I wasn't looking forward to taking the CTBS test for a fifth time. When I'd taken it just a couple of months before I'd had a pretty keen sense of deja vu. Unlike the ACT or the SAT, the CTBS didn't change from year to year, so when I re-read the questions for the fourth year in a row, I hadn't even needed to read entire passages. I'd just skim the first sentence in the reading test, and think, "Oh yeah. THAT one!" and I'd then answer the question. Further, I'd just gotten my scores in the mail about a week before, and I'd gotten 12.9 (the highest possible score) in every section.
Why was I taking a high school test to get into college? I thought to myself. Weren't my ACT scores good enough? Wasn't my high school diploma good enough? Why go through this again? So I did what I felt was sensible: I took my printed test scores with me to the orientation. After lunch, when everyone was coming in to get ready to take the CTBS, I walked up to the man in charge (a white haired, bearded, rotund, older man who--if he didn't play Santa Claus at holiday gatherings--was missing a fantastic opportunity) and handed him my CTBS score sheet.
"Hi," I said. "My name is Bryan Sweasy, and I'm scheduled to take the test this afternoon, but I was wondering if--since I have my scores right here, and since they're perfect scores--that I might be excused from the test this afternoon." It seemed like a perfectly reasonable request to me, and I was sure that he would say yes. But no, I was informed that the scores I got in high school didn't matter, that the university wanted to know what my abilities were now. When I told him that I'd just taken the test six weeks ago and how could my abilities have changed much since then, he told me that for all he knew I'd forged the document in my hand and that for that reason he couldn't accept it. I'd have to take the test again.
I wasn't happy about it, but I sat down and took the test again. This was my first day on campus as an officially accepted student, and besides, I had a university scholarship on the line. I didn't want to make any waves. I wasn't happy about it, though, and when I got my scores in the mail in a few days and they were again 12.9 across the board, I really felt like I'd wasted my time.
But that was just the beginning of this story. I forgot all about the CTBS test until two April's later, at the end of my sophomore year, when I received another letter from the university stating that all students finishing their second semester of their sophomore year were required to re-take the CTBS test in order to measure growth. The letter listed a series of dates for the test and stated which one I'd been assigned to. If I couldn't make that date I needed to select another. The letter ended by stating that sophomore students who did not complete the re-take of the CTBS would be denied credit for their second semester courses.
This must be some mistake, I thought to myself. What growth could I possibly have? There was no way that the university intended for ME to re-take the CTBS. I looked at the date on the letter and made note of it. I then called the university and made an appointment to see the professor whose name was on the letter. My appointment was the day before my test. I took BOTH copies of my CTBS scores (the ones from high school and the ones from my orientation), and I walked into the room on the day of my appointment, and there was Santa Claus behind a desk.
After a few moments of introducing ourselves, I held up my CTBS papers and said, "Look, I scored a 12.9 when I was a senior, and I scored a 12.9 at freshmen orientation. The letter says you're trying to measure growth, but there's no way to grow when I already have a perfect score. I don't see why I should have to take this test again. It's a waste of my time."
Santa stared at me for a moment before laughing and saying, "The point of having all students take and re-take the test isn't to measure an individual's growth. It's to see how we're doing as a university. With that in mind, there may be students, such as yourself possibly, who actually score LOWER on the re-test your sophomore year. So it's okay that you don't have room for growth. Besides, that may not actually be true. Just because you have a 12.9 doesn't mean you have a perfect score. The 12.9 just places you in a grade level, and that is as high as it measures. You can get a 12.9 without getting a perfect score. And the 12.9 isn't the number we use. It's the smaller, raw score number that we use."
I examined my tests. "Huh," I said. "I see the raw score number. And you know what? It's the same for every subject on both the one I took in high school and the one I took at orientation. How close are these to a perfect score?" I handed him the two score sheets.
He took them with a smile and stared at them for a moment, and then, with a smile still on his face, he pulled out another sheet of paper he had in a folder and compared my scores to that paper. After a moment his smile vanished, and he glared at me for a second or two before leaning in to the two papers even a little more closely.
"How did I do?" I asked. "How close was I to a perfect score?"
"It doesn't matter!" he snapped as he all but threw my papers back at me. "It doesn't matter whether you have a perfect score or not. All sophomores are required to take the CTBS again!"
"Well, I'm not doing it!" I said vehemently.
"That's FIIIINNNNNE!" he said, a fake kindness in his voice. "You just won't receive any credits for this last semester."
Now I was the one to glare at him. A dozen comments popped into my mind, but (and I must say I'm proud of this) I withheld all of them. Then an idea popped into my head. To quote from Boris Karloff in the Grinch, I got "a horrible, awful idea" (At least, it was GOING to be a horrible idea for me!).
I smiled. "Okay, then. I guess I have to take the test. I really appreciate your time, and I can see that you're doing a bang up job here. Thanks again." His eyes narrowed, but he accepted my words at face value, and we parted ways. The next day I came, took the test, and thought the whole matter was over.
I'd pretty much completely forgotten about the entire incident, in fact, when in September of that year I got a letter in the mail from the Vice President of Academic Affairs stating that I had an appointment with her the following Monday at 10 o'clock. I'd met her once before, back in May. I was one of four sophomores to serve as Honor Guard for the senior graduation, and the four of us had met with her then. She seemed to take a liking to me, and I liked her, too. I didn't for the life of me, though, know what she would want. I called her office and her secretary answered. I informed her that I'd received the letter and that I had a class during the time of the appointment, and could we reschedule. The secretary put me on hold for a moment, and then came back and said, "She said to tell your professor that you're going to miss that class. You need to see her."
So I did. And at 10 o'clock on Monday I walked into the Vice-President's office still without any idea that anything was wrong. When I walked in and saw Santa Claus sitting in one of the two visitor's chairs, though, I froze.
"Hello, Bryan," she said to me. "Come on in and take a seat." I did so. Slowly. As I eased into the leather chair, I glanced over at Santa, who was glaring at me.
After a moment's silence, she said, "I suppose you know why you're here."
I knew EXACTLY why I was there. "I honestly have no idea," I said as innocently as possible.
She turned her head and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. "Bryan," she began, "every student in this university is required to take the CTBS at the end of his or her sophomore year."
"I know," I said. "And I took it. I didn't want to, but I took it."
"You did?" she said, in a way that suggested she wasn't buying anything I was saying.
"That's right," I said. "I took the test just like I was asked."
"Then we have a problem. Professor, would you like to explain?"
I turned to Santa. He was smiling again, and he began talking again that fake, kind way. "Bryan," he began, as if were lecturing me in a class, "I teach Statistics. I'm a statistician. And let me explain something to you. The Comprehensive Test of Basic Skills is a multiple choice test with four possible answers per choice. If someone knew NOTHING about the content on the test, one would expect him or her to score somewhere around a 25%. I could hand someone a score sheet and--even without seeing the questions--that person could guess and get somewhere around a 25%. Would you agree?"
"I don't know," I said sheepishly.
His kindness disappeared. "Of course you agree! You're a bright fellow! After all, you've scored a perfect score at least twice on the test! Right?"
I smiled triumphantly. "I KNEW my raw score was a perfect score! I KNEW it!"
"That's not important now," Santa Claus said. "What matters is this: The chances that someone could take the test, put in his best effort, and somehow miss EVERY question on the test, is almost impossible. Those odds become even larger when the person has a previous perfect score. That's why," he finished, "the only thing that I can assume is that you missed every question ON PURPOSE!"
There was a moment of silence while he glared at me. I was sure I was about to get kicked out of the university, or at least put on probation or something. And then I heard a strange noise from the direction of the Vice-President. I glanced over at her, and found that she was stifling a laugh. I grinned, too, and my grin sent her into an outright laugh.
Santa Claus did not join us. "This is SERIOUS!" he said loudly. "Because of this, the entire results are skewed!"
I didn't even listen to him. I turned to the Vice President and said, earnestly, "I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. I shouldn't have done it. I just didn't want to take the test. What do I have to do to make this right?"
"I need a letter of apology from you to [Santa Claus--sorry, I forget the guy's name] explaining what you've learned." I nodded that I was okay with that. "I also need a letter from you to me explaining why I shouldn't put you on probation and how you're going to avoid situations like this in the future." Again I nodded. "And," she said, "you're going to need to retake the CTBS one more time, at [Santa Claus'] convenience, and this time take it seriously."
"I have to do all that AND take the test AGAIN?" I was exasperated.
She nodded gravely. "Yes, you do. And you should count yourself lucky that this isn't going on a permanent record anywhere. If it were just about anyone else, I think it would be."
So I took the test again. And I tried my best. And in the end, to the great celebration--I think--of Santa, I actually missed one of the mathematics questions. I'm sure he felt vindicated.
Not me. I felt beaten. Don't get me wrong. I was grateful for what Dr. Smith had done for me. But I also realized a painful lesson: The consequences of rebellion can be pretty significant. If I was going to be a rebel, that was fine, but I needed to choose my battles. And I needed to consider in advance what the consequences would be for my rebellion, and I needed to be willing to live with them.
So I'm a lot more compliant today than I used to be. I grew up a lot that day in the office of the Vice President for Academic Affairs. And today, I'll let people know if I think what I'm being asked to do is a bad idea, but when push comes to shove, I'll probably hunker down and do the work. But that rebel is still inside me, so I'll repeat to you what I say over and over again to my wife:
Don't tell me what to do.
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