally the light bulb went on. "Oh, that's wrong. Why did I do that?" In response to his rhetorical question, I said nothing. He quickly went through the test, silently, and corrected all of his wrong answers.
Richard was one of my gifted students who underperformed in the state's standardized test the previous year. The tests give out five levels of results: Advanced, Proficient, Basic, Below Basic, and Far Below Basic. Last year, Richard scored "basic" in language arts. "Basic" is basically not passing. To pass, you need "proficient" or higher. This kid, who has a very high level of reading comprehension when you talk to him, was unable to demonstrate his reading skills consistently when he took a written test. The key word here is consistently.
During the year, I worked closely with him to make sure that he slowed down and paid attention to his tests. But on that fateful day in May, I worried--will he be too nervous to remember? Will he show the world that he's capable of scoring "advanced" on the language arts section? Or will he space out, yet again?
I'm talking about Richard in this post because it's important for everyone to understand that these standardized tests measure one very specific thing: how kids perform on this particular test. I knew Richard learned what I taught him this year. If you sit down and talk to him about anything he has read, he can speak volumes in a critical voice. He can tell you about figurative language, use a thesaurus, and write a persuasive essay. This kid is smart and applies his learning--both in his speech and his writing. But put a multiple choice test in front of him, and it's a crapshoot. Sometimes he does well, and other times--not so well.
You might argue--well, if he truly understands the material, he should be able to answer any question put in front of him. To be honest, it depends on the question. And the day of the week. Or his mood. What he had for breakfast. Oh--and are there police helicopters hovering above our school at the time?
He did do well on one particular type of multiple choice test--our Accelerated Reader program. In previous posts I mentioned how Richard had passed enough reading comprehension tests to enable him to be the first student at my school to read a million words, and later, two million words. On those 10-20 question tests, he routinely scored 90% or higher.
So, why did he score consistently well on Accelerated Reader, but not on the Open Court weekly tests?
Well, that's easy. He cared. With Accelerated Reader, we had class goals to meet (for example, one million words before Halloween). He chose the books he read, and which quizzes to take. He had a friendly competition with another student to see who could reach one million first. He had classmates cheering him on as he came closer to the two million word goal. His achievements on these daily tests were a classroom event, and the positive vibe in the class kept him motivated, interested, and smiling.
So, on that fateful day in May as Richard took his state standardized test and police helicopters circled above, I hoped and prayed and crossed my fingers. I know you can do it, Richard--now let's show the world.
Ultimately, Richard did extremely well on his test, improving his language arts score by two levels--he scored "advanced." I knew he could do it--he was prepared, after all. All he had to do was care. And for this test, in this year, he did.
Yeah, I taught him what he needed to learn in the fourth grade. But at the end of the day, what really makes a difference is what each individual kid brings to the table. And the most important thing Richard brought was: he cared.
* Robert Goddard, the father of modern rocketry
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