Any Asshole Can Be Taught to Read.

Louis Shalako

Some form of standardized testing has been around in Ontario for many years.

In Grade Six, in elementary school, there were tests of math and reading skills.

In the early seventies, the local separate (Roman Catholic) school board brought in a new program.

Students who tested higher or much higher than average were advanced to the next level.

What this meant was that a Grade Six student who read well found themselves sitting in a Grade Eight class for English and a Grade Seven class for mathematics.

On the standardized reading and comprehension test, I was apparently reading at first-year university level. That was as high as the scale went. The math was more like Grade Eight or Nine. Obviously they couldn’t provide that sort of material to a twelve year-old kid.

On the one hand, the system was proud of me and wanted to take credit for my ability. This was unfortunately not borne out by the numbers turned in by the student population as a whole. I guess they figured they had to do something, as the separate board relied on funds provided by the province—as long as they were meeting minimum educational standards.

One of the things the program did was to draw the student to the attention of the bullies. A couple of years of physical development goes a long way at that age. They were always bigger, stronger, more experienced, but then the bully isn’t interested in a fair fight. He wants to inflict punishment on someone who can’t fight back.

Once you learn how to fight back, they quickly lose interest.

Every person who ever attended school in this or any other country knows all about schoolyard bullies. So one of the additional benefits of this program was to teach the student unarmed combat skills in a fun, engaging and informal way. You learn all about knock-em-down, drag-em-out people skills at recess, lunch hour, you name it. It’s all about social status, isn’t it, social status among the more immature members of society.

(They watch a lot of TV, don’t you know. And the good guy always wins the fight, right?)

There comes that day when your tormenter, the worst of the bunch, comes up, mouth going, and you know enough to punch that cocksucker right in the mouth, no questions asked. Be the one to do it first. Don’t wait around for that barely educated, opinionated little prick to make the first move.

What did you think was going to happen there, asshole?

Another thing it does is split the student away from their contemporaries. Now everyone hates you. 

On the plus side, you can take ‘em—no matter who they are, and you know it, too. You ain’t shy no more, are you? They’re all cowards anyways.

What was really schizoid about this grand experiment was the way the school board abandoned it after a couple of years.

At this point, the accelerated former Grade Six student had taken Grade Eight English for two years in a row already. They had taken Grade Seven math twice. On exam day, all the really cool guys say hi. They pat you on the back. They give you a smoke. Then they all cluster around your desk as the teacher hands out the papers. They want to see your answers. They want you right there, so they can whisper at you like their best buddy and you’re supposed to give up the answers and help them get through it.

Man, were they pissed, when just before we were told to turn the papers over on our desk and begin, when I got up and moved to another desk—right in the front row, right in front of Dingbat’s desk.

Screw you.

I did the work.

You didn’t.

Besides, you’re a fucking bully.

I don’t give a shit if you assholes pass or fail.

Back then there might have been thirty-five students in a room. One of the most painful ordeals was when the class had to take turns. We had to stand at our desk and read aloud. Everyone remembers this, and everyone sort of hated it at the time—even the ones that could actually read.

But there is no more sure way to determine someone’s reading level than to listen to them talk.

They give themselves away in pretty short order.

There was nothing more painful, nothing more calculated to raise my ire, than to have to sit in the class while some dummy, who clearly hadn’t done the homework (for the past eight or nine years), stumbled and mumbled and fumbled, and followed along the lines with a finger, lips moving as they tried to sound it out.

“Kwa-kwa…”

“Quick, Dwayne. The word is quick.”

Jesus, fucking Christ. And this is Grade Eight, for fuck’s sakes…

“Be quiet, Louis. Go ahead, Dwayne.”

No wonder we found school boring. It was intolerable really. At some point, those of us who kicked up enough of a fuss were excused from English class.

A guy called Phillip Morrison and I would be sent to the library, where we played table hockey with a roll of masking tape. There was a lot of shouting and laughing, as I recall. The librarian generally found something else to do during this time. No one quite knew where he got off to.

Our bullies, our tormenters, had moved on to high school, where they hopefully met their proper fate. We were no longer being beaten, or fighting for our lives and our dignity every stinking day on the way there, at lunch, and on the way home. We were bigger now, and better able to hold our own.

I stole quite a few books out of there, too.

The people who are against standardized testing are stupid cunts. Tell them fuckers to shut up.

As far as I'm concerned, any asshole can be taught to read.

END