WAG - FLASHBACK POST: A GanGREnous experience
Note: I was going to make a G.R.E/GREat joke, but my friend Erin has already used that device. Flittering through my head for another “gre-“ word, gangrenous was the next one that came to mind. The adjective that is sometimes defined as “suffering from tissue death” seemed apt to describe the experience that cost me countless brain cells sacrificed in the name of higher education.
G.R.E || COLLEGE
The pair that best matches the above relationship is:
A) A.C.T. || HIGH SCHOOL
B) ROY || SIEGFRIED
C) BUNS || HOTDOG
D) SUFFERING || PAIN
E) ALL OF THE ABOVE
Let me translate for those of you who haven’t been running over practice analogies for a verbal examination. The G.R.E is to test the culmination of all you’ve learned in college and can help determine whether or not you’ll be accepted into a graduate program at an academic institution. It's not always required, but it cert
To be honest, I’m still not quite sure what the G.R.E. stands for. I’ve already recycled most of my studying materials, but let me poke through the bin that sits at the foot of my bead (or the head, depending on the position I take on my bed right before my political science reading puts me to sleep) and I’ll see if I can find anything illuminative.
Okay, the Graduate Record Examina-tions are no walk in the park, at least they aren’t based on my experience with walks in the park. The general subject test is comprised of an analytical essay writing section, a quantitive math portion, and a verbal vo-cabulary and reading comprehension segment.
There is a confidentiality clause one must sign before taking the test, so I can’t repeat any of the questions in part or in their totality, but I can describe the my mindset while going through the process in general.
First off, the signing of the legal privacy document was the most difficult part of the test. I’m not joking. There was a long paragraph that any prospective test taker must copy and reproduce, in its entirety, at the bottom of the page. It is meant to not only ensure applicants are aware of the rules it provides a handwriting sample to compare future scribblings to (it’s a holdover from the written exam, and even through I was taking the faster, computerized version of the test, it still required my John Hancock (and the equivalent of listing a few dozen of his cousins).
It sound easy, I know, but the tricky part was the following bolded direction: DO NOT PRINT.
I sat stunned in the waiting room of the MU Testing Services center (because you’re not allowed to proceed into the test room until you’ve completed all the extra forms). I haven’t written in cursive regularly since middle school when one wise English teacher, who had spent much time trying to decipher my hieroglyphics, suggested I should print when I turned in handwritten assignments. Another instructor encouraged me to develop word processor skills, as quickly as possible. So for over eight years, the only cursive letters I ever jotted were the A, B, C, E, H, I, L, M, S, and T that I would scribble when I signed a check (and if it wasn’t a check for something important, I sometimes write “Caleb,” make a “S” shape, and twist some twirls and whirls around until I feel like stopping. For this reason, I understand how six distinctly different versions of Shakespeare’s signature have been discovered and how probably more a waiting to be discovered being misplaced in a back drawer of the credenza of history.
Even after feeling foolish earlier in my test preparation trying to recall how the quadratic formula was applied and how to determine the slope of a line, I discovered previously unexpected lows. I was reduced to drawing only one or two letters as a time while I tried to visualize the long-neglected letters.
Worse yet, the document was on carbon paper, which meant I was denied the luxury of erasing my frequent mistakes. I messed up simple letters like ‘T’s. Even though I know you go up and slide back down the way you came before ducking back to cross it later, if it came after a series of loopy letters (like ‘B’s, ‘D’s, or ‘H’s) I would also make it loopy as well, making it appear like a fish with an incomplete tail fin.
I hope there is never any reason to examine the statement. I would have a hard time reading it and I was the one who put it down there in the first place. I also know I wouldn’t be able to pick out my paragraph out of a lineup, because none of the letters would be recognizable (for reasons like the ‘T’ explained above, the appearance of the letters differed even in the same sentence, or in some cases, word).
The good news, is as I stated before, this was the most difficult part of the exam. I had done some test preparation leading up to the test, especially the morning of. The only area that tripped me up was the not-so-optional extra portion of the test. I was warned that there may be an extra section inserted in the test, to help gauge the difficulty of the test and help direct future revisions of the exam. The possibility was described in such a blasé, half-hearted manner, however, I didn’t expect it to come up.
Three hours into the test, I was ready to be done. I’d finished the writing section and a math section and was on the last question of the verbal section. I was tempted to just quit before answer the last question, but I decided to stick it through and answer things properly. Wearing a smug smirk, I finished the last question and leaned back in the chair to wait for unofficial test results.
Another 45-minute 30-question quantitive section greeted me instead.
Grr…!
Forty five minutes later, and without any smarmy look, I sent my final answer spiraling through the computer to complete the calculation of my final scores. Since I was taking the test electronically and every portion of the test was being automatically scored, I had the option to immediately learn my unofficial scores. I clicked that, yes, I’d like to know.
Another window popped up, telling me it wasn’t too late to go back, and I could still back out. “Yes,” keep going, I selected.
Are you really, really sure, I was asked again. I wasn’t nervous the first time the question popped up, but repeatedly confronting the question was slowly ratcheting up the tension of the situation. I needed the numbers, even if they weren’t official, for my graduate school application so I knew I needed to keep going, but I was actually a bit nerv-ous when I tapped, “yes,” for the final time.
Big breath…
The MU School of Journalism’s page on master’s degree applicants sets the minimum GRE score to be 1,000. If your college grades have been a bit rocky, it suggests you score 1,100 to counter-balance that. Talking to a woman in the gradu-ate studies office, I was told to shoot for around 1,250. Granted, the site says reaching the minimum scores doesn’t guarantee anything, but it is welcomed like an extra wool blanket on a frosty winter’s night.
I took a long look at the scores and blinked. I think I blinked a couple more times after that, not trusting my mental calculations. I crunched the numbers, and my forehead, three times before I let myself start trusting them.
1,240! Since the verbal and quantitive points are given out in 10-point increments, I had been only one question off my goal. Considering there were moments of self-doubt in the previous week where I was worried about earning the minimum four digits, I was very delighted with myself.
I was so thrilled, after I turned in my scratch paper I even attended my next class of the day, even though it was only 20 minutes away (my first class of the day I had sacrificed for the sake of finishing the test). When the teacher asked if anyone had done anything interesting, as he often does to start our Monday class, I quickly shared my ac-complishment. I knew the applause I got from my classmates, as led by my teacher, wasn’t heartfelt, but I certainly didn’t let that hurt my ego.
Starting with a cursive curveball and ending in a sitting ovation, I had a trying experience that I hadn’t expected, but I seemed to overcome anyway.
Once you reach a certain point in life, tests become less obvious. By that I mean, one goes through a trial but there is no printed answer sheet, No. 2 lead pencils, or a matronly time keeper reminding you that the clock is counting down. College is winding down, and even if I get accepted to graduate school, the number of blatant tests I have left to take is… numbered. The examinations will keep coming, of course, but they will take the form of conversations, debates, interviews, lunches, and other less obvious assessments.
I’ve finished one of the last transparent tests and, by golly, I did well despite my brain’s attempts otherwise.
We’ll see how I do with the next one called “life.”
At least I can skip the cursive portion.
'Time_to_go_kill_some_more_brain_cells'
