“This society hasn’t changed one bit. People who don’t fit into the village are expelled: men who don’t hunt, women who don’t give birth to children. For all we talk about modern society and individualism, anyone who doesn’t try to fit in can expect to be meddled with, coerced, and ultimately banished from the village.”
― コンビニ人間 [Konbini ningen]
It’s that time of year again.
The annual ritual.
The one where we all pretend—collectively, convincingly, and without much resistance—that we are accurately measuring student learning. And not just measuring it, but measuring it for the benefit of students.
That’s the part that requires the most suspension of disbelief.
Because for the past two weeks, classrooms across Tennessee—and here in Nashville—have been stripped bare. Walls cleared. Anchor charts removed. Anything that might hint at actual learning quietly taken down like contraband before a raid. Teachers sterilizing their rooms as if knowledge itself might contaminate the testing environment.
Students, meanwhile, trudge in.
They sit.
They click.
They bubble.
They wait.
All to worship at the altar of standardized testing.
Never mind that Tennessee districts already administer three benchmark tests a year. Those don’t count—not really. This one does. This is the one that matters. The one that will reveal the truth about student learning.
Like Santa’s list, it’s supposed to tell us who’s been naughty and who’s been nice.
And for two weeks, while we measure, actual instruction comes to a halt. Not paused. Halted. Suspended in favor of a process that has become less about learning and more about sorting, labeling, and assigning value—not to students, but to adults.
Because that’s what this is really about.
If enough kids score well, congratulations—you get to wear the crown of Master Educator. Your school gets to celebrate. Your district gets to issue a press release. Everyone gets to pretend the system is working exactly as intended.
But if they don’t?
Well, then things get uncomfortable.
Because in Tennessee, poor test performance isn’t just a data point—it’s a threat. A justification. A lever that can be pulled to trigger state intervention or takeover, despite a pretty thin track record of the state actually doing it better.
And if the state fails?
The cynic in me says what the cynic always says:
He who controls the data controls the narrative.
So we’ll get the usual spin. A little talk about “progress.” A reminder that there are “no magic bullets.” Maybe a nod to how “this work takes time.”
But not much else.
Because one thing has become increasingly clear: education is one of the few fields where the further you get from the people you serve, the more your compensation increases—and the less accountability you actually face.
The Secrecy Problem
Here’s the part that should bother more people than it does:
Nobody really understands the test.
Not fully.
Not in the way you’d expect for something that carries this much weight.
I’m not talking about sample questions or practice packets. I mean an honest-to-God, front-to-back copy of the exam. The real thing. The thing students actually sit down and take.
Most of us have never seen it.
A few years back, there was a push to have elected officials take the test. A simple enough idea—if you’re going to base major policy decisions on it, maybe you should experience it yourself.
That effort went about as you’d expect.
Officials signed non-disclosure agreements, took the test, and then came back to tell us it was a “great assessment.” And that was the end of that.
If any of them have taken it recently, I haven’t heard about it.
And that raises a pretty basic question:
If I hired you to build houses, and every house you built came out crooked… wouldn’t I eventually ask to take a look at your measuring tape?
The “Guidance” Myth
We’re told—repeatedly—that these tests are designed to “guide instruction.”
To ensure no child falls through the cracks.
To give parents meaningful information about how their kids are doing.
It all sounds great.
There’s just one problem.
By the time the results come out, we’re already moving into the next school year.
No one is adjusting lesson plans in real time. No one is reshuffling class rosters based on TCAP results that arrive months after the fact. No one is meaningfully altering curriculum because of a score report that lands long after decisions have already been made.
What actually happens?
A handful of adults beat their chests over gains.
Others quietly slide disappointing results into the bottom drawer of their desks.
And then we do it all over again.
The Kids Know
Here’s the part we don’t say out loud often enough:
The kids know.
Despite all the messaging. Despite the pep talks. Despite the automated phone calls the night before testing begins reminding parents to make sure their child is well-rested.
Let’s be honest.
Is anyone actually receiving that call and saying, “Johnny, testing starts tomorrow—you better get to bed early”?
Of course not.
And that call—well-intentioned as it may be—sends another message too.
A quieter one.
“You can come to school 160 days a year tired, cold, and hungry… but on testing days, that won’t cut it.”
Think about that.
Think about what that says about priorities.
Because it sure sounds like we’re not serving students.
It sounds like students—and teachers—are serving the system.
Serving the adults.
And at some point, that needs to be flipped.
Meanwhile, at Ocean Prime…
While classrooms are stripped bare and teachers are being evaluated based on test scores they can’t fully see or control, another story has been making the rounds.
WSMV investigative reporter Chris Finley recently took a closer look at spending by Metro Nashville Public Schools Director Adrienne Battle.
And the numbers raised some eyebrows.
According to Finley’s reporting, Dr. Battle spent $19,293 on travel over the past two years. That includes:
- More than $12,700 on hotels
- More than $4,600 on dinners
- Around $1,800 on rental cars
Trips included destinations like Tampa, Boston, Sevierville, Dallas, Washington, and Atlanta for conferences.
Now, on its own, $20,000 might not sound outrageous.
Until you compare it.
Memphis’ superintendent spent $721 over that same period.
Williamson County’s superintendent spent $8,120.95.
Sumner County’s superintendent spent $1,021.38.
Rutherford and Wilson County superintendents?
Zero.
And then there’s the dinner.
At Ocean Prime in Washington, D.C., the bill for Dr. Battle and staff came out to $711.24.
Sea bass.
New York strip.
You eat well when you travel with MNPS leadership.
To be fair, the district offered a defense:
“Occasionally, it’s necessary to cover the cost of group meals involving the Superintendent and senior leadership team… These working meals… allow the team to maximize their time away from the district by continuing important discussions… and support effective decision-making that directly benefits students.”
That’s the explanation.
And look, I get it.
People need to eat.
Conversations happen over meals.
But are we really supposed to believe that Ocean Prime is uniquely equipped to foster collaboration in a way that, say, Chili’s is not?
That a $700 dinner produces better outcomes than a $70 one?
That the key to “effective decision-making” is a perfectly cooked sea bass?
Because that’s a tough sell.
Especially when you zoom out.
Especially when you consider what else is happening in the district.
The Louisville Retreat
Finley’s report didn’t even touch on what’s coming next.
The district’s upcoming principal retreat to Louisville.
Two nights.
Roughly 250 people.
Three days of meals and snacks.
And for senior staff?
A couple of extra days tacked on.
Again, maybe there’s value there.
Maybe there are sessions, conversations, planning opportunities that matter.
But I keep coming back to the same question.
The same litmus test that should be applied to every dollar spent in public education:
Does it benefit kids?
Just like the now-infamous $30,000 bathroom initiative, I have a hard time making that argument here.
The Other Shoe Drops
And while all of this is happening—testing, travel, retreats—there’s another reality unfolding much closer to the classroom.
It’s staffing season.
The time of year when teachers and principals find out if they’ll have jobs next year.
Earlier this week, displaced teachers received emails asking them to meet with their principals.
Those meetings carry weight.
Because that’s where they find out if they’re eligible for rehire.
If they are, they can look for another position within the district.
If they’re not?
They’re out.
And here’s the part that should raise alarms:
There is no appeal process.
None.
The decision has already gone through what’s described as a “rigorous review,” and that’s that.
For a profession already dealing with shortages, burnout, and retention issues, that’s a hell of a message to send.
The Enrollment Mystery
What makes this even more confusing is the “why” behind it.
Word on the street is that this year’s unusually high number of displaced teachers is tied to decreased funding driven by enrollment declines.
Which would make sense—if the numbers actually lined up.
But if you’ve been following along, you know I’ve been digging into enrollment data for months.
Earlier this year, I flagged what looked like a loss of roughly 2,000 students based on data from the district’s own data warehouse.
MNPS Chief of Communications Sean Braisted pushed back.
He pointed to comparisons between the 20-day and 40-day counts for the 2025–2026 school year, arguing that enrollment was actually up by 481 students. He also shared mid-year numbers showing most schools with only minor fluctuations.
Stable.
That was the message.
And yet, here we are just a few months later, watching school budgets get cut—painfully so—in ways that suggest anything but stability.
So which is it?
Because both things can’t be true.
Leadership Shuffle
At the same time, leadership changes are rolling through the district.
Right now, there are 12 principal openings in MNPS:
- Smith Springs Elementary
- Glengarry Elementary
- Glencliff Elementary
- Glenview Elementary
- DuPont Hadley Middle
- Park Avenue Elementary
- Apollo Middle
- Wright Middle
- Murrell Special Education School
- Glencliff High
- Hume-Fogg High
- Glendale Elementary
Some of these are routine.
Others are not.
Hume-Fogg, for example, is one of the district’s crown jewels—a nationally ranked magnet school that has thrived under Principal Kellie Hargis.
With Hargis retiring, the school is also losing an assistant principal and a dean.
That’s a lot of institutional knowledge walking out the door at once.
And anyone who thinks being a principal—especially at a school like Hume-Fogg—is just a matter of “rolling out the basketball and letting the talent play” hasn’t been paying attention.
Leading a school where expectations are sky-high and politics are always just beneath the surface is its own kind of pressure cooker.
And then there’s Glencliff.
Nearly the entire cluster is undergoing a leadership overhaul heading into next year.
That’s not just change.
That’s disruption.
So Where Does That Leave Us?
If you’ve made it this far, you probably get it.
You see the patterns.
You see the contradictions.
You see the gap between what’s said and what’s done.
We say testing is about students—but structure it around systems.
We say spending decisions benefit kids—but struggle to explain how.
We say enrollment is stable—while cutting budgets and positions.
We say teachers matter—while offering them no path to challenge decisions about their own employment.
And through it all, the system keeps moving.
Testing season comes and goes.
Reports get released.
Press conferences get held.
Steak dinners get eaten.
And classrooms?
They keep adapting.
Teachers keep showing up.
Students keep navigating a system that often feels more focused on measuring them than supporting them.
At some point, we have to decide what we actually believe.
And more importantly—what we’re willing to question.
Because if none of this gets challenged, nothing changes.
And if you think that matters…
You know where to find me.
Venmo: @Thomas-Weber-10
Cash App: $PeterAveryWeber
Tips: Norinrad10@yahoo.com
Categories: Education
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