What twelve year-olds can teach you when you give them a bunch of tests, Part 1: Strange behavior
I had so much on my mind at the end of last year’s “testing season” that I scribbled it down on the corner of notebook paper, and then took a picture when it was time to clean up my classroom on the last day of school. Then I went home and started writing about it. Assessment for learning is one thing, but what I learned about teenagers from administering lots of assessments left my head spinning. This is part 1 of a 2-part post.
In my role of “testing coordination and support”, last spring I brought hundreds of students into my classroom to show what they know, over and over. And over. And over again. When you go through the same routine with a few hundred students, certain patterns start to emerge. I was a teacher proctoring a test, but I felt like a student of the adolescent condition. Our students had a lot to teach me.
We do weird things when we’re nervous.
My favorite, of all the test sessions I held, was the Spontaneous Arm Fart. I was alone in my classroom with a plump little sixth grader, trying my best to make him feel comfortable and confident as I walked him through a brief speaking test. So of course, he blew fart sounds into the crook of his elbow after every question I asked him. Loud, juicy arm farts.
My first instinct was to quiet the giggles in the class, but there was no one else in the room. He wasn’t showing off to anybody; my friend was legitimately making arm farts for himself. That’s how excruciating it felt for him to sit tete-a-tete with a teacher. Most middle school teachers I work with have about 150 students on their rosters. Spending extended time one-on-one with any student is incredibly rare. But it is also incredibly humanizing for both parties. My quirky little arm-farter was a sound reminder of how uncommon it is for students to sit alone with a teacher. Some of us want a crowd to hide ourselves into.
Given similar stakes, a self-respecting adult might have excused himself for some fresh air. Most of us have enough coping skills to act nervous in ways that follow social norms. An eleven year-old’s options are more limited, so what do you do? Apparently, you bury your face into the soft side of your arm and blow as hard as you can. Then you pick your head up as if it never happened at all, and wait for the next test question.
Behavior follows a playbook.
I’m talking about boys. Those boys. The play goes like this:
Kick open the classroom door, arms high and wide- like your rock concert fans are awaiting, or maybe you’re trying to scare off a bear.
Sweep the room with your eyes. Notice there is no audience for your rock concert, just a teacher sitting in a chair, waiting for you to join her. Maybe the bear instinct was right.
Saunter. Let the teacher know that, like a cat, you will sit down when you are good and ready. Touch some stuff: tinker with the singing bowl, play with whatever is wafting out of the essential oil diffuser.
Go ahead, ask her. “Is anyone else coming in here?” Tick your chin up when you say it, like you’re in the Fast and the Furious and the teacher’s gang of street thugs will start their ambush any second.
The teacher is… still smiling. It could be a trick. Take your seat. Proceed with caution.
Do the test. Answer the weird questions about pictures, charts, and state your claims about imaginary scenarios.
It’s over. She was nice to you, and you were nice to her, but nobody needs to know that. “Is that all?” you ask.
When she signs your pass to send you back to class, make sure you go out on top. Exit the room with swagger. Stop by the water fountain and the restroom on the farthest side of campus before you go back to third period. And when you get there, kick that door open like you just fought off a gang of street thugs. Throw your hands in the air; your audience awaits.
Re-posted with love and permission from my sister site, The Napa Wife.
