Testing ... 1,2,3 ... testing ...
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- March 9, 2024
- 393
Allow me to paraphrase, with apologies, “Stairway to Heaven:”
“There’s a feeling I get
When I look at the test
Sometimes all of my work
Will be rewarded.”
Please don’t judge me too harshly on that bit of sophomoric doggerel; in all honesty, I couldn’t come up with a better opening.
What I wanted — and still want — was to get across the overwhelming sense of confidence that occasionally accompanied the collision of time and place, the academic juncture that gave me a chance to demonstrate my total mastery of the subject material.
The key word in that expository paragraph being “occasionally,” meaning it didn’t happen all the time, but when it did, look out.
I was an above-average student who took school pretty seriously, although there were those in positions of power who tended to doubt my commitment toward being better than I was, saying things like, “You know, Mike, if you applied yourself a little more diligently” or “This paper was oh-so-close to earning an A.”
What was I supposed to say to evaluations like that? Exactly.
So I slouched my way through grade school, then junior high and throughout high school, sometimes making the honor roll, sometimes not, all the while content that when it came time to go to college, I’d be able to focus my intellect and begin to truly excel.
All of this was, of course, pure nonsense, as evidenced by the harsh reality of the Pink Slip sent through the mail to my parents midway through my first semester, a damning indictment of their first-born child’s inability to do better than a D in U.S. history.
In my defense I hadn’t yet learned how to properly study. Had I been paying closer attention to the lessons offered in “The Paper Chase,” I’d have been much better off. That film, for the uninitiated, is set in Harvard Law School and centers on a first-year student named James Hart, who gradually begins to get it.
“These guys aren’t stupid,” he’s told by a third-year tutor. “They just have to remember stuff for an hour or so: take the test and forget it. It’s a matter of holding it in your mind for a little while.”
Cynical as that sounds, it gave me an awareness, a strategy, a way of synthesizing everything in my notes into a handy-dandy index, one I could access in the moment when I needed facts fast.
A day later I couldn’t have told you squat about the Dred Scott Decision; the day before, however, I was able to condense the case into a hundred words, most of them savaging Chief Justice Taney.
Anyway, I was good at adapting my new study method to any number of disciplines — art, literature, political science, even theology — so my name became a fixture on the dean’s list, which made my parents proud, though that D in U.S. history still rankled.
“Science or math, I could understand,” Mom said, “but history?”
She loved “The Paper Chase” so much — the architectural grandeur of the campus, the academic demands, the way Mr. Hart attained the upper echelon and endeavored to stay there once he’d arrived.
Mom would often end her twice-weekly letters to me with this simple bit of advice: “Study, study, study,” before adding a handwritten postscript urging me to experience everything I could.
If there was an inherent flaw in her guidance, I couldn’t see it.
Speaking of vision, something strange happened last month when I turned up at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles wanting to acquire an Ohio driver’s license, my North Carolina one about to be voided.
Thirty days seemed an awfully short time to accomplish the task, but once my wife had managed it, I felt pressured to follow suit.
Everything went fine — no outstanding warrants, no drug dependency, my wish to donate my organs, registering to vote — until I got to the eye test. I’ve worn glasses (or contacts) since the late '70s, so my license always noted my need for corrective lenses. However, when I was reviewing the results of the interview, I noticed that under the Restrictions heading, nothing was listed.
“Um, excuse me, ma’am,” I said to the lady behind the desk. “I need glasses to drive, ever since I got out of college. A long time.”
She checked her notes. “Sir, you passed the test without them.”
I could see where this discussion was heading, so I thanked her, posed for my photo — “Less frowning,” she prompted before taking a follow-up she deemed acceptable — and walked with my wife into the bracing January Ohio air, the snow piles gray and sooty.
“I just know this is going to be trouble down the road,” I said to her as I backed out of the parking lot. “I can just see it coming.”
“But you passed!” she said. “Let’s celebrate with a nice lunch.”
Life is a series of tests, I suppose, some more significant than others, the sum of them all reflecting a person’s progress. There are pop quizzes and open-book finals, orals and written exams, each one measuring something. When you have that rare “bring on the test” attitude, there’s no way in the world you can possibly fail.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to find him on Facebook, where most of the tests are strictly of the pass/fail kind.