I clenched the phone tighter and closed my eyes. “So what you’re saying is for the End of Course exam 9th graders will be required to write three essays, two of which will be scored.”
The voice on the other end of the line cleared her throat, “yes ma’am. Three essays. Two are scored. Students will have four hours to write and only 26 lines in which to complete their essay.”
My heart dropped and I glanced at one of our district liaisons, nodding my fear.
“26 lines.” I echoed.
“Yes. And if students choose to write between the lines, graders will count written lines until they reach 26, effectively cutting off an essay before it’s finished. It’s imperative students learn how to write cohesively and clearly.”
“In 26 lines?” I repeated, still not believing the news.
A pause. “…yes.”
I tried to wrap my brain around it. I tried giving them the benefit of the doubt. I approached the subject again, hoping to hear a different answer. “So, next year when sophomores take the test, will they have more lines allowing them more opportunity to develop their thoughts?”
The voice turned short. “No. 26 lines, 9th grade through exit level, online and paper testing. It’s an issue of funding, and we need consistency between online and paper testers.”
I thanked her for the help, placed the phone back in the receiver, and allowed my head to fall into my hands.
How on earth do you write an entire essay in 26 lines? I thought to myself.
Later that week, I’m brainstorming with my principal. Sensing the urgency of testing season fast approaching, we’re tackling the heavy topic of writing processes. How do you teach writing? How do you prep for tests? How do you foster creativity? All of this is important to me – I get soap-boxy about kids having freedom to express themselves and opportunity to write as much as possible. My principal looks at me and smiles.
“Elora, listen. I know you’re a writer. I know this whole thing bothers you – it gets under your skin. I know you. You’re probably philosophically opposed to this on every level. But. It is what it is, and we have to get our kids ready. How can we do it?”
Something shifted then, and {admittedly} even though a small part of my writing heart died knowing the limitation placed on students, I began looking outside the box.
26 lines won’t get a kid into college.
26 lines probably won’t get an A in a literature course.
26 lines would be in the bottom half of a stack of AP essays.
But.
Brian Andreas, noted creative, writes stories in two sentences or less. I thought of my e-mail exchange with him a few years ago, how I asked him the secret to finding great stories in small pieces. He told me he listened for the whisper of a beginning - and how he wrote stories and paired them down until only the bare bones showed, “those are the only pieces that matter anyway,” he said.
And I remembered with 26 lines it’d be hard-pressed to teach development and characterization, but what if we wrote a full essay and the teachers taught word economy by editing down the phrases until only the necessary remained? Teaching students true editing – not just simple rewriting – and reminding them the test may be one ticket for now but clarity of thought and eloquence and well-placed phrases are all part of the biggest ticket highly valued in society?
I knew then it would be okay. I may not agree with the policy. I may not understand the relevance of claiming well-developed writing within a 26-lined breath of a story. But I know how to teach and I know how to inspire and I know how to take these mistakes made by those not in the classroom and tweak it to equal success for my kids.
And really, that’s the only thing that matters.
Elora is a storyteller and instructional coach currently trying to find her own messy-middle between administration and writing. You can find her personal blog here.
