I write to you today as a recent escapee of the Graduate Record Examination, a fiendish standardized test that many graduate schools require as part of their entry criteria. Having taken the SAT, I thought this would be more of the same: crowd into a converted high school gymnasium, listen to someone read instructions on how to fill in circles verbatim from a prepared sheet, you know.
Little did I realize the horrors that were about to unfold.
Now, I hasten to mention that I have taken an eternal vow of silence regarding the content of the test. This is commanded of all potential GRE takers as step one of the sign-in process. In order to make sure no misunderstandings occur, test-takers must write out, verbatim, a prepared paragraph – and yes, I am noticing a trend here.
The paragraph states, in essence: “I pinky swear not to ever, ever, ever, ever reveal the contents of the GRE. May ravenous hippopotami hump my desiccated bones if I fail to uphold this sacred trust. In the name of the Father, the Son, and my approved adaptive test-taking terminal, amen.”
I am given to understand that would-be testers originally had to carve this phrase in ivory, but standard ink pens are now acceptable. As an avowed lifelong member of the Fraternal and Hermetic Order of GRE Survivors, I would not even consider disclosing the specifics of a question that I witnessed on the test. I believe doing so causes ownership of any synapses involved in the thought process to default to the GRE’s creators.
However, I am permitted, as far as I know, to describe the test-taking environment.
After signing the Pledge of Allegiance, test-takers must surrender all of their earthly goods and place them in a small locker which is located outside the testing area and is squinted at suspiciously by a receptionist during the entire test-taking process. This includes keys, wallet, and so on; pockets must be completely empty. I don’t know what happens if someone shows up with a less than “collegiate” appearance; for example, baggy pants. Perhaps there are trained dogs nearby to examine them.
After being divested of all possessions except a single ID and the key to the locker, one is photographed and then escorted by Navy SEALS to the test-taking room. The test itself is thoroughly computerized. While there are places around the world where the GRE is available only on paper, the latest fad is to make the examination more fiendish by imbuing it with Machiavellian intellect.
You see, the test is supposed to seamlessly adapt itself to your anticipated level of skill in both the verbal and quantitative fields – for those of us who don’t speak jargon, “quantitative” means “mathful.” I’m sure this process is very impressive, but it just doesn’t work for complete idiots such as myself. After presenting what I assume was a series of moderately difficult math questions, the computer actually asked me to identify a mathematical symbol.
I assume I was only one step away from being asked “What comes next in this series? 1, 2, 3 …”
Before you even begin the test, you are treated to a brief demonstration of what a mouse is and how to operate a keyboard. This is presumably aimed at test takers who have somehow managed to complete their undergraduate studies without ever encountering a computer. I guess ITM 200 has some value after all, though I don’t foresee myself creating a colorful multimedia Powerpoint presentation about the joys of the GRE any time soon.
As a warm up, your testing terminal thoughtfully distills the process of operating a mouse into a dozen or so slides, many of them illustrated. These diagrams indicate what a mouse is, which direction it should be oriented, and where the buttons are located, though I think sharing this information with you might constitute a breach of my loyalty oath.
The testing facility I visited (nestled deep within the mountains of the Sierra Madre) was also under heavy camera surveillance. I can’t guarantee, but I believe, this tends to be the case wherever possible. Taking a page from UT’s new security policies, any unusual or alarming behavior is considered to be cause for concern. Even your scratch paper is emblazoned with a warning that any shenanigans, mischief, horseplay, laughing, fun or happy thoughts may make your scores invalid.
As such, I nearly ruined my shot at graduate school by howling with laughter when I finally discovered how a mouse works.
Unfortunately, the GRE seems to be, by many accounts, much more influential than its dweeby little cousin, the SAT. It is almost inevitable that a large portion of students moving on to more schooling will take it at one point or another. Hopefully, it will eventually be superseded, as standardized testing often is, by a more holistic and relevant view of a candidate’s merits.
After all, my “quantitative” score makes me look like a rampaging neanderthal striking keys at random, and my verbal score makes me look like a superhero.
I assure my readers that I am neither. I am, however, glad to have this part of my academic career over with, and won’t be calling for do-overs.