To Whom It May Concern
(and to those who clearly haven’t stepped foot in a classroom since the era of the overhead projector):
Whoever you are, O’ Curator of the World’s Most Confusing and Hypothetical Scenarios, I commend you. You’ve managed to create an epistemological disorientation of riddles and call it a certification exam. Naturally, I’m referring to the WEST E 102: Elementary Education Certification Exam for Washington State, a test designed to measure elementary educators’ general knowledge of both language arts and social studies. I figured that for someone with degrees in both those fields, this ought to be a walk in the park. I was wrong.
Let me be clear: I believe in the importance of certifying qualified educators. I believe in high standards and expectations, ask any of my students. What I’m struggling to believe is that those standards are best measured by what can only be described as a series of educational escape room puzzles, apparently written by someone whose only contact with children was across the aisle at an Olive Garden, or with a guest pass during the era of the tiered TV rolling carts, with the VCR, and the entire Magic School Bus series.
Let’s start with this gem (paraphrased from memory, as the trauma has blurred the details):
“You are an accountant writing a newspaper cover story about the corporate tax code… blah blah blah Most important element to include?”
Okay… bold start. Nothing says elementary education quite like financial journalism. But sure, I’ll go with it, determined to dig up some deep educational connection.
The two plausible answers?
A. Define unfamiliar vocabulary
C. Repeat key concepts multiple times
My instinct leaned toward A, because of the oddly specific and unrelated accountant scenario. But then I started spiraling: Were they referencing graduate writing theory? Student outcome improvement after multiple mentions? Was this about audience awareness? Maybe expository structure? So I switched to C, thinking about the classic writing model: introduce, explain, conclude; say it, explain it, say it again. I even created a backstory for our journalist/accountant, hoping that imagining her personality and goals would make the question feel less absurd.
It did not. I felt like Katniss Everdeen, in an educator’s edition of the Hunger Games.
Another example of the test’s commitment to confusing people who think they know what they’re doing:
“Which is the most important civic duty?”
The most obvious right choices?
A. Voting
D. Participating in the political process (with a little list I’ve since blocked out after the adrenaline spike, but I’m reasonably sure it included writing letters and volunteering)
Now here’s the thing: I’ve taught this unit for over a decade. I’ve led “Dear Mayor” letter campaigns. I’ve overseen classroom food drives where someone always tries to donate a collection of outdated fast food condiment packets—ketchup, mustard, Mild Taco Bell sauce—and a Splenda.
And both of those answer choices? Equally emphasized in state standards, social studies textbooks, and every children’s book with a title like You Can Change the World!
Honestly, if we’re talking about what we actually teach children to do, it’s usually the participation examples. Voting is essential to democracy, yes, but to a 10-year-old? It’s abstract. Writing a letter to city hall about a new slide to replace the metal one that causes third degree burns? Campaigning with glitter posters?
I picked voting.
Why? Because I was trying to think like someone who was probably seated in an actual functioning swivel chair, with padding that hasn’t been poked with pencils, a backrest with actual support, surrounded by the sounds of policy and not practicality.
And this wasn’t a one time thing. I flagged (to come back to) over a third of the test because, over and over, I found myself trapped between two answer choices that were less “right and wrong” and more “vanilla and French vanilla.” (And not the French vanilla with the flecks that gives it away.)
I would sincerely welcome an explanation for how on earth these questions are developed and validated. Are there any current educators involved? Anyone who’s been in a class this century? If not, I’d be happy to volunteer. Or at least audit the next round of riddles.
Sincerely,
Amanda Macumber
P.S. This is coming from someone whose swivel chair makes high-pitched noises when sat in, has at least one tear in the seat cushion, and none of the adjustment levers work anymore. A real teacher, who may or may not have passed the 102 yet. Jury’s still out.
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