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thefourthvine) wrote2020-09-26 08:40 pm
thefourthvine) wrote2020-09-26 08:40 pm
Entry tags:
A Testing Experience
My mother is an experimental psychologist, and there are many delightful effects of being the child of an experimental psychologist. One of them, at least in my family, was an absolute obsession with analytical instruments. You know those tests where you circle or bubble in A, B, C, or D, and at some point it tells you if you’re a psychopath? Those. My sister and I grew up so into those.
Like, you know the people who subscribe to Playboy for the articles? I am totally convinced they exist, because my sister, Laura, subscribed to Cosmo for the tests – those quizzes that told you your interior decorating style or if you were too much of a real human to ever earn the love of a man. We spent so much time taking those quizzes and then ripping them apart, because, after all, they were not well-designed. (Note: Cosmo is a very useful thing to have around the house if you’re raising daughters. I remember my dad bringing in my sister’s latest issue, which had a cover story about Top Ten Mistakes to Avoid When Your Husband Comes Home from Being Important or whatever, and he asked, as he handed it to his quiz-seeking daughters, “You notice how there’s never any articles like that in men’s magazines? Why do you think that is?” I tell you what: that settled in my ten-year-old mind like lead, and I thought about it for the next decade. It’s probably why I’m a lesbian. Thanks, Daddy!)
But my point is: we were pros. We took a lot of actual normed, validated tests, too – I, in particular, spent a solid chunk of my life bubbling in those tests. (I had weeks of testing every damn school year. I was a Problem, and my schools’ solution – one of them, anyway – was “let’s just give her every single test we can find and hope one of them tells us what to do with her.” I would like to say in my defense, given everything that went down with those tests, that if you put someone through that much testing, you absolutely deserve everything she does to and with them.) We also watched my mother design surveys, and helped her do data entry and statistical analysis on them, and were test subjects in basically every pilot and small-scale study that went on in her lab. (Science tip: You don’t need IRB approval if your subjects are all relatives of the experimenters!)
We were steeped in the assessment lore, is what I’m saying here.
So one day, the summer before I started college, Laura and I were driving somewhere, and we passed a sign that was up every single day outside a strip mall. FREE PSYCHOLOGICAL TEST, it read. I wondered about it every time I passed, yearning to see this mystery test. But this time, Laura turned to me. “Let’s take it!” she said, excitedly.
I am not normally spontaneous about anything, but: I had been wondering about this for years. And it was a free psychological test! How could I say no?
The place offering the test was, of course, a Scientology – office? Church? Branch? I am not sure what to call it. We walked in, and they lit up (and I am aware now that that’s because we were their shot to not have whatever it is that happens to Scientologists who do not convert people every second happen to them). And then they saw me, and realized they had a problem.
“How old are you?” the dude behind the counter asked.
“Fifteen,” I said.
He was crestfallen. “Is that your mom?” he tried next.
“I’m her SISTER,” Laura said, extremely annoyed.
“Are you over 18?”
“Yes,” she said.
After some discussion between the Scientology people present, they agreed they could test me, as long as we got permission over the phone from a parent. Laura could act as a sort of pretend parent or guardian. That would be extremely legal and aboveboard!
So I called our father at work and explained where we were and what I wanted to do.
There was a pause. I assume my father was considering his options. On the one hand, his daughters were apparently attempting to join a cult, and that was not good news. On the other hand, telling me, in particular, that I was not allowed to take the test would be the one way to guarantee I did in fact become a Scientologist, because I was a teenager and also notoriously contrary. In the end, he decided to trust my unwillingness to agree with any authority ever about anything. All he said was, “Do not sign anything. If you promise me that, you can take the test.”
I promised, and he gave verbal permission for me to take the test to the Scientology people, even though for all they knew he was a random dude at a McDonald’s pretending to be our father.
Laura and I were escorted into separate tiny windowless rooms with desks and strangers sitting behind them, and this all seems very, very sketchy now, but at the time I was perfectly fine with it. I was taking a psychological test in a strip mall across from the place where my mother sometimes purchased fudge and fruitcake. I was in my comfort zone. What bad thing could happen? (Aside from my mother suddenly materializing and forcing me to try fruitcake, which she still insists I will learn to like someday.)
As I took the test, and automatically tallied the questions and mentally sorted them into different scales, I noticed problems. Like. This was just not a well-designed instrument. In fact, I realized as I reached through the middle portion of the test, it was almost like it was designed to yield biased results.
Weird.
Also, certain key scales, like the validation scale, seemed to be entirely lacking.
Something was not right about this psychological test.
I should note that at this point, in her separate tiny room, Laura was coming to exactly the same conclusion. (I mean, of course she was. We had inadvertently spent our lives training for this moment. But the Scientology people did not know that.)
So I finished, and the scoring occurred, and then I got my results, which – mysteriously – did not agree with ANY other test I had taken, and keep in mind that at fifteen I had taken basically all of them. As I expected given the construction of the test, the results indicated that I was a person with many, many problems, and that was unquestionably true, but I did not see how you could take that test and not get that result, one way or the other.
I was even more concerned. I definitely needed to explain to these folks why they should not use this test anymore, especially with so many superior ones on the market.
After the presentation about my many flaws that I definitely needed so much help to fix, the test-giver asked me what I thought.
“I think something is wrong with your test,” I told him.
He smiled at me patronizingly and said something about, I think, the truth being hard to hear.
“No, really,” I said, and proceeded to explain, in unfortunate detail, all the things I thought were wrong, including the weird Barnum Effect phrasing of the results, as well as the many flaws in the test itself.
I did not know it at the time, but off in her own room, Laura was doing that, too, but with the full force of her psychology degree behind her analysis.
After I finished my explanation, my test dude left, shutting the door firmly behind him. I am not sure what he did, but I assume it involved conferring with Laura’s test-giver, because when he came back, he was pissed off. And I realize now that this whole thing sounds scary, a teenaged girl locked in a soundproof room with a furious religious extremist, and probably it was intended to scare me, but I was so very solidly in a familiar place: I had taken a test, and now the testing psychologist (note: I am very sure he was not a real testing psychologist) was mad at me. This happened to me every year!
I knew exactly what to do, and tuned out while he lectured me and got it out of his system. I didn’t hear a word he said to me beyond “conspiracy,” which was the second word out of his mouth. (He said “conspiracy” because he thought we’d planned this, and were a team of evil sisters out to … honestly, I’m not sure. I cannot imagine what steps go from “Take poorly-designed psychological test” to “Defeat Scientology.” But they thought we had a whole scheme going on.)
After a while he wound down. He took my picture, and told me I was not allowed to come back on any Scientology premises ever again, and I was not downcast. They didn’t even have good tests, after all.
I assume Laura had roughly the same experience with the same terrible consequence of Total Scientology Ban, although she actually listened to the angry speech and possibly also got angry herself, because she likes arguing a whole lot more than I do. Anyway, she eventually collected me and we departed, fully accepting that we were not cut out to be Scientologists.
“That was a really bad test,” Laura said as we got into the car.
“I know!” I said. “There’s no WAY they’re getting valid results with that test.”
“Wish we could have taken a copy home,” she said wistfully. “Anyway. Do you want to get some fudge?”
(Later, we called our father to tell him that we had not joined a cult, and he was relieved, so really I think he had by far the worst afternoon of the three of us. He didn’t get to take the test, after all. And we didn’t even bring him any fudge.)
Like, you know the people who subscribe to Playboy for the articles? I am totally convinced they exist, because my sister, Laura, subscribed to Cosmo for the tests – those quizzes that told you your interior decorating style or if you were too much of a real human to ever earn the love of a man. We spent so much time taking those quizzes and then ripping them apart, because, after all, they were not well-designed. (Note: Cosmo is a very useful thing to have around the house if you’re raising daughters. I remember my dad bringing in my sister’s latest issue, which had a cover story about Top Ten Mistakes to Avoid When Your Husband Comes Home from Being Important or whatever, and he asked, as he handed it to his quiz-seeking daughters, “You notice how there’s never any articles like that in men’s magazines? Why do you think that is?” I tell you what: that settled in my ten-year-old mind like lead, and I thought about it for the next decade. It’s probably why I’m a lesbian. Thanks, Daddy!)
But my point is: we were pros. We took a lot of actual normed, validated tests, too – I, in particular, spent a solid chunk of my life bubbling in those tests. (I had weeks of testing every damn school year. I was a Problem, and my schools’ solution – one of them, anyway – was “let’s just give her every single test we can find and hope one of them tells us what to do with her.” I would like to say in my defense, given everything that went down with those tests, that if you put someone through that much testing, you absolutely deserve everything she does to and with them.) We also watched my mother design surveys, and helped her do data entry and statistical analysis on them, and were test subjects in basically every pilot and small-scale study that went on in her lab. (Science tip: You don’t need IRB approval if your subjects are all relatives of the experimenters!)
We were steeped in the assessment lore, is what I’m saying here.
So one day, the summer before I started college, Laura and I were driving somewhere, and we passed a sign that was up every single day outside a strip mall. FREE PSYCHOLOGICAL TEST, it read. I wondered about it every time I passed, yearning to see this mystery test. But this time, Laura turned to me. “Let’s take it!” she said, excitedly.
I am not normally spontaneous about anything, but: I had been wondering about this for years. And it was a free psychological test! How could I say no?
The place offering the test was, of course, a Scientology – office? Church? Branch? I am not sure what to call it. We walked in, and they lit up (and I am aware now that that’s because we were their shot to not have whatever it is that happens to Scientologists who do not convert people every second happen to them). And then they saw me, and realized they had a problem.
“How old are you?” the dude behind the counter asked.
“Fifteen,” I said.
He was crestfallen. “Is that your mom?” he tried next.
“I’m her SISTER,” Laura said, extremely annoyed.
“Are you over 18?”
“Yes,” she said.
After some discussion between the Scientology people present, they agreed they could test me, as long as we got permission over the phone from a parent. Laura could act as a sort of pretend parent or guardian. That would be extremely legal and aboveboard!
So I called our father at work and explained where we were and what I wanted to do.
There was a pause. I assume my father was considering his options. On the one hand, his daughters were apparently attempting to join a cult, and that was not good news. On the other hand, telling me, in particular, that I was not allowed to take the test would be the one way to guarantee I did in fact become a Scientologist, because I was a teenager and also notoriously contrary. In the end, he decided to trust my unwillingness to agree with any authority ever about anything. All he said was, “Do not sign anything. If you promise me that, you can take the test.”
I promised, and he gave verbal permission for me to take the test to the Scientology people, even though for all they knew he was a random dude at a McDonald’s pretending to be our father.
Laura and I were escorted into separate tiny windowless rooms with desks and strangers sitting behind them, and this all seems very, very sketchy now, but at the time I was perfectly fine with it. I was taking a psychological test in a strip mall across from the place where my mother sometimes purchased fudge and fruitcake. I was in my comfort zone. What bad thing could happen? (Aside from my mother suddenly materializing and forcing me to try fruitcake, which she still insists I will learn to like someday.)
As I took the test, and automatically tallied the questions and mentally sorted them into different scales, I noticed problems. Like. This was just not a well-designed instrument. In fact, I realized as I reached through the middle portion of the test, it was almost like it was designed to yield biased results.
Weird.
Also, certain key scales, like the validation scale, seemed to be entirely lacking.
Something was not right about this psychological test.
I should note that at this point, in her separate tiny room, Laura was coming to exactly the same conclusion. (I mean, of course she was. We had inadvertently spent our lives training for this moment. But the Scientology people did not know that.)
So I finished, and the scoring occurred, and then I got my results, which – mysteriously – did not agree with ANY other test I had taken, and keep in mind that at fifteen I had taken basically all of them. As I expected given the construction of the test, the results indicated that I was a person with many, many problems, and that was unquestionably true, but I did not see how you could take that test and not get that result, one way or the other.
I was even more concerned. I definitely needed to explain to these folks why they should not use this test anymore, especially with so many superior ones on the market.
After the presentation about my many flaws that I definitely needed so much help to fix, the test-giver asked me what I thought.
“I think something is wrong with your test,” I told him.
He smiled at me patronizingly and said something about, I think, the truth being hard to hear.
“No, really,” I said, and proceeded to explain, in unfortunate detail, all the things I thought were wrong, including the weird Barnum Effect phrasing of the results, as well as the many flaws in the test itself.
I did not know it at the time, but off in her own room, Laura was doing that, too, but with the full force of her psychology degree behind her analysis.
After I finished my explanation, my test dude left, shutting the door firmly behind him. I am not sure what he did, but I assume it involved conferring with Laura’s test-giver, because when he came back, he was pissed off. And I realize now that this whole thing sounds scary, a teenaged girl locked in a soundproof room with a furious religious extremist, and probably it was intended to scare me, but I was so very solidly in a familiar place: I had taken a test, and now the testing psychologist (note: I am very sure he was not a real testing psychologist) was mad at me. This happened to me every year!
I knew exactly what to do, and tuned out while he lectured me and got it out of his system. I didn’t hear a word he said to me beyond “conspiracy,” which was the second word out of his mouth. (He said “conspiracy” because he thought we’d planned this, and were a team of evil sisters out to … honestly, I’m not sure. I cannot imagine what steps go from “Take poorly-designed psychological test” to “Defeat Scientology.” But they thought we had a whole scheme going on.)
After a while he wound down. He took my picture, and told me I was not allowed to come back on any Scientology premises ever again, and I was not downcast. They didn’t even have good tests, after all.
I assume Laura had roughly the same experience with the same terrible consequence of Total Scientology Ban, although she actually listened to the angry speech and possibly also got angry herself, because she likes arguing a whole lot more than I do. Anyway, she eventually collected me and we departed, fully accepting that we were not cut out to be Scientologists.
“That was a really bad test,” Laura said as we got into the car.
“I know!” I said. “There’s no WAY they’re getting valid results with that test.”
“Wish we could have taken a copy home,” she said wistfully. “Anyway. Do you want to get some fudge?”
(Later, we called our father to tell him that we had not joined a cult, and he was relieved, so really I think he had by far the worst afternoon of the three of us. He didn’t get to take the test, after all. And we didn’t even bring him any fudge.)
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