Dear School, Eff Your ‘F’
Two-thirds of millennials don’t know what Auschwitz is, blame the standardized test
For a long time you will say I am not listening, not paying attention. You will insist I do not care, that I am lazy. At best, a daydreamer.
A neurological explanation will be found. You will give me cures: Here is extra time to complete the test. And a calculator. And medicine for your daydreaming brain. You will feel good about yourselves: See how we have accommodated, how kind we are, how helpful and understanding?
And I will wonder how very awful I must be. They gave me extra time, gum to chew, notes to view and still, I can’t do better than before. Where there was only suspicion (Am I stupid?) now there is proof: my scarlet letters, Ds and Fs. You don’t make me wear these as an armband or sewn onto my shirt, but I can’t take them off, either. They’re mine for good.
"Try harder. Work harder. Pay attention. Sit still. Stop drawing. Stop humming. Begin again," you say.
Sometimes I get a B, even an A. But I hate those, too. I see how they cause your dark, dulled eyes to spark and catch fire: “Look! He can do it. He simply wasn’t trying before. Hooray!” I fear your excitement. Like a giant bird, it clutches and carries me too close to the sun. Others cheer. But…
