Compassion: A Theory

Do you remember when you were a student and had to write an exam in a classroom or, possibly, a gymnasium? Do you remember the stress you felt trying to remember the material that you had studied over the semester, or the material that you crammed into your head a few days or the night before sitting in front of that test? Do you remember watching your teacher walking up and down between the desks and tables, checking to see if anyone had any questions, concerns…or hidden notes and answers in their palms or up their sleeves? Do you remember anyone getting caught and having their paper taken away and the opportunity to pass erased? I do; I remember all of this. And, for a few semesters when I worked as an invigilator during university exams, I saw it all from the other side.

I was a graduate student at university and I never seemed to have enough money to get by, and being an invigilator was a good way to make it through the bills and rent payments before the summer began. I was part of a team of graduate students which would monitor exams written by undergraduates in various departments. What interested me most about the job was that those of us in the humanities would watch over exams in the science department, and the science students would monitor our side (something about ethics was mentioned in a meeting to explain why this was done). Also, depending on the size of the room, a specific number of us had to be in there to watch over the students, escort them to bathrooms when necessary (and look for graffiti that would have provided answers on the walls and private stalls), collect booklets and tests, and prepare reports if there were any incidents.

I remember the first exam. It was in a very large lecture hall, and the exam was on modern music. This broke the rule on science versus humanities invigilation, but I said nothing as the students wrote about and listened to different tracks (when a song by Snoop Dogg played on the speakers, I made a fellow invigilator smile as I whispered, “No one is allowed to fail this exam”). It was a very fun introduction to this work.

During another exam, we came in as a backup group, and this I deeply regretted because the people in charge had caught a cheater. It was quite tense when we stepped into that lecture room. Some of the students who had completed the exam were still standing at the main doors. Others who were still writing seemed dazed and annoyed. The student who was caught kept his distance from the rest of us. And I still remember that slip of paper in the hands of the main invigilator. It was just a scrap that he found in the hands of a stupid kid who should have known better. It may seem strange to regret not having found the cheater myself. It was something that I really wanted to do if I had to watch students sit and grind their way through their tests. There had to be someone out there who would test me and my ability to do this kind of work. And I did discover such a student.

It was in the last group of students that I found it impossible for me to enjoy my role. A special mixed group of writers was assembled for certain final exams. These people had testing that was delayed due to scheduling conflicts, illness…and other issues (deaths in the family, etc.). There were still two of us assigned to the room, but I soon wished that there had been an extra invigilator with us that day. It would have allowed me to avoid the young woman who could not bear being in that room for more than the first necessary hour. As I said, it was a mixed group, and her exam was not the same as any of the others. When she raised her hand, I thought that she wanted me to find a teaching assistant or professor from her department to help her. The tension in her face and body was palpable. When I did respond to her, her request was much simpler:

“I want to go.”

“You would like to go to the bathroom, or…?”

“No, I just want to go.”

There was a procedure for this. The woman wanted to leave the campus during a make-up exam, so I went to our main office where the head of the invigilation team worked. When I explained the request and the woman’s condition, I was told that I would have to accompany her to the campus’ medical centre. This meant walking with her up a very steep hill to obtain a note and excuse for her inability to write an exam a second time. As I said, those students were in that room for various reasons. Her reasons, as she explained to me and the other staff, were stress and “a nervous condition”. I had no choice but to accompany her.

Have you ever had a stranger break down in your arms? Have you ever seen a girl cry and beg you to let her just walk home without completing the task you knew you both had to do? As I walked with her up that hill, her manner began to change. She became much more tense and would not speak. And then she stopped moving. I stepped back and she took my arm. And then she said it:

“I want to go home.”

We were not that far from the centre. In about three minutes, she would have been in the office and her note with her excuse would be in our hands. I explained all of this to her as she refused to step any closer to the building.

“I just want to go home. Please…”

There was not much else I could do. When I think back on that moment, I wonder if she would have let me drag her up that hill, with her screaming and crying at me while people stared at this dysfunctional couple and considered calling the police on us. Could I have threatened her, tossed her onto my back (she was a very slight woman), told her that it would not be as bad as she thought it would be (what could they do to her up there, anyway)? No, there was not much else I could have done.

I let her go.

When I returned to the office, I had to explain in detail what happened during our walk. The staff understood my predicament, but I sensed that there was some worry about not following the rules (she had to fill out a different form if she wanted to abandon an exam without a paper from the medical department). It was fortunate for all of us that she did not contest the situation (I never heard another word about her again), but I still wonder about her and that last day. And I do not recall ever wanting or having that much responsibility over anyone ever again.

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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