Oh, STAAR, your rigorous reins are tightened and set for Monday. You've successfully driven all teachers into frenzied stress zombies who are ready to pull their hair out and bang their heads against a wall until you are gone. The pressure that accompanies your presence is like a fog that clouds the confidence of everyone involved. Once you leave, we can regain clarity and breathe clean air again. But it shouldn't be that way, and I hate that part of my job. I hate seeing kids stress about a test that inaccurately labels them pass/fail.
Nonetheless, we can't avoid it. Unfortunately, standardized testing has become a depressing part of public education. But, before we start this craziness, if I could tell my students two things, they would be this:
1. These tests don't define you. I don't care if you don't make a 1 or a 4 on your essay. Of course, I want you to do your best and use the strategies you've learned. I always want you to be successful, but I don't want you to feel like you've let me (or yourself or anyone else) down. You've already shown me how creative, hard-working, funny, clever, and interesting you all are. While you can and should show your personality in the one-two pages of writing you submit, those evaluators will never know the heart and vivacity that you've shown me over the course of the year. Those graders will never read the imagery in the worlds you've created on Free-write Fridays or hear the poems you've attempted during warm-ups. They'll never see your courage when you opened up for the first time to share your writing with your classmates, and they'll never see the warm response you received. They'll never see the compassion you felt when you asked for my help in making someone else feel pretty, after you heard her call herself ugly. They'll never see how hard you've worked to try something new in your writing or to think outside the box. They don't understand what it's like to come to school and produce your best work in every class when you didn't have a meal to eat last night or this morning. They don't understand the poor hand you've been dealt at life, the fact that your dad left, and you hate your step-dad. They don't know how much it means to me when you hug me at the end of a challenging day. Those evaluators don't know your passion for writing and for reading and for people. They don't see the willingness to learn that lingers in your eyes, depending on me everyday. They will never experience the pride I feel when you engage as a community of writers who share and learn and grow with and from one another. They don't know you. But I do.
I see you everyday. I see you cowering in your seat because you don't know an answer and you're scared of what people might think. I see you crying under folded arms, holding back the storm inside. I see you coughing into your hoodie, toughing it out so you don't miss another day of school. I see the decisions you make, when you choose to make a positive change, and I celebrate those small victories with you. So, no, your scores won't show you that. They won't show you the kind of writers or the kind of people you are. But I hope, in some small way, I have. If I haven't shown you enough that I'm proud of you, I'm sorry.
2. I'm sorry. You must understand that sometimes we teachers don't always know everything. I know, I know. It's rare but true. Sometimes I don't get it right, and for that I'm sorry. I'm sorry if you get bored in class (especially doing STAAR stuff). I'm sorry that I'm not more creative. That I'm not the best teacher you've ever had. I'm sorry if you've ever felt invisible or if I can't spend individualized time with you each day. I'm sorry if I don't seem as receptive as you need me to be. I may not always know what's going on with your personal life, but I wish I could show each of you that I care. It's not always easy in the limited time I have with you, and I'm sorry I can't give you more.
While I may not always get it right, know this: I am proud to be your teacher. I understand you (or try to anyway). That you don't fit the mold. I hope you feel heard, respected, understood. So, while your testing tomorrow, know that I believe in you. Regardless of your results, please know that even though I don't always show it, I love you, and I'm proud of you. You are more than a score on a test. You are all rockstars.
Love,
Mrs. Nielswag
