Personal Narrative: Trigonometry Summative Assessment

I remember the first day I walked into my kindergarten class, I clenched my mother’s hand with all my might to prevent her from letting go. The kids around me, whom I supposed were my classmates, had long let go of their mother’s had and were playing together, and even as a five year old, at that point I felt like an outsider. I pleaded my mom to not leave but my attempts failed as I found myself alone yet surrounded by complete strangers. As I stood in the center of the room while pushing back my tears and eyeing my mother make her way out the door, I heard the teacher call my name. I timidly walked towards the spot on the yellow carpet she was signaling at for me to sit on. I heard Mrs. Ross’s soothing voice but no matter how much I concentrated

I kept fighting through my exam, clenching my cheeks with all my might. Beads of sweat began rolling down my neck. Suddenly, a loud, gurgling war cry came from my belly, and the entire class lifted their heads.

I glanced up at the clock. It was 12:18. Mrs. Ewert exclaimed, “One or two problems guys.” My heart sunk to my toe. I had langage arts next. Mrs. Berntson was coming back to school after her son went missing. My friends say that she is seeking revenge and locking up kids. I tried not to think about it and did a math problem, I knew they were exaggerating. The bell rang and Mrs. Ewert excused the class. I slowly walked down the crowded hallway. I turned the corner and could see her crusty, burnt door. Now I could believe my friends, Mrs. Berntson has gone crazy! I looked across the hallway and could see my friend, Will. You could tell by his face that he was scared to go in.

As I breezed through the multiple choice sections and on to the free response questions, I began to feel a steady sense of ease as the information seemed to be coming back to me fairly quickly. The information, for the most part, had been imprinted onto my long term memory from the previous semester. Months later, when the memory of that stressful morning, and the night leading up to it, had since faded from memory, I received my score report for the exam. I had scored a perfect 5 out of 5. All that anxiety had been for nothing and in the end, I had received the score that I would never have thought possible on the morning of the

I hate writing tests! It’s as simple as that. I hate the feel of a rough pen on my soft, delicate hands, which have vanquished after putting up a hard fight. I hate my brain desperately struggling to recollect information, from the inadequate study period from the previous night. Most of all, I hate the collecting of the results of an inevitable failure, doomed to face me at the end. Looking back at this picture, of me writing that unbearable test, I remember. I remember a feeling reassembling itself to me in tiny fragments, one by one, and for a brief moment, so microscopic it cannot be measured in time, my heart skips a beat. Then, and then alone I am brought back to that room, to that desk, to that test, and all I feel is hate.

A few days later, I am handed back the test. Per Ms. Evans’ usual policy, there is no grade, just an assortment of checks and X’s. My eyes zoom in to find my mistakes, sure that I had approached every question from the entirely wrong angle. The more I examine it, however, the more I can tell that I actually only made a few small mistakes. Nicholas Chan, next to me, remarks “Wow, you actually did pretty well!”, the surprise in his voice unmistakable. For some reason though, the trepidation and dread do not leave my stomach. I ask myself,

When I was in first grade, there was a long delay for my father to pick me up from school. I was in the principal’s office, very annoyed that I was missing an activity with gummy bears and being able to consume them later. I was confused, why was I called into the office? Was I in trouble? Did I forget something? My mind was racing with a thousand thoughts per second, while I waited impatiently twiddling my thumbs on the black leather chair. When I heard the faint footsteps approach the front office door, I saw my father with a solemn look and went straight to the principal’s lair. His usual demeanor was missing and I sensed trouble amuck when he didn’t beam at me with his happy smile. My eyes were glued to the door, hoping that

I was perched on the edge of my chair. My stomach was in knots; I had to keep telling myself not to restlessly bounce my legs. I watched my teacher weaving his way between the tables, giving each student back their test. I was sitting in the back of the classroom, just waiting for him to reach my table. Upper-classmen had said that Molecular Cell Biology is the toughest biology class at the Illinois Math and Science Academy. Yet I had flown through the test, encountering no problems along the way. My teacher had finally made his way back to my table. He laid my test face down on the table in front of me. I almost did not want to flip the test over but with a quick flip of my wrist, the test lay face up. The top of the test said 18 out of 30; I had failed.

It was early May 2016 and I was anxiously sitting in my H period Geometry class. I was awaiting the results of a huge test, our last of the year in the class, that would play an enormous role in my semester average as I was at that dreaded area between an 89 and 90 in the class. It had been a mixed year for me in math, as it always is, I never can consistently do well in math or science classes, but I had studied for hours on end for the test and was extremely hopeful. I had tried every practice test that the teacher recommended, went over every quiz from the unit and had focused on nothing but this test for the past week. I usually don’t let grades put me down or affect my mood, but with this test I knew it would ruin my day if I did not

The letter written in red ink on the front page of my trigonometry test was not the usual A or B. It wasn’t even a C. It was D. And no, the teacher was not trying to spell my name. It was my grade, an almost failing grade. My mom is going to kill me, I thought as I covered the D with my hand, not wanting anyone to see it.

Anxiously waiting in math class to receive my grade back, I sat in my chair. I gazed around the room, only to find the rest of my class feeling the same way. This was the day we were given back our test, and this was not just a regular test. This was the test that could make your B turn into an A, with just one high grade. I don’t usually get this nervous to get a test or quiz back, but this was the last test of the marking period, and the most important one. I was seated in the front of the class, meaning I was going to get my test first.

It’s test day, someone has a crucial test that will determine his final grade, and he is feeling slightly overcome with anxiety. The day progresses, and the worries of this student escalates. This person is different from his classmates, who fret little. Instead,

My mother continued on with, “A parent saw you today, and contacted me about what you did.” I continued to stare at her, because I hadn’t had the slightest clue as to what she was referencing. Yet, in the back of my mind, I had an inkling as to what it could have been. My mother’s growing disdain was palpable as she stood waiting for me to reply; when I finally did respond, I voiced my thoughts that I had no idea what it was I had done.

Chester was too stunned to watch them. He began to calm down as the realization sunk in. He could hear their thoughts. The possibilities seemed endless. He’d have to think, he hated to make decisions recklessly. Quietly, Chester began to eat. Soon, his mother calmed enough that they were able to spend the afternoon together without further weeping. He was distracted with ideas of how his life might change, much of the time. Maybe high school wouldn’t be so bad, anymore. His parents forgave him his withdrawal. He was traumatized, after all. Very easy to

It was Monday morning. Sitting in the parking lot of my school, I quickly reviewed my math notes in preparation for the Pre-Calculus test. The importance of this final test was the make-it-or-break-it point of maintaining my A in the class. My eyes rapidly moved over the study guide in hopes to remember each trigonometry identity required. However, time was running out, and I had to retrieve my things from my locker for my first hour, Pre-Calculus. I rushed to my locker, unpacked my things, and made my way to first hour. The atmosphere of the classroom felt heavy and full of fear, as most do during test days. Unaware of what was being talked about, I tried to recall the trigonometry identities for one last time. The teacher then whipped out a thick stack of papers and slammed them on his desk. Everyone’s heart sunk. Slowly, the teacher handed out the seven-page exam and passed them down the rows. I swiftly and quietly finished my test feeling confident about how I did.