The Day I Learned How Tests Work

I was ten years old, and I’d never had to write down answers to questions.

At the age of 7, my mom taught me basic addition, subtraction, and multiplication. The course we used was called “Math-It,” and was designed entirely with small, color-coded flash cards. Division was not included in the pack we had. Then I took a few years off, and when I was supposed to be around fifth grade, I had a new math book.

I was very excited about this math book, because it meant a big advance in my learning. I’d seen my older sisters using the same one, and it was the same edition, about as old as I was. My mom told me to write down the answers so she could grade them.

This seemed like an exciting challenge. I read the introduction and explanation of the lesson. It said to practice what I’d just learned about, and write a response to each question. I knew I couldn’t write the answers directly in the book, but I knew I was supposed to write the answers. After puzzling over this problem by myself, I concluded that I must copy the entire chapter, word for word, into a notebook.

It never occurred to me to ask for more directions that day, and I was preoccupied for the next several hours. Painstakingly, I copied about four or five pages of the large textbook into a notebook. Then, in response to each question, I wrote my answer. In the late afternoon, I proudly brought my fresh notebook to my mom, with the first several pages covered in my ten-year-old handwriting.

She looked at it, confused. She wanted to know why I’d copied down everything in the math book lesson. I explained that I needed to answer the math questions, but I couldn’t write them in the book itself.

There was no laughter, no moment of realization followed by kindly redirecting me. Instead, she puzzled over it for a short time before saying, “I can’t use this. You need to write down just the answers.”

I was overwhelmed with disappointment that all my hard work wasn’t usable. I was also frustrated, because what else was I supposed to do? I didn’t understand how to give the answers to the practice questions. I had never been introduced to the format of a test.

Finally, she pointed to the labels at the beginning of each question. The bullet points were labeled with letters or numbers. I was supposed to write down just the number, then the answer. Not the whole question, and certainly not the entire lesson in the textbook.

I remember very clearly when it clicked for me. So if the book said,

1.      2+2

My notebook needed to say,

1.      4

That was the only direct math instruction I ever received. From there, I was expected to teach myself. The math book had each lesson in it, and I was supposed to read the lesson and write down my responses.

For a while, I worked on math whenever I could motivate myself to, but that wasn’t very frequently. I brought my answer sheets to my mom, and she graded a few before giving up.

She gave me the answer key and told me to check my own answers.

Nobody taught me any more math, but I tried to get through by teaching myself. Getting all the way through that one math book was slow work, and I think it took me three school years.

I know it took that long because when I was 13, I was visiting the home of another homeschooling family, and they were much more rigorous with their schooling. The kids were very busy with school for most of the day, and this was an odd change of pace for me. I had my own school books, but my family didn’t have a set study schedule.

With all the little kids, it was difficult to just “start school” by mid-morning, and that basically meant having everyone sit at the kitchen table with coloring books while mom read a fictional book aloud.

I was the only guest, and I stayed with this family for several days because we were competing together at a speech and debate tournament. Because all the other kids were busy doing homework, I took out my own schoolbooks and did mine, too. I was on the book after the one I started when I was 10. This book was Saxon Math 65.

At some point during this quiet time, three very young children came into the room I was in. They announced that they had finished their own math homework. Then the oldest among them asked, “Is that your math book?”

I said it was, and the younger kid started laughing. They called for their younger sibling, and said, “look, [Artemis] has the same math book as you!”

The younger child approached me and looked. The three young kids laughed and started mocking me for being so behind in math. I was embarrassed and I didn’t know what to say. I had never really thought about whether I was in the right math book for my age. Soon, the oldest sibling told the younger kids to leave me alone.

That memory left me deeply ashamed of my own educational progress. I thought I was supposed to teach myself everything.

I have since learned that it wasn’t my fault I was so behind.

My life at home was so unpredictable, it was no wonder that I had little time, energy, or motivation to teach myself. Furthermore, I received no direct instruction. I was on my own to figure it out, while also being expected to manage a large number of other priorities, like helping with the younger kids.

I never really knew what grade I was in, and when people asked, I’d say I was in different grade levels for each subject. This sounded impressive because I was told that I could read far beyond my years, but in reality, I didn’t have a clue how grade levels at public school worked.

These are just some stories that illustrate how bad my educational neglect was.