Today and yesterday I had state testing for English II. I don’t know if the Council of Ohioans will hunt me down for talking about it but I’ll say my piece anyway because I’m mad and censorship of speech is one of the defining traits of fascism so if they take me down the US government is fascist, confirmed.
Yesterday, I headed into my designated testing room upstairs and sat at the desk closest to the teacher’s, which was a big mistake. Two teachers came in that I didn’t recognize; they would be serving as the proctors for the test, administering it, timing us, all that stuff. One was normal and the other was this mentally challenged lady who walked in and thought that we were all eight graders taking the eighth grade test. For clarification, everyone in the room was a sophomore, and looked nothing like a squeaky fourteen-year-old. But whatever, I figured, since it wouldn’t be the first teacher I’d seen that did not know what a teenager looked like.
The normal teacher gave everyone a sheet of paper and a pencil so we could organize our thoughts and write notes. Then, we waited for the idiot teacher to approve us for testing, since it’s online in case you didn’t know. And even though we are clearly not eighth graders, she starts asking if we’re supposed to be taking the eight grade exam. Someone said that we were not. So she does God knows what for a little bit. And then she ponders out loud to the other teacher if we should be taking the eight grade exam. The normal teacher says no one in here is in eight grade. And a bit of time passes. And the mentally challenged teacher explains that she is trying to make sure whether or not we’re taking the English II test or the eight grade test.
I’ve seen some tech illiterate teachers in my time. But why the hell would you let someone so clearly incompetent proctor the test?
But again, I didn’t really care that much, since it wasn’t as if her stupidity was that obvious yet. It was just a little noticeable.
Anyhow, time passed, I took the test, and it was pretty easy. At the end of the test there’s an essay portion. My English teacher had been drilling essay-writing into our heads for the past year, being especially adamant on us writing outlines for our essays before we wrote the final draft. That sort of thing wasn’t my thing; I preferred to just skip to the writing part and let things come out the way it felt right. Even so, I wrote an outline for my essay, partly just because I wanted to respect the wishes of my ELA teacher, and partly because the essay prompt was pretty difficult. So I wrote my outline, wrote my essay. I saw the dimwit teacher looking at me from my peripheral vision, though I imagined then that it was because she was actually being competent, like checking for cheaters or something.
Eventually, I’d finished everything save for my conclusion paragraph, and the allotted time was up. However, you’re allowed fifteen minutes more if you’re not finished, which I decided to take advantage of. I asked for more time to the normal teacher. Technically, you get two hours; it’s just that only an hour and forty-five minutes are given unless you need more. Therefore, it was perfectly within my rights to ask for more time. My request was granted.
Then the snobby idiot teacher goes up to the normal teacher and starts whispering to her like I’m not literally right in front of them. And she says in this really judgmental voice, “Well, maybe he would have finished if he wasn’t drawing the whole time.”
I looked down at my paper. It was my outline, purely words, not even a single scribble or doodle. Not a single pencil mark that wasn’t writing. And she says that I was drawing. It dawned upon me then that the teacher was quite possibly a moron. She was looking at my paper as she said it too.
Of course, the normal teacher corrected her and said that it was an outline, not a drawing like the stupid old hag had thought. And maybe to save face, she starts complaining about my writing an outline. The normal teacher, God bless her soul, defended me and said that outlines are how some kids take tests. Anyway, how are you going to give everyone a paper and start throwing a hissy fit when they use it? I was very pissed off then and I wanted to cuss her out, but I said nothing.
Nothing of interest happened after that aside from me being relocated to use up my final fifteen minutes, which I didn’t even need half of to write my conclusion. I was very upset the rest of the day though.
The next day, I sat down in the same seat because I’m an idiot, right in front of the crazy old lady’s desk. Surprise surprise, the pig-brained teacher again could not figure out whether or not we were eighth graders. She spent some time trying to figure out how to approve us. Actually, that’s me underexaggerating. I straight up fell asleep, because it took her damn near half an hour to figure this out. We waited and waited and eventually we just started talking because she was taking so damn long. When I woke up, two more teachers had been called in and were taking her through the steps one by one. Dear God, we finally got started then. Half an hour after everyone else.
Things went as usual, the multiple choice being easy and all. Soon, I arrived at the essay portion, deciding then that I would write an outline for it despite the prompt being rather simple, partly to respect the wishes of my ELA teacher, and partly to rub it in the stupid teacher’s face, because look at me you crazy old lady, do you see me clearly writing and not drawing? Again, out of my peripheral vision I saw her staring at me, not even in a not obvious way this time. I thought smugly that she was seeing the truth right in front of her eyes. Suck on that, you moron.
To my astonishment, the dumb lady gets up out of her desk, hobbles over to me, standing in front of my desk, taking a nice old gander at my paper for whatever reason. I looked at her. I figured she would move on after seeing my outline and not the Mona Lisa like she had presumed. She did not.
“You shouldn’t be copying down the questions,” she says to me, in front of the whole room where everyone is silent and studiously testing. In that nasty, accusatory tone, as if she knows for certain that I’ve done something wrong. That dumb adult in authority voice.
I had to process this question in my brain before responding. “Copying down questions.” Like reading the question on my laptop, and then writing it down on my paper? To like, read it better or something? To give it to other people so they could cheat even though they’d be burning my scrap paper at the end of the exam? And even if they didn’t burn my paper, the questions are changed every year so it doesn’t even matter? And even though you thoroughly examined my paper and can clearly see that it is an outline? I thought about it some more.
WHAT THE HELL WOULD I EVEN BE DOING THAT FOR WHY THE HELL ARE YOU ASKING ME THAT ARE YOU STUPID OR WHAT YOU GODDAMN IDIOT PISS OFF
“I’m not,” I hissed, but quietly, because I for one was concerned with not disrupting the other test-takers in the room.
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” she says in a not so quiet voice that everyone could hear. I felt very embarrassed then.
“I’m not,” I repeated.
“Then what are you doing?”
…
What do you think I’m doing. What was it established that I was doing yesterday. It is the same thing. You looked at my paper. You looked at it and you are asking me what I am doing.
“I’m making an outline for my essay,” I whispered.
“Huh?”
“An outline for my essay.”
“For your essay?”
“Yes.”
Then she asked me something that really pisses me off, probably to save face for being a moron or maybe because she really is that stupid. “What is it about?”
Stupid lady, dear old hag, my confused senior. You are overstepping your boundaries. That is wildly inappropriate. What the hell is it to you? Why are you going up to a student who is taking an exam and asking them what they’re up to? Why do you care? Just do your job and sit at your desk.
Imagine! Imagine if you were taking an important state-required test where you had to write an essay on a time limit, and out of nowhere someone goes up and starts interrogating you on what you’re writing about. I’ve things to do lady! Piss off and let me work, I’m on a time limit here, and you’re wasting my goddamn time.
Really, I’ve always thought that those kids having shouting matches with the teacher were always just silly little Neanderthals that think it’s cool to act up. But now I understand. For the first time, I genuinely felt like shouting or screaming at the teacher. Not a feeling of mild annoyance. Genuinely, absolutely, with all my heart, I despised her. I have never had to bite my tongue so hard in my entire life. How great would it be if I could tell her off, expose her for how wrong she was. But no. I was taking a test, and she struck me as a person who would drag me out and cause me to fail for some back talk.
So I answered her goofy little question.
Not satisfied, she went over to the normal teacher who was sitting in the other corner. Like a child tattling on their sibling for breaking a vase, she complained to her that I wrote an outline. In a “just a heads up” sort of way, as if she were reporting that I was building a pipe bomb under my desk.
I was pretty rattled, because everything I said, I had said in a slightly annoyed tone. Although I believe my annoyance was perfectly justified and that the old lady was probably too simple to figure out these complex things like emotions, I imagined that the dumb teacher would hang me by the thumbs for it.
The normal teacher, God bless America, completely disregarded her words and the dumb one slinked back to her desk.
I was mad. I was so mad, I sat at my desk and did nothing for twenty minutes. Call me a time waster, but I could not focus. I was so pissed off and I couldn’t stop thinking about how unfair everything was. There is no way that I was the only person who wrote an outline, yet I was being singled out for it. I thought about it and thought about it and I could not concentrate on my essay anymore. I was so pissed off. I was worried, too. Maybe she would find a way to reprimand me. For what, I don’t know, but I was worried anyway.
She asked for my name when the testing period was over. Just me. I don’t know why. Maybe she’ll call Joe Biden and he’ll whoop me. But I swear to God, if I get in trouble for this, I refuse to apologize. I did nothing wrong and I know it. I will fight to the death, and if they punish me anyway after hearing the full story, I will kill myself, because clearly everyone is a moron then, and we live in a fascist country where there is no justice.