I have two pieces of news to share with you. The first: I recently took an exam for a license from the Federal Communications Commission. This license allows me to press the “Push-To-Talk” button on an amateur radio and actually transmit in the amateur radio spectrum.
The test itself had all the drama of a tortoise race, but the results nearly caused my death.
I missed a question.
A single question! After all that time and effort studying the material, how could I miss one stupid, ridiculous question on the test? What gives? The test must be rigged! If it had cost me a dime, I would have demanded a refund!
I took a deep breath, centered myself, and decided that missing a single question on a 35-question test was not a valid reason for committing seppuku. I reminded myself of the old joke: “What do you call the person who gets the lowest passing grade in medical school?” The answer, of course, is “doctor.” For the record, the FCC doesn’t care if you barely pass or ace the test. It was the same when I took the tests by the Federal Aviation Authority. The passing grade is 70%, and our instructors went to great lengths to assure us, repeatedly, that acing a test won’t get you any more job offers than getting exactly 70%. Did that stop me from obsessing over every question? Take a guess. And if anybody received a better grade than I did, I was sure they cheated.
In case you’re wondering: yes, I’m always like this. I was impossible to live with during my university days.
“What do you mean I got one of Maxwell’s equations wrong? Who are you to decide if I got it wrong—I mean, besides the physics professor?” I’d then wander the halls of the dormitory, beating my chest and lamenting that I would never, ever graduate.
I’m sure there’s some psycho-argot label for people like me, and I’m equally sure it’s not flattering. While I understand the compulsion to categorize everything from quarks to quasars, in my entirely unqualified opinion, human behavior is far too complex to go around sticking reductio ad absurdum labels on people. Then again, I’m probably wrong. Just ask the people who write the tests. I’m sure they’d be happy to tell you exactly how wrong I am.
The second piece of news is that I’ll be leaving for Germany on October 2, 2025. I’ve enrolled in a German Language Immersion Course, and I’ll be there for eight and a half weeks, counting travel time. I’ll be staying with a host family who’ll look at me sternly every time I use English. I’m sure I’ll enjoy this adventure as long as I don’t have to take any stupid, ridiculous, infuriating, humiliating tests!
Why do our lives revolve around taking humiliating tests?! Tests, tests, tests! Every time I turn around, somebody is evaluating my performance on something. Jeez, give a gal a break!
Fortunately, I don’t need any language proficiency certificates. I don’t know what I’d do with one other than use it as a coffee filter. The only test will be when I order something from the grocer and they don’t break into giggles at my American accent, confirming their suspicions that all Americans are idiots.
You might be asking, “Andrea, why are you doing this? Radio electronics is hard! Physics is hard! German is hard!”
Aside from the non-committal, “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I don’t have an answer for you, and, fortunately, my psychiatrist is forbidden by her oath to reveal my secrets. Besides, it’s not a question anyone has asked me. I’m just preparing for the day when someone might ask me on a test.
Memoirs of an Earthling 