Category: ESOL

ELL Testing Madness

Friday, Feb. 24, 2023

Every January-February, teachers of English Language Learners (ELLs) give up six weeks of normalcy to conduct mandated WiDA Access testing for all K-12 students. The Maryland State Department of Education requires all ELLS to be tested in four domains every year: Listening, Reading, Writing, and Speaking. This single test determines student proficiency level, a measurement used to allocate state funding for staff, materials, and resources – and not much else.

The problem is that one, single, deeply-flawed test determines a child’s status as an English Language Learner at school. This needs to change. 

First, the results of the WiDA Access test don’t arrive until late in the school year (late May),
when master schedules and staffing allocations have already been determined. While it’s always interesting to see how my students performed on the different components, the test scores arrive too late to inform my classroom instruction.

Second, the Speaking component of the test does not really measure a child’s ability to speak English. If they have not practiced speaking into a microphone, or if they don’t know they will get cut off (with no time to go back and re-record), their speaking score is low. Sometimes this is also reflected in the classroom. But when a test measures the ability to use technology rather than what it’s designed to measure, the results are invalid. 

Before the Every Student Succeeds Act (ESSA) brought the WiDA test to our doorstep, my district used a variety of criteria to determine a child’s proficiency in English: grades, performance on non-WiDA tests (including grade-level assessments in English, Biology, Algebra, and Government), reading tests like MAP-R, and – most importantly – teacher judgment. We still use these measures to place actual children in actual classes – not their WiDA scores. 

Teachers of English Language Learners (ELD teachers) often know their students more intimately than other education professionals because we work with the same students year after year. When newcomers arrive with limited English, their ELD teachers greet them with warm smiles. Their ELD teachers become their culture brokers, advocates, counselors, and in loco parentis trusted adults. We watch them grow and gain confidence as they adapt and make friends. As soon as they achieve proficiency, we say good-bye and send them into the mainstream. 

Once they pass the WiDA Access test and are out of our domain, these ELL success stories no longer count in state data. That’s a good thing! We’ve done our jobs! But the students who do not pass the WiDA Access test will be listed as English Language Learners until they pass the test, die trying, or graduate. 

I teach in a Montgomery County High School, where seniors who have been in the English Language Development (ELD) program since elementary school cannot exit the program. Many of these are receiving special education services or have significant learning challenges. Some have documents signed by their parents refusing ELD services. They will never pass the WiDA test. In spite of the fact they have refused ELD services, we still have to give them the WiDA Access test every year. All four domains. 

We have to pull students from their regular classes – often at the beginning of a new semester, when teachers are introducing new content or the class is conducting valuable get-to-know-you activities – to make them sit for a test that has absolutely zero relevance to their educational journey, their future, or their eligibility for graduation.

Yet, Maryland State Department of Education insists that we disrupt actual student learning so that they can sit for a meaningless test. To make matters worse, teachers and school administrators must track down often-reluctant students and give up hours of their planning time in order to proctor the WiDA Access test, each component taking about an hour. 

In 2019, I charted my own missed planning periods over the course of six weeks: 18 hours. In addition to my regular duty day, I gave up 18 hours of contractual planning time to administer the WiDA test. I never got recognized or compensated or for those hours. I was expected to donate my time. Many of my elementary school colleagues basically stop instruction for the entire six weeks of the testing window! Critical services for the most-needy students basically come to a halt during the WiDA testing window in many schools. 

This has got to change. Our students deserve better. 

Note/ Addendum:

Maryland is one of 41 states that adopted the ACCESS for ELLs Test (WIDA) assessment and their aligned standards. To meet federal standards, it is a “valid and reliable source” for determining English language proficiency levels for funding purposes. Administrators say that the psychometrics of the ACCESS for ELLs test are extremely strong and yield valid and reliable English language proficiency levels that can be used to support tiered funding.

However, my point is threefold: A) that some students will never exit the program because this single test determines their “proficiency level,” B) the speaking test is problematic, and C) the disruptions to teaching and learning are extreme.

I recommend that we bring back a dashboard of criteria for students to exit the ELD program: teacher judgment, attendance, grades, performance on other tests, and the WiDA test. In addition, schools should get district help administering the WiDA test so that teachers can continue teaching during the six-week testing window. 

Pomp and Circumstance

Pomp and Circumstance brings my allergies out. Every year when they play that graduation song, my eyes water. Sniffles take over my nose. In 2021 when the commencement ceremony moved from an indoor arena to our football stadium as a covid precaution, pre-recorded music filled the air and very few students walked across the stage in person. In 2022, moving outdoors seems to be a wonderful new tradition of finishing high school on the home turf. This year I’m just happy it’s over.

In spite of the bittersweet farewells in front of the school banner, the most prevalent feeling among my teacher colleagues is exhaustion. Unlike last year’s unprecedented pandemic anxiety, where everyone acknowledged the severity of the crisis, this year we all moved back into our classrooms and pretended it was a normal school year. 

I wore a fake smile under my mask from September to June. High school seniors went through the motions of reading and writing. We faked the status quo as fights broke out in the hallways, as Omicron spread through the community, then state-mandated testing took over. We stumbled through a workload crisis as teachers dropped like flies and no substitutes showed up. We finished the school year mourning the 19 students and 2 teachers murdered in their Texas classroom on a day that should have been the best end-of-year celebration. 

We. Are. Tired.

Despite moments of true pride and joy, every teacher I know has said that this school year has been the single most difficult of their careers. Far more than 2020 or 2021. The disconnect between our deeply-held values and the toxic testing culture that education bureaucrats force on us creates a kind of cognitive dissonance. Yet we wear a happy face. We try to protect our students from the worst policies and expectations. 

The inspiration for the song title Pomp and Circumstance comes from Shakespeare’s Othello, which we teach in Honors English 12. In the play, Othello’s identity as a soldier gives him self-confidence and social standing. When he marries Desdemona, his military role diminishes. He is lost without the ability to prove himself in war and becomes isolated and unhinged – enough to kill his wife in a fit of unfounded jealousy.

As I struggle to make sense of the world, Othello’s loss of identity brings to mind the young man who bought guns on a whim then shot up Uvalde children. Like my students, most mass shooters are recent high school graduates. Suddenly and terrifyingly, they are without the safety and routine of high school. They have no way to prove their manhood; their isolation makes them fall prey to their own obsessions. Just like Othello. We have to suffer the consequences over and over again because our leaders won’t pass common-sense gun laws. Teachers now have to plan for these once unimaginable circumstances. 

Composer Sir Edward Elgar chose the title Pomp and Circumstance in 1901 to illustrate the disconnect between military pageantry and the terror of war. After two years of pandemic disruption, we need that pageantry. It feels like we have lived through a war. 

The effects of 18 months in isolation played out in our school hallways, bathrooms, and classrooms. In the wake of the BLM movement, police officers were removed from schools. Security was understaffed. Record levels of violence marked the first semester. Drug abuse became so prevalent that administrators had to close off certain bathrooms. And I work in a “good school.”

How many times did an ambulance show up quietly to rush a child to the emergency room because of an overdose? Mental health meltdowns caused some students to become loud and defiant; some refused to work. Others simply disappeared. Phone calls to different homes would reveal that student after student was “dealing with some mental health issues.” Yet mandatory testing continued and Central Office pretended that everything was okay.

So when seniors promenaded into the stadium this year, I stood and clapped while Board of Education officials, the guest speaker, the Superintendent of Schools, and the principal led the procession wearing robes with colorful hoods and arm stripes indicating academic achievement. I snapped pictures of students wearing tassels, cords, and stoles signifying affiliations and accomplishments: National Honor Society, the Maryland Seal of Biliteracy, Eagle Scout, 240+ hours of volunteer community service. My smile was real.

Then I saw M, whose entire apartment building flooded in September and who became homeless. This student endured a 25-mile bus journey to get to school every day – and had to work every afternoon. When I saw M. in a cap and gown, my allergies really started acting up.  

The orchestra played ceremonial fanfare as graduates tossed their hats in the air and hugged each other. I grinned at the happy normalcy of it all. 

We honor our graduates with Pomp and Circumstance to acknowledge the end of their K-12 journey. This year, we are honoring so much more. We are all survivors. 

When it was over, I went home and curled into a ball.

Filed Away

by Eva K. Sullivan

During the last week of school, I stared at the gray, four-drawer, metal filing cabinet in the corner of the classroom. In the last fifteen months, I hadn’t opened a single drawer even once. We’d been back in person since April, but everything I needed was inside the four-pound laptop that I carried everywhere. Thirty years of well-loved teaching materials now seemed like a burden. It was time. Most teachers my age wait until they’re retired to clean out their folders. But the pandemic changed forever how I will look at stacks of paper.

As a high school teacher of Multilingual Learners, I never knew what level I would be teaching from year to year. The carefully labelled folders ranged from Phonics/Vowel Sounds to Argument and Research. Before Covid-19 forced school closures in March 2020, I taught two sections of Developmental Reading for immigrant students with interrupted formal education. Most were reading at a kindergarten level. Even without a global pandemic, it’s hard to find appropriate reading material – no baby books – for teens learning to read English! So my curated collection represented hundreds of hours of valuable prep time.

This year we piloted a new districtwide coteaching model. All juniors and seniors are now enrolled in Honors English classes, and I’ve moved to a supporting role. All my Beginner English files are in the trash and I’m not even wistful. Teachers never throw anything out, so this feels momentous, a tectonic shift. 

I filled a recycling bin with The Odyssey, Run-On Sentences, Existentialism, Survival Project, and Subject-Verb Agreement. I found overhead projector film carefully preserved with the original copy next to it for reference. Grammar games on laminated index cards. I didn’t bother to ask if any new, younger colleagues want them this year. All those things are gone. Paper worksheets may be a thing of the past. 

A friend who retired in 2020 asked if I carried my materials from room to room on a cart this year, as I have in the past. I laughed. Nope, all I carry now is a laptop. Every student has a Chromebook preloaded with Zoom, Canvas Instructure and Synergy platforms. Even 5-year-olds in kindergarten know how to do school on a computer. 

When we left the building in March 2020, we gathered food from our desks and cleaned out the refrigerators, but left everything else as is. It was the first time for teachers to just walk away. We had no time to take down bulletin boards, put away pencils, or erase the white boards. We thought we’d be out two weeks.  

The way we’ve taught during the pandemic has permanently changed how educators understand school. As I eyed my fat folders containing emergency substitute plans, I asked a colleague if I should throw them out. “Ha, ha! They’ll probably make us teach via Zoom when we’re out sick!” she replied. I felt nostalgic as I looked at my neatly-outlined notes on top of 30-page sets, a large binder clip holding everything together. I had to wait in line for the photocopier to make those worksheets. Do subs know how to use our new technology? I decided to keep the emergency plans. 

Pandemic mode is forever etched in our memory. Like any good survival story, we escaped from danger with what we could carry – plants, photos, whatever we were currently working on. We reinvented teaching every day, learning and teaching new new apps (Kami, Peardeck, Nearpod), new platforms (Zoom, Canvas, Synergy), new instructional models (coteaching), new virtual curriculum (no textbooks), and new ways of interacting with students (mute black screens in a breakout room). We made it work because there was no choice. In my three decades in the classroom, it was by far the most stressful year that I have ever taught. 

I already miss handwriting. I miss hands-on assignments with physical items that students need to manipulate. I hope those aren’t gone forever. The Romeo and Juliet speed dating activity was so much fun! The Socratic Seminar, the Bicycle Chain activity. Partner work. I don’t need paper for that. Maybe next year?

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Will school ever look like this again?

Teaching to a computer screen from the corner of my bedroom for a year has made me realize that I don’t need paper to create relationships with students. When you take away all the extraneous details of teaching – the great experiment of the 2020-2021 school year – it boils down to building a community in a classroom. 

This past year, I shared more of my personal life than I’d ever intended – like when the cat brought a live chipmunk into my lesson and the whole class heard me scream. I used humor, music, catchy visuals. I lowered the affective filter with silly stories. I called home when students didn’t show up. I invited them to participate in activities any way they felt comfortable – unmuting and calling out, typing in the chat, or participating in an electronic discussion board. 

Many students thrived in the flexible online classroom. I was amazed by some of the profound, philosophical, mature responses that they shared. All these lived lessons from the past year are filed away in our collective memory – not a four-drawer cabinet – and can be pulled out to help plan for next. But first we need a summer vacation to figure out what it all means.  

Will we ever need to photocopy packets of work again? It’s a rhetorical question. That folder got thrown out too. 

High Anxiety

The trees out back are bare and cold rain is drizzling down on the deck. I’m watching a squirrel climb up the railing and attempt to reach the bird feeder. First it shimmies up the narrow metal pole and steps tentatively onto the squirrel-proof “hat” that tilts and swerves under the weight. It tries to lock its feet on the pole and slide belly first down to a perch where seed spills out just two inches from its mouth. The squirrel loses its balance, hangs upside down for a moment, then scrambles back up the pole. It hops gracelessly back to the railing, avoiding a 10-foot drop to the ground. A sparrow flits to the feeder, pecks at the food and flies away. The squirrel tries again and again. 

Teachers in Maryland have been ordered back to school starting on Monday, March 1st. The Governor, the Central Office, and the Board of Education expect that teachers can just fly in like birds to a feeder. But what they’re asking us to do is perform more like the squirrels. Coronavirus has killed more than 8,000 people in Maryland and has infected hundreds of thousands. Teachers have been left completely on their own to find vaccines, competing with each other and those over age 75 for the few scarce resources. 

While other states have rolled out the vaccines effectively, Maryland’s has been confusing and chaotic. Starting on January 18th, when they announced people in the 1B priority group were eligible, I logged in every day, sometimes multiple times per day, trying to register for a vaccine. By the time I finished typing in my contact information, appointments would disappear. Twice I had legitimate appointments confirmed, then cancelled. Colleagues were texting about new doses available – hurry! Teachers were getting turned away from scheduled appointments after waiting in long lines. Teachers were driving three hours to other counties to get vaccinated. I waited in line for two hours at a super center, expecting until the last minute to get turned away. I cried with relief when I finally got that first shot in my arm. 

I want to go back to school desperately. Online teaching is a poor substitute for in-person learning. Like everyone else, I am concerned about the mental health of students. Since I work with English Language Learners, I am concerned that their language and academic skills have suffered. I am worried that students whose best community is inside a school building are not getting the support they need. I miss my students, the ones I have now and do not really know, and the ones I had last year and don’t see passing in the hallways any more. Teachers long to get “back to normal,” but we won’t do it with wishful thinking.


Getting vaccines for teachers is just the first step in a safe return to school. Adequate CDC measures like PPE and physical distancing, cohorts of no more than 60, and sanitizing shared surfaces is manageable. But coronavirus has airborne transmission. Ventilation is a major concern, especially in older buildings. For many teachers the dread of contracting the virus and bringing it home to vulnerable family members is all-consuming. We don’t even know if those who are vaccinated can spread the disease to others. Why are we rushing back to school buildings before these safety measures are in place? 

About 60 percent of students in my district have opted to remain at home and continue virtual instruction. Teachers are not being given this option. In fact, many have been denied their legitimate ADA requests, giving the school system power over their medical health. The focus has been so strongly on a return to the physical building, but what about the majority of students remaining virtual? How will teachers instruct both virtually and in-person at the same time? Will they be getting less of an education because they remain virtual? 

The Superintendent of Schools was “perplexed” by the union’s No Confidence resolution. Then the principals union sent a letter blasting the reopening plan, and the SEIU paraeducators union joined in. Educators understand how teaching and learning operates, and have thought of every possible scenario. We are not to blame for the pandemic. The Board of Education has succumbed to outside pressure and made decisions without the input of key educators. If we are going back into school buildings, then we need a districtwide plan that allows for common sense, compassion, and competence. 

It’s as if climbing up a metal pole, hanging on with our back feet, and stretching to reach a nearly-impossible target were normal. Teachers are planners, not squirrels.

This is what teachers are being asked to do

Unmuting myself

           I haven’t lost any family to COVID-19. My home was not ravaged by floods or blown apart by a hurricane. I did not have to escape a wildfire with just the clothes on my back. My school district has (mostly) listened to teachers and kept students home doing online instruction. I am fully employed. I feel grateful for good health and enough food to eat. But an unsettled feeling of restlessness, tension, and anxiety keeps me tossing and turning at night. 

           The combative tone set by the White House and uncertainty around the November 3 presidential elections permeate every daylight hour. Teachers are working harder than ever – learning new platforms, new apps, new instructional models, adjusting to new schedules, and adapting curriculum. We are juggling our own family responsibilities on top of four+ hours a day of mandated live Zoom meetings, each of which requires additional prep time. Yet we are being torn apart in the media for being “lazy” because we fought to do virtual-only learning until it is safe to go back into school buildings.

Where society is failing, teachers are getting it done. The Board of Education seems to think that regulating our every waking hour will justify our salaries. We are the professionals – we need to determine how our own time is spent. I can guarantee that teachers will put in extra hours to get the job done, no matter what the Board says. Schools are distributing meals, providing mental health counseling, and reaching out to families who need tech support. Schools provide a safe space and a community for the children we teach. Nobody knows better than classroom teachers how important it is to get kids back into the building. Online instruction is far from ideal, but it is better than putting a single life at risk due to COVID-19.

This year, for high school ESOL teachers in my district, there’s an added layer of complexity to our jobs. Instead of small, self-contained ESOL classrooms, we are now coteaching Honors English classes – we have no on-level English courses. My English Language Learners (ELLs) are now in classes with 29 students. Am I supposed to deliver ESOL services via Zoom chat while the regular teacher is talking? I’m struggling with this model. Coteaching is really hard. So much harder than teaching alone. It requires patience, diplomacy, careful dialogue, and mutual respect. I appreciate that my colleagues are so open-minded and hope that I am not stepping on their toes or pushing my ideas on them too much. It’s supposed to be a collaboration, but I feel marginalized. Just like my students.

All I want is for our leaders to recognize how hard it is to be a teacher right now. The students are showing up for class, ready and willing to learn. They need the structure and the opportunity to engage with peers. Even though I rarely see the students’ faces on Zoom or hear their voices, I know they are participating in this new way of doing school. When I lose sleep over the workload or the direction of the country, I remember the students. And I feel grateful for the best job in the world.

Little Black Boxes

Each black square represents a student who has logged in to our ESOL 5 Zoom class. Their video is turned off and the microphone is muted. I stare at my face in its own little box as I pose the circle question to get started. “If you could create the ideal society, what would you be sure to include?” One at a time they unmute their microphones and speak. “Free health care for everyone, equal opportunity, no race discrimination, free university, and free food.” We were reading a short dystopian fiction piece, and I was pleased with their thoughtful responses. It was before George Floyd and the marches for racial justice. It was in late April, a long time ago, and students were worried about COVID-19 and getting their next meal. They were still engaged in online learning. I was still wearing lipstick and earrings to class.

Now school is finished and I’m heartbroken that it was so anti-climactic. I didn’t get to return their Reflection writing from the first week of school and have them comment on their goals. We didn’t have a party. I didn’t get to send the seniors off with a final celebration or watch them march across the stage to Pomp and Circumstance. I didn’t get to remind the ESOL 1 students how much their English has improved. We didn’t talk about summer plans. I’ve been so focused on getting to the finish line, that I didn’t expect the rush of emotion that came with the slow fade out.

As frustrating as it was to conduct classes with my computer screen, I relished every single contact I had with students. Breaking with my 15-year policy of not sharing my personal cell phone, this spring I routinely gave my number to every student. I cringed in anticipation of abuse, but it never came. Students were super respectful of this new relationship and never contacted me too early or too late. On Sunday I got a message in Spanish from a newcomer: Are we finished with school? I think you said yes. Another student asked for a second supermarket gift card for her family. A third student wanted to confirm his new address so that he could get his diploma mailed there. These are not normally things I would have to address.

Some students fell off a cliff after March 13th and I never really heard from them again. I spent hours trying to reach them, documenting every call, every email, every U.S. Mail letter that I sent. Bilingual counselors got involved. Administrators followed up. Three students moved back to their countries. I logged every contact in the system. I excused missing assignments and graded with compassion, assuming hardship. When students turned in work, I found something positive to say. When students showed up for Zoom, I talked about my cat, my neighbor, my son, or what I was reading before I reviewed the week’s work. I never “wasted time” like that before, and it felt like a much-needed mindshift.

If there’s anything good that came out of this COVID-19 crisis teaching, it’s that I’ve built new relationships with students. I feel much closer to the ones who stayed active. We know each other better in a different way than we would in a classroom. I know who has noisy little siblings and who has tension with her parents. In spite of this, the ESOL students have given thoughtful, mature, philosophical answers to questions that I posed for discussion. In part, it’s because they’re well-rested and there’s little else for them to focus on. Another part is that they actually crave a connection to school and learning.

School’s out for summer, but I’m not naïve enough to think that we won’t be using some form of online instruction in the fall. I know now that I will have to work hard at building real relationships with students from the very beginning – that means learning about their families, their culture, their thoughts and feelings, their music, hobbies, and interests. It means sharing more of myself with them, creating a safe environment where they can open up, and encouraging genuine reflection.

If I could create the ideal classroom, every student would have equal opportunity, free food, and universal health care. There would be no discrimination by race, gender, or other indicator. I’m optimistic that the dystopian nightmare we are living through will one day end, and my students will show up ready and eager to learn. I will have engaging, meaningful lessons matched perfectly to their interests and abilities. In the meantime, I’ll be reading, reflecting, and reaching out to colleagues this summer, hoping to rebuild a routine in the fall. I will have a new haircut and nobody will notice because we’ll all just be so happy to see each other in person.

Am I less valued because I teach low-income students?

I’m re-posting this piece I wrote 3 years ago.

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Time to make noise (again.

Here’s another great voice for the need to support teachers of low socio-economic-status students in this EdWeek article. Bruce Hansen mentions that when he received the “golden apple award” his colleagues assumed that he would pursue an easier job at a school in a high-income district. He may feel guilty, but that’s exactly what he did. “There’s a perception that really good teachers work in schools that cater to students from wealthy families,” he writes. He recommends that teachers get special training “from university educators,” who develop specialized techniques and curricula. But the reason Mr. Hansen left his job has nothing to do with curriculum or training. He left because he did not receive enough support.

I’ve been teaching high-poverty English Language Learners for 15 years and it’s both rewarding and exhausting. When students are so needy every day, it can be emotionally and physically draining. We don’t need more university educators telling us what to do.  We need compassionate administrators who understand what it’s like to “work in the trenches.” We need a network of like-minded teachers and student counselors who can prevent us from being traumatized by the traumas of our students. At the end of the day, I can get in my car and drive back to my leafy suburb. It’s important for teachers of high poverty students to be mentally healthy.

Unfortunately many low-income schools are where new principals get placed to learn the ropes before moving on, where teachers involuntarily transferred land, and where there’s high teacher turnover and little administrative support. I’m proud to say that this practice is not prevalent in my mixed-income school. However, I definitely get a feeling that I count less than teachers of AP and IB students heading to Harvard. My administrator has never set foot in my classroom to give his famous Timeline speech, in spite of my annual plea to come for a visit. However, he is very supportive in other ways. And that makes all the difference.

I also have a union that backs me up at the district level, full access to excellent training resources, and local leadership that listens to teachers and gives priority to education. Now if they could just add back that hour of time that Daylight Savings took away, I could get a lot more done in 24 hours.