Saturday was one of the longest days of my life. The legislation that makes a demand for highly qualified teachers means that teachers have to pass a good number of standardized tests: number two pencils and draconian policies about water bottles included. Since I’m thinking of taking my shiny new education degree for a spin in the classroom (if anyone will hire me), I got to undergo this quaint American tradition of cruel and unreasonable reward for wanting to enter the sphere of public service.
I’m whining too much about it, really. The morning test on basic reading and writing skills was a piece of cake, as I had been promised it was by friends who have gone through it. I even felt good enough after finishing that test early that I spent another hour taking a pilot test and earning a gift certificate for books. What killed me was that, after four hours of hand-cramping bubble-filling, I had to sit through another several hours, but this time in math.
I am fairly certain the results of that test will forever bar me from teaching anything higher than kindergarten math. I can’t really talk about the specific problems on the test, for fear the scary copyright ninjas from Pearson will snatch me away in the dead of night, but I will say that I have forgotten far more about numbers than they expected me to know. I might have remembered more if I had had the option of taking the math test before parboiling my brain with the morning test, but then again, I might not have. Numbers are not my strength.
In more pleasant news, I turned in my last paper yesterday. My final final. Barring any truly disastrous grades in the eleventh hour, I have earned my master’s degree. Hooray! Now I just have to find some job for which I am not completely unqualified and repay my loans.
Hm. Maybe the more appropriate response would be, “Oy vey.”