In elementary school, I dreaded the annual achievement tests that made the sometimes smelly classroom smell even worse. I spent the whole year trying to get smart, but when the test came around, I showed up like everyone else with my pencils sharpened, feeling inept for standardized testing. I knew I would be ranked and deemed below average. And then what would my family think? My older brothers were always good. My mother’s mantra to me: “Your brothers knew all the nursery rhymes, but you can’t even recite Humpty Dumpty.” I still can’t, and I don’t care. Not being up to standard was fine with me. But those annual achievement tests gave me a rash.
Thanks to retirement, I no longer go to work and am no longer tested, judged, evaluated – nice words to describe how someone was always trying to put pressure on me.
But I recently encountered standardization when I took my car in for regular maintenance and, as always, left satisfied – polite people, competent work. A week later, I received an email from the dealership asking how it went. “We want you to have the best experience possible. Please fill out this short survey.” OK, I thought. Shouldn’t take long. On the fourth screen, things got personal, not to me, but to the service rep.
Did he tell me how long the job might take? Did he speak politely? Was it clean and well-groomed? Did he ask if I wanted a ride somewhere? Did he explain what to do? Did he check the odometer? Did he note the VIN?
The kind young man probably had a family, so could he lose his job if I didn’t give him good reviews? Was he counting on me to save his ass? What would happen if I got cheeky and ripped up the questionnaire for fun? His kids without milk? His spouse would work as a window cleaner?
The questionnaire continued: Did he put a tissue paper mat on the floor? Did he write a service tag on the dashboard? Did he offer to contact me when the job was done? Did he actually contact me? How long did the job take? Was he professional when he contacted me?
I felt threatened and hurt, not only for myself but also for the hard-working guy. He did seemed nervous, perhaps wondering if I would give his work a bad review. Who was standing over him, holding him down and examining him through me?
The customer satisfaction survey went on and on, asking questions that were undoubtedly written by some power-hungry, obsessive, authoritarian careerist who couldn’t tell an adjustable wrench from a drill. Some boot-licking lackey who thought up fake ways to fire people.
I did my best for the young man and hoped it was enough.
This is not an isolated case. Most of us are categorized, judged and either accepted or rejected by an all-encompassing standardization with little consideration for our individual selves. By checking the right boxes, others often determine how well we work, how “successful” we are – perhaps even who we are.
My achievement tests in elementary school confused me so much that I was dizzy. I hated them and rarely checked the right boxes. Now that I’m out of the workforce, I’m much calmer, but I pity those whose jobs and livelihoods are based on one-size-fits-all standardization. All to evaluate us. To force us into the right boxes.
Standardization has its advantages, I suppose. Without it, much of our culture might collapse, but I doubt it. I fear that if others check our boxes for us, we might be left faceless, as if we were numbers registered somewhere. And to what end?
Michael Pulley lives in Springfield. He can be reached at [email protected].
