A Short, Loud Rant about the SAT

I have a friend in high school currently taking the SAT and ACT and wondering exactly what the scores mean.  I admit that I wondered the same thing just a few years ago as I was trying to get into college.  It’s a long, arduous process that ultimately leaves you with more questions than answers, but the biggest question I still have centers on the SAT.  Why in the world did I ever pay to take that worthless test?

Back in high school, we learned that our SAT scores would significantly determine where we went to school, and that is true for many people (though I found out after taking the tests that American University offers a test-blind admission option).  I even had to take the short-fated writing potion where I was called to write a well-organized essay in a very brief period.  Apparently that section will soon disappear from the SAT again, which is a shame as it was the only valuable section at all.

I can honestly say that the SAT is the most worthless step in the college application process, just as state-level standardized tests are the least effective part of high school.  Putting every student in the country up to the same standard is a lot like ranking a barracuda, an elephant, and an ant on their swimming speed.  Plus, after two years of college, I’ve done nothing that looks at all like an SAT.  In my time as an intern, do you think I ever had to answer a page of math questions in ten minutes?  No.

The SAT represents a large element of what is wrong with our education system.  We rely on one test to measure every student, which encourages teachers to teach to the test.  This inspires a culture of test-taking, which stunts creativity.  The ability to sit in a room and stare at a piece of paper doesn’t get you very far in the job market.  However, skills like writing, critical thinking, and a command of mathematical processes could land anyone a fantastic job.  Now though, the writing section is disappearing, which is indicative of what our education system believes about creativity.

I won’t go further into NCLB or Race to the Top, but I will attack the College Board as a moneymaking scheme designed to extract money from students though useless tests that don’t measure any of the skills colleges of jobs actually look for.  Colleges themselves share much of the blame here, relying on these scores to track how a student performs.  If academic institutions truly cared about creativity, about STEM education, about broadening the horizons of the next generation, they would stop granting so much merit to an outdated test.

While there are many other complex problems in American education (including the use of STEM programs to justify cuts to the arts and physical education, which, by the way, are just as valuable as a physics course), we could fix our addiction to standardized tests quickly simply by refusing to take them and devaluing their merit through a modernized admissions process.  I don’t know the right system, and I certainly see the value of tests in assessing a part of what a student learns, but I do know that it is more important for a school to teach real, applicable knowledge rather than the ‘skill’ of filling in a bubble (make sure you have a number 2 pencil, as marks made with any other pencil may not be recorded).

Encampment

The snow holds the small fire
hidden in the wilderness.
His socks, stuck on branches,
steam as they dry.
His feet finally dry, he pulls on
another pair and ties his laces.
He gathers an armful of firewood.
The logs snap and burn,
the twigs bend and flare in the heat.
The snow melts to the dirt,
the embers roll and tumble with the growing flame.
He moves the branch
that holds his socks
and sits back in the lean-to.
He eats.

He follows his stomach
to the sleeping bag and mumbles a prayer,
the words slipping and flickering
upwards in the smoke, the orange glow.
The fire crackles, lulling him.
Sleep creeps closer and he rolls into it.
There is to gather more firewood
in the morning, but for now a few hours
of rest he permits himself to enjoy.  With warm feet
he drifts to another land as the forest cools,
the fire fades in the moonlight.

A Trip Along the Rails

Isaiah stares intently out the window of the train, soaking in the network of tracks and wires.  Another train lurches along much like his a few tracks over, beginning its journey and slowly clearing itself of the platform.  One passes in front of it, sliding over Isaiah’s line of sight as it pulls into another platform.  Its doors slide open and the people begin to shuffle out.  He turns to look back as some struggle with their luggage, others wait for their friends, and still others dressed in black and carrying cell phones and briefcases confidently stride down the concrete walkway dodging between the slower race.

Hearing the conductor approaching he searches out his ticket.  He unfolds the crumpled paper and hands it up to the man who scans it and nods, placing a card above Isaiah’s seat indicating his destination.

Now that he can unpack his things without interruption, he reaches into the bag at his feet.  He shuffles through his possessions and pulls out a leather-bound journal and a black, metal pen.  Finding his last page he flips down the tray and prepares to write.

He glances again out the window and sees the million stones beneath the tracks separating into their various lines, guiding the tracks to their ends.  The city behind them now, the train and its passengers hum along the rails into the outer lands.

For a few moments he sits and watches, watches as the evidence of the city disappears.  With each minute fewer buildings are in his sight.  He leans over his page and begins his work for the day.  His poems and musings stretch long today, almost as long as the ride before him.

As the hours pass, the scenery changes.  Isaiah looks up at the change in the mood, the change in the sky.  Out the window now sits one of the manufacturing zones, the copper and steel sprawl stretching for miles.  It came upon them quickly, so much so that he could still see the barren fields behind them.

A maze of pipes, a child’s stacking of blocks for buildings, a thousand trucks that go along, all of this and more the scenery of a civilization.  The sooty reality of the 1980s collected on the walls, while the minerals of the 21^st century spewed into the air as the goods and chemicals came into being.

Isaiah shuddered at the mess, remembering the ruin of home.  He returned his eyes to the pages before him.  But the factory would not be ignored.  A glow of orange erupted across the paper.  Startled, he snapped his eyes outside to behold a chemical flare burning atop a nearby smokestack.

The flames and smoke spread up across the sky.  Who can count the gallons of liquid it consumes?  Who can measure the minerals that comprise the factory?  How many tons of iron is smelted, how many cubic meters of zinc and tin refined?

Isaiah surveyed the car.  Everyone, the conductor too, gazed out the windows, mouths open in awe at the spectacle.  Their world sat before them, the source just a few yards beyond the glass.  Inside the car, the fruit was evident.  The car itself returned home as it slowed to pass along the tracks and survey the cargo and freight stacked aboard another train.

Terrified, Isaiah resolved to sit back and think.  He had to warn them.

Book Review: ‘The Suicidal Mind’

While interning at the American Association of Suicidology, I’m learning more and more about a topic that so many people are afraid to discuss.  Suicide is a tough subject. On the one hand, we are exposed to it in pop culture; we see it in movies, read it in books, and on occasion catch it in our newspapers.  But on the other hand, though we so often see it, we rarely engage the issue on another level, one of thought and understanding.

To understand suicide, we must understand people who are suicidal and the reasons for their actions.  My boss recommended I read Edwin Shneidman’s short book The Suicidal Mind.  Shneidman, after all, founded AAS, and was a pioneer in the study of suicide.

The book is brief and easy to read, written in everyday language.  Shneidman himself, in the introduction, highlights the importance of using language that can be easily understood when discussing suicide.  While his case selections are limited and do little more than prove his points, the book is, in my eyes, an easy starting point to understanding the issue of suicide.

Shneidman’s main argument is that suicide is caused by pain, not generally a physical pain but a mental version, a psychache, as he puts it.  In the exploration of three cases, it becomes apparent that each suffered a great deal of psychological pain that eventually led them to desire an escape.

Importantly, Shneidman does not discuss suicide as a criminal act and does not accept that suicide is inevitable.  He understands it as a mental issue, and a preventable one at that.  Suicide here is not cowardly, it is not selfish.  It is the end of a long search for release; it is, for the victim, a manner used to escape the constant mental anguish present in their daily lives.

As a new student in the field of suicidology, I certainly do not understand all of its nuances and debates.  However, I agree with many of Shneidman’s points.  Though he uses only three cases in his book, he is a veteran of the field and draws on a large body of knowledge.  Still, he has a habit of making the same points over and over.  By the time the fourth chapter comes, I’ve already heard about the cases he wants to explore.  I already have a general understanding of psychache, and he’s already begun discussing prevention and care.  Finally, when the book draws to a close, he spends his remaining pages on psychotherapy and an idealistic call to life.

While psychotherapy is definitely a major part of his discussion, he intended the book for even the casual observer.  Acting as if his readers were going to administer therapy to their friends is not only inappropriate but dangerous.  Without proper training, friends are simply not qualified to perform this task.  Even if Shneidman does not intend to raise a crop of psychologists with his writing, he is still overextending his writing.

While Shneidman’s arguments are solid, he spends too much time giving a broad overview.  At the end of the book, I feel as though he hasn’t fully explored his theories and applications, but instead gave me a crash course in psychotherapy and a few chilling stories.  For a general introduction to suicidology, this book is easy to read and short.  For all of its merits, however, it has its issues as well.  Overall, I give The Suicidal Mind three out of five stars.

Review of ‘Outliers’ by Malcolm Gladwell

Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers is a solid read that explores success in our society.  On the whole, I agree with the positions that he takes, particularly that success is more than individual hard work.

For the first half of the book, Gladwell explores factors that relate to success.  He gives credit to natural ability, but only to a point.  I appreciated the great care he took to include relevant and interesting case studies to demonstrate his point.  He did not limit himself to just the ‘big names’ such as Gates and Jobs, though they are discussed.  Gladwell weaves in narratives of well-known and no-name people to illustrate his discussion.

Outliers left me with an odd taste in my mouth.  It is an excellent book, but after finishing its pages I felt a bit off.  I find myself questioning why we believe we can measure success, why we give so much credit to the individual, and why we don’t ask questions about success and just assume it happens.  But beyond those issues, I am wondering what Gladwell believes for the rest of us.

Gladwell makes it very clear that achievement is the right combination of hard work, circumstance, history, culture, opportunity, and luck.  But what about those who might not have the right timing?  For instance, Gladwell frequently returns to the issue of one’s birth year and the expanding industries that exist by the time someone hits college.  He softly advocates better birthday cutoffs for school and sports, but what if the year I was born in just doesn’t happen to be the perfect year?  Am I doomed to a life of failure compared to the rare outliers Gladwell venerates?

Thinking through these questions, it is important to remember that Gladwell is not trying to predict success.  He is only offering an examination of its history for when it has happened.  But for all of the practical examples he provides, I am still unsatisfied with the idea of achievement and success in our society.

Currently I am surrounded by the idea of redefining success.  Universities, businesses, and people talk about finding fulfillment in work, about how fame and money are not everything.  Research is even telling us that humans are happiest when they are allowed to be creative and work on their passion.  But we still chase the almighty dollar.

Our definition of success and all the debate surrounding this idea boils down to a few, large issues.  In my understanding of the topic, the way we measure success is the key to describing it.  We need to choose, as a society and as individuals, whether we prefer happiness and creativity or a big paycheck and a nice title. 

Both sides, of course, have their merits.  Wealth is certainly very useful, while having an enjoyable day at work is powerful for the mind.  But we cannot compare success across the gap, not yet.  If our passion is in a job that will not pay seven figures but still provides for our family, are we less successful than the rich executive?

As for me, I know that I want to support myself.  But the question of needs and desires comes into play.  Wealth, for me, is based more on the experiences we have, the opportunities we take hold of, and the excitement we feel upon getting up in the morning than it is on living an unfulfilling but financially fantastic life. 

The idea that Outliers leaves me with is that opportunity and circumstance play a major role in the course of our lives.  Whether or not those make us successful, in the sense of enjoying our life, is up to us.  We get to choose which paths we take, but I agree with Gladwell that we should do our best to provide those opportunities to more people than we do currently.  We ourselves might not deny others the chance for fulfillment, but we live in a society that does.  The question we are left with is whether or not we will do anything about it.

Strange Goings-On in the Forests

It’s quiet.  In the darkness only two objects move, one of the men and the flames he and his partner sit beside.   Far beyond the glow of the firelight, where the flames are no more than an orange glow in the blue of the forest-winter and the camp an inanimate display someone watches.  Bundled in furs and gripping his rifle a trapper prepares to become a soldier.

The two men within the orange light eat noisily, laughing and sharing stories of back home, of boyhood.  Between the bread and the thick beans two men prepare to face a long night by insulating themselves with the memory of a warm bed and friendly faces.  Though they are unaware of it, the sadness of their lives is never far away, closer even than the new soldier with the rifle silently approaching the firelight in the powder snow that coats the ground.

Their tales, their memories of home, their very existence as men clouds over with the hate bestowed on an occupying force.  Their value, the reason to let them live or to end their stories, is determined by the man who pays them.  Where the money for the beans and bread originated is their pardon or the cornerstone in their sentencing founded on belief that a man cannot own the land.  The rifleman holds this belief tighter than his weapon; he sees the truth about nature and nurture at the end of the barrel he now points at the man who just a few moments ago was moving about to the stir the pot of beans on the campfire.

Lying in the snow he steadies the hunting rifle on a tree root protruding from the snow and calculates his aim.  The two men, unaware of the waiting crack in the silence, finish their meal and each pull out a cigarette from a pack bought at the company’s store.  Tomorrow they’ll approach the first of the trappers and loggers in the hills, tomorrow they’ll reason with them and convince the land away from them.  In a month the new owners would arrive and they would find the site ready.

This is the reality the trapper faces.  At peace all of his life he turns now to slipping his finger around the trigger, the motion eased by the actions of a certain mining company, the deaths of a certain pair of people in the small town nearby who opposed the selling and the pollution of the land.  The new soldier pulls the trigger, shifts, and fires again.  He’s stuck his claim, but unlike the mining company his deed will not show his ownership.  His deed instead demonstrates the will of the forest, the truth of how far a man might go for something that built his livelihood and asked for simple stewardship and care in return.

 

 

The Rhythm Inside You

A convicting rhythm, a knowing
fill invades the eardrum.
I learn of what I should be,
all of what I am not.

The song somewhere distant,
some idyllic and secret spring;
my listening a reverence to what
I could never yet be.

For a moment it washes over me,
my core shakes with unending sound.
But the track must end,
no lyrics strong enough to last,

no frequency memorable in my ears.
Now just a melody echoes in my mind,
a riff erodes within me,
the remnant of a higher level.

Autumn Reading

Now that it’s cold outside, there are opportunities around that didn’t exist with the heat.  For example, I am a huge fan of drinking espresso outside in the cold.  Obviously I can drink espresso outside in the heat, but when it’s cold there is a different feeling to it.  There’s also a different feeling to reading (outside and inside) in the cold.  Fall reading is some of the best of the year.  My only problem is that I want to read too many books and have to write too many essays.

This Fall I have a truly varied reading list.  I’m interested in many different subjects and authors, and with Halloween coming up this week it’s fun to grab a horror novel.  But the most important element to reading in the Fall is the sensation of paper pages turning.  Unfortunately, course readings often rob us of this opportunity.  Don’t get me wrong, I like sustainability almost as much as the next AU student.  The ‘almost’ is there only because some people take it a bit too far.  Anyway, online readings are great as far as convenience and the environment.  But there is something missing.  I can’t retain information that I read off a screen as well as information from a physical book, yet this is only half the battle.

Another challenge in my college reading this Fall is the subject material.  I’m discovering again and again each day that reading something enjoyable is much easier than reading a dense, long-winded, scholarly article.  It’s unfortunate to see so many students struggling to read their required texts and hating each one so much.  Add that to the poor perception of reading today and we are faced with a problem.  So many students and kids simply dislike reading, or feel embarrassed with a book in their hands.  The argument is constantly made that kids read just as much online, so we shouldn’t worry.  But have you ever thought about the quality of the average Buzzfeed article?  And when is the last time you read a long article all the way to the end?

I don’t have any sort of agenda with this little book-rant, but I’ll keep it brief.  In the time you’ve saved by reading a short blog post, try picking up a book you actually want to read, even if that’s only because the cover looked cool.

Energy, Without the Jitters

The psalm percolates
and drips through me.
The richness pours out,
the flavor warms inside
with energy, pure.

In excitement I drink in
what is before me,
perhaps burning my tongue
but savoring nonetheless
the flavor,
its boldness.

What Am I Doing with My Life?

Today I find myself in the midst of the required monthly existential crisis that many students have unknowingly signed up for by enrolling in liberal arts-based program.  This particular crisis feels very Cuban in nature, though I don’t think I need to worry about stocking up on cigars before an embargo is declared.  Truly though, I, for whatever reason, believe that this particular struggle to know the right path will bring about lasting change, though every time this has happened in the past very little actually changed but somehow I convinced myself all was different and that I should be at peace.

However, what makes this time so different is that I am deliberating something of actual relevance in my life, not just from which concentration degree program to receive my scrap of paper.  I’m actually considering pursuing a whole different piece of paper entirely.

In my senior year of high school I was required to take a course in creative writing (it was either that or Shakespeare, but the Bard and I don’t get along when it comes to grades).  I expected to hate it, but I actually found it to be quite enjoyable.  At the end, my teacher asked whether I planned to pursue creativity in college.  I laughed and told her I wanted to get a real degree, one that would give me skills and the ability to think, not just to marvel.

To pursue that end, I enrolled in an international relations program in DC, thinking it would give me those very skills.  In my first class, I learned the basic theories of international relations, which made sense.  But in my second and third classes, the theory continued.  That’s alright; there are hundreds of scholars who are smarter than I am to learn from.  But no scholar, no professor, and certainly no student mentioned the possibility of actually using these theories in a practical setting.  I asked one of my professors about the classes I should take to emerge with a useful degree, and he suggested taking the skills-based classes after my required sections.  But looking ahead now, the skills-based classes are about the same as my current theory-based classes.  The crucial difference is the research requirement in the skill classes, but how many times can I learn how to research?

During my second semester of my first year, I finished up my university art requirement with a poetry class and loved it.  I’ve never enjoyed a class more.  My professor pushed me to see aspects of poems I never knew existed, and most importantly she pushed me to create.  Never before had I written a poem I was happy with, but I learned from other poets that I didn’t have to be happy with it immediately.  I am allowed to work on poems over and over again if I like.  In my international relations classes this is not the case.  I’m allowed one chance and it’s not even anything I’m interested in.  I have hundreds of ideas but my international relations classes give me no opportunity to work on them.

If all stays the same, I’ll graduate with a degree that taught me few skills and gives me very little chance of getting a job.  On top of that, I’ll probably never get to apply my small bit of creativity in the workplace, which means that I have little chance of improving my creative skills.  I don’t want that.  I’m changing majors.