I spent this past Saturday proctoring the SAT exam. Proctoring is a big word for walking around the classroom trying to keep my eyes open. I only had 1 student (there was 1 no-show and 1 who opted into the SAT w/essay, thereby propelling her into another room and leaving me with 1 student to monitor and observe for any signs of cheating or irregularity.)
There is a long script to read full of what appeared to be (to my 1 and only examee) irrelevant directions. But in keeping with the strict regulations and spirit of the SAT, I dutifully read everything, word for word, with the right intonation and inflection one might expect from an official proctor.
I am a reader by nature, however and it was difficult not to snatch up the copy of A Brave New World sitting on the classroom shelf and get entranced. Official SAT procedures prohibit one from reading, (newspapers, novels or student work,) grading papers or any other meaningful activity that might take your eyes away from wayward movement or distract you from watching the clock.
I did my best to uphold the standard, even if I only had 1 student, because the rigors and rules are what lend the test to being..., well, standard. Uniform, equal, fair. I walked around the room actively proctoring- reading all the posters (luckily, we were in a Mandarin classroom so the reading was a bit more interesting than the average classroom poster. I think I may have even picked up a pattern or two in the characters...,) staring out the window (opening the curtains when the power went out) and checking my testee to make sure she wasn't photographing any parts of the test or sending them off virtually via some secret electronic device hidden on her person.
Nope. All was well. I took a seat next to her and perused the testing manual. I read (again) the admittance sheets and calculated birthdays. The young girl sitting next to me was 20 years old.
That gave me pause. I remembered myself at twenty and for a minute I was envious of her there, with her life stretched out before her, filled with possible journeys and international connections. Clean. Uncomplicated. Bare.
The contrast with my own life at that age was staggering. A vision of myself appeared in my mind's eye like a stranger, and I was overcome with the burden of who I had been and all that I hadn't known or thought possible.
Sometimes the weight of life choices is heavy. I've spent much of the past two years trying to determine how to move forward without creating more regret, to proceed with foresight rather than hindsight (as so eloquently put by a recent Bernie supporter. Though, honestly, American politics seem almost as far away from me as that image of my 20 year old self.)
In general, I am pleased with the person I have grown into. Crafting a version of yourself that matches all the fine details of who you know you are takes time and patience and focus. But it is a work that is never quite complete. For now, it feels a bit like a work that is halted in progress. Abidjan has had a way of making me feel stuck in limbo these past two years.
It's not true. I have only to witness the impish smile of my little lovey as she pours (yet another) glass of water into an unsuspecting someone's lap (her favorite pass time lately) or hear the way her gibberish falls and rises in time with Nabih's cries of indignation (he really is teaching her the finer points of how to argue) to see that she has grown from that adorable, always sleeping, ever smiling, cute and cuddly baby to a walking, talking, fire-breathing toddler. Time is passing. I'm not sure I am making the most of it.
It is kind of hard to feel I am using time to my advantage when the manual suggests I walk around and stare at test-takers for 4 hours. Or maybe that is the point of it all. I learned a bit of Chinese, discovered the title of a book I want to read, and admired some Magna art. While I did I daydream about future possibilities, I spent most of that time living in the very moment- watching the clock, noting the hour and minutes right down to the seconds. I was aware of my breathing and my walking and my presence. I was aware of her presence. Two people in the same room, twenty years apart, lifetimes at opposite ends of the spectrum, facing choices made and unmade, random worlds colliding.
All on a Saturday morning before noon.
