Dear Standardized Testing,

You have taken yet another to bare witness to what you have in store. She is eight years old. She has short brown hair and big brown eyes. She still has that brave innocence where she can do nothing wrong, where every answer is the right one, and where every question has a simple solution. Last week we were asked to write "words of encouragement" on bright colored sheets of construction paper. I wasn't sure whether to write "Good luck! You'll do great," or-- "You have no idea how much this could break you, I hope it doesn't". She ran to me with excitement and told me about a special trick to make you think "smarter" during the test; chewing gum. I chuckled inside to see this brave small soul taking on the world of your judgment and self-labeling with chewing gum as her most valued defense. I don't remember ever chewing gum during my exams.

I do remember one thing, you broke me. I, a young wide-eyed hopeful, stared up at the towering task that consisted of thin slices of paper. Paper, which seemed so simple before, gained new meaning. The meaning of my value and my future. I'm not sure why, but I saw that stack of paper as my worth. To everyone else, it was just another day, but to me, every word, every letter, had the power to decide who I was. It had to be perfect, right? Wrong. Forcing this ideal on myself made you a threat I could never overcome. The threat grew. The first days of school became unbearable, the first test in a class was critical, and every move had to be calculated. The first day of fourth grade was when the nose bleeds started. Your first writing exam was when I threw up in front of my entire English class, thanks for that. Every day after, you expanded your hold on my life.

This letter is not to blame you or scare future test takers, it is to simply make you understand the power of the number that you labeled me with, that you labeled us all with. Every comparison and every judgment day made me doubt everything that I was. As I stared down at the most innocent pair of eyes, I hoped that she would never have to feel the way I felt, or deal with the repercussions I still struggle with today. You know what, I do blame you. I blame you for making me feel as powerless and finite as a number. I blame you for the way I had to physically concentrate on not making myself fail to avoid disappointment. I blame you for making me have to work twice as hard and I blame you for the panic attacks and the lack of self-esteem.

But most of all, I blame you for making me fear for her future, a future that should be bright, successful, and hopeful, not one filled with fear and doubt. Your overwhelming presence is unavoidable, I know. The world has created a society surrounded with your principles: right, wrong, advanced, lacking, exceptional, average. The words that can make us, break us, and tear us to pieces. I closed the door on the image of that 8-year-old girl, sharpened pencils and Hubba-Bubba Bubble Gum clutched in hand, with a big smile on her face, and I left for school, painfully aware of her ever approaching meeting with — you.

Sincerely,

A Testing Veteran