The Schoolhouse That Doesn't Quite Rock
by Timothy D. Starnes
North Carolina, at the time of writing this article, early 2019, still isn’t known as a glimmering lighthouse of American progressivism. In fact, it can be quite the opposite most times. You feel it when traveling even the highways. It feels that a single wrong turn can end badly, like a horror movie. White-hooded judges and police officers circle the car. A family of backwoods misanthropes pops the tires, seeking a snack.
The educational system in the 1990’s and early 2000’s was just as horrible.
Yearly, multiple grades would participate in the end of grade tests, or EOGs. From my memory, it was third, fourth, and fifth grade. There were two sections, reading and math. In fifth grade there is a third, science.
The tests were scored from 1-4. One and two indicating a fail, permitting one retake. Three and four were a passing grade.
These tests were administered about three weeks before the end of the year, making the last three weeks a permanent recess.
During these years, the stretch of 2003-2005, when I was in third through fifth grade, teachers were given raises if all the urchins in their class passed the test.
Somehow, via some form of voodoo magic that I wasn’t involved in, I always managed to pass the math section of the test. However, the teachers I had couldn’t predict the future – thus, I was labeled “the little bastard that is going to lose me my raise.”
We all know that teachers have opinions of their future prisoners, lawyers, doctors, and dark comedy writers. The caveat, however, is that they must keep these opinions a secret. My fifth-grade teacher wasn’t good at that.
We’ll name her Ms. Dyscalculia.
Ms. Dyscalculia singlehandedly went on a campaign to offboard me to someone else, I presume thinking “I can save my raise if I can dump him off on someone else for math!”
The first attempt involved trying to get me booted to the “AIG” – academically and intellectually gifted class after accidentally scoring high on math games in the school computer lab. I failed the test. Ms. Dyscalculia was foiled. Back to the drawing board.
The second attempt was more insidious. First pawning me off on a college student to give me “math tutoring” – she frustratedly stopped after multiple tries. Ms. Dyscalculia then turned me over to the SS, the school supervisors, who insisted I join the special ed classroom for a few hours a day for math. My mother set onto this situation like a fat child at a candy convention. Tearing into the school administration like they were candy wrappers and gnashing at them with her bared teeth. The school then set the guidance counselor to interviewing me, going as far as to try and find out if I had been molested at home. I wasn’t. Foiled again.
Ms. Dyscalculia didn’t have time to take another swing. The EOGs came.
I passed the tests. Goodbye, Ms. Dyscalculia.
North Carolina, at the time of writing this article, early 2019, still isn’t known as a glimmering lighthouse of American progressivism. In fact, it can be quite the opposite most times. You feel it when traveling even the highways. It feels that a single wrong turn can end badly, like a horror movie. White-hooded judges and police officers circle the car. A family of backwoods misanthropes pops the tires, seeking a snack.
The educational system in the 1990’s and early 2000’s was just as horrible.
Yearly, multiple grades would participate in the end of grade tests, or EOGs. From my memory, it was third, fourth, and fifth grade. There were two sections, reading and math. In fifth grade there is a third, science.
The tests were scored from 1-4. One and two indicating a fail, permitting one retake. Three and four were a passing grade.
These tests were administered about three weeks before the end of the year, making the last three weeks a permanent recess.
During these years, the stretch of 2003-2005, when I was in third through fifth grade, teachers were given raises if all the urchins in their class passed the test.
Somehow, via some form of voodoo magic that I wasn’t involved in, I always managed to pass the math section of the test. However, the teachers I had couldn’t predict the future – thus, I was labeled “the little bastard that is going to lose me my raise.”
We all know that teachers have opinions of their future prisoners, lawyers, doctors, and dark comedy writers. The caveat, however, is that they must keep these opinions a secret. My fifth-grade teacher wasn’t good at that.
We’ll name her Ms. Dyscalculia.
Ms. Dyscalculia singlehandedly went on a campaign to offboard me to someone else, I presume thinking “I can save my raise if I can dump him off on someone else for math!”
The first attempt involved trying to get me booted to the “AIG” – academically and intellectually gifted class after accidentally scoring high on math games in the school computer lab. I failed the test. Ms. Dyscalculia was foiled. Back to the drawing board.
The second attempt was more insidious. First pawning me off on a college student to give me “math tutoring” – she frustratedly stopped after multiple tries. Ms. Dyscalculia then turned me over to the SS, the school supervisors, who insisted I join the special ed classroom for a few hours a day for math. My mother set onto this situation like a fat child at a candy convention. Tearing into the school administration like they were candy wrappers and gnashing at them with her bared teeth. The school then set the guidance counselor to interviewing me, going as far as to try and find out if I had been molested at home. I wasn’t. Foiled again.
Ms. Dyscalculia didn’t have time to take another swing. The EOGs came.
I passed the tests. Goodbye, Ms. Dyscalculia.