My 15-year-old daughter, Jenna, shines in academic and extracurricular pursuits. Her yearly MEAP (Michigan Educational Assessment Program) scores are proudly displayed on the refrigerator, next to special achievements like her acceptance two years ago as a People-to-People Student Ambassador, an invitation based partly on test scores from a PSAT taken in the seventh grade. On the basis of the very tests I now question, my daughter became part of a prestigious international program created by President Dwight D. Eisenhower.
As I read articles today that debate the value of MEAP and other standardized testing, I can't help but think about how complicated education has become. I keep envisioning the Little Red Schoolhouse, with one room, one teacher and no standardized tests.
I understand the need for an educational yardstick that measures our children's knowledge, but as the mother of another child, whose speech and motor skills are challenged due to cerebral palsy, I can't help but play the devil's advocate. In my mind, the little red schoolhouse represents a simpler educational time, complete with young students enthusiastically clapping dusty erasers, and a resounding bell proclaiming the start of another school day.
It also represents a time when students learning with disabilities were segregated, some receiving little or no education at all.
Still, I can't help but think of the generations of students who never took a standardized test like the MEAP, but still turned out to be productive citizens. People like the first president of the United States, or our ancestors who fought for world peace or discovered electricity and the automobile engine. People like Thomas Jefferson, Albert Einstein, Eleanor Roosevelt, Martin Luther King, Jr., Amelia Earheart, Henry Ford, Noah Webster and Ernest Hemingway.
I agree that today's global market has dramatically raised the educational stakes, and that our children will work in a highly competitive economic world.
But can we fairly measure a child's future using standardized tests? What about children who panic during testing? Or those with dyslexia and attention deficit disorder (ADD) who struggle with reading, understanding and staying to the task at hand? What about children who had nothing to eat on the morning of the "big test?"
Should we really dismiss a child's future potential because he didn't have Cheerio's for breakfast?
My son's physical needs make testing a challenge. But does he really know less than those who can easily fill in the blanks with sharp #2 pencils? Are we in danger of lowering our expectations for children with disabilities because we don't believe they can reach high standards? If so, how will those children ever reach their full potential?
The day before that Australian trip in 1997, I made Jenna go to lunch with me against her strong teenage will. The lunch included an interview of us by two first-year Michigan State University medical students. Jenna offered a valuable perspective on the role of siblings in families with special needs. They asked her about the greatest lesson she's learned having a brother with cerebral palsy.
"I'm less judgmental and more tolerant of people's differences," she said.
The value of Jenna's experiences outside of the classroom was obvious to the interviewers. She told them of her years of dance training, music lessons and annual attendance at a language-arts camp, which offered unique opportunities for reading and writing and independent thinking. MEAP scores were never mentioned. While impressive, they wouldn't have given these medical students a better understanding of her. Ultimately, it's her maturity, poise and heart that most impress those who meet her.
This year, Jenna's working toward another People-to-People trip to Europe, including four days in Paris, France, where she'll have the opportunity to practice French first hand.
Next year, we face an alternative assessment for her brother. But as parents, we'll continue to hold both of our children to high educational standards. We'll display Eric's special achievements right next to his sister's on the 'fridge.' Because one day his vast knowledge may be revealed through an appropriate computer keyboard or his developing speech. Why, then, would we cheat him of an opportunity to learn because his knowledge can't be easily measured by a test?
The day Jenna departed Capital City Airport in Lansing for 20 hours in flight, her father and I pretended to smile, but Eric showed honest emotion. As his sister waved goodbye, the reality of her impending absence hit hard. The huge smile he'd shared moments before, changed to a heartbreaking pout and tears rolled silently down his cheeks. This emotional tribute to the big sister he adores underscored their strong sibling bond, while highlighting just how much he really understands.
It was a powerful moment no professional could ever teach, and one no MEAP test could ever fully measure.
For over fifteen years, Winter has written about the challenging lives of others, as well as her own. She is an award-winning parent advocate for children with special needs.