Last week, there was a major uproar when the SAT, the dreaded test that determines whether your kid will be a doctor, a lawyer or a 30-year employee of a fast-food restaurant, used a question about reality TV on the essay portion of the test.
On the face of it, this doesn't seem a big deal. Kids who can figure out what time to be at the station when one is traveling from the west at 65 miles per hour and the other from the east at 35 mph should be able to write about something as simple as reality TV. And any kid who can find the quadrilateral median of a polynomial squared times the product of (%-B + C) + coefficient C= 6y, should have enough to say about anything that they'd get through the essay OK. (That's not a real equation, by the way. If you thought it was, then you probably shouldn't be helping your kids with their homework.)
But parents of smart kids across the country were outraged. They'd been grooming their offspring for years for this test, making sure they read the best books and were exposed to the most thought-provoking experiences they could possibly be exposed to. If they listened to music at all, it was Vivaldi or Mozart, because classical music, with its intricate patterns, develops the brain waves. (It's also good for insomnia.)
They're the kids who trudge to the bus stop in the morning with a backpack so huge and heavy that they walk bent over, stopping every so often to catch their breaths and chant pi to the 83rd decimal point. These kids have been training for the SATs the way horses train for the Kentucky Derby or Mel Gibson trains for St. Patrick's Day. One thing these parents would never do is expose their children to something so crass as reality TV.
These parents argued that their kids had never been allowed reality TV, so they couldn't be expected to write about it. (Actually they said, "My Thurston has never been exposed to the baser levels of the electronic entertainment medium known as television, and it is therefore intolerable and unacceptable that the examination would expect him to be able to expound on the subject matter!" but I'm translating for all you regular folks out there.)
They had been expecting a question on the monetary crisis in the EU or on China's energy policy. It was like showing up to perform at a ballet recital and being asked if you could just do "The Robot."
This is not, in any way, a defense of reality TV. I actually hate reality TV with a passion. It's stupid, it goes on too long and by eliminating writers, it's clearly designed to cover as much airtime as possible at the lowest cost. It's the entertainment equivalent of generic cola or Dollar Store sandwich cookies. It will get you through, and you can tell yourself you got your kids what they were asking for, but everyone feels a little gypped.
I get dragged into reality TV on a regular basis. During the week, my wife watches "The Bachelor" (so she can tsk tsk at the bachelorettes, who it seems will do anything for fame), "Celebrity Apprentice" (because celebrities, by definition, will do anything for fame), "Miami Ink" (because it's pretty amazing how many people are willing to have their kid's awkwardly posed school picture permanently engraved on their arms) and "Dancing With the Stars" (because ... actually, I have no rationale for this one).
On weekends, before we get up and face the day, she'll catch up on On-Demand episodes of "RHoBH" ("Real Housewives of Beverly Hills"). Because I've been forced to sit through this entire season, one groggy episode at a time, I now can identify each of the real housewives by sight, can tell you what their little bugaboos are, and who hates whom. (Kyle and Kim had better bury the hatchet before next year, or it's gonna be uncomfortable, and if Kelsey Grammer's ex-wife comes back, she'd better leave the lady from "Medium" at home. Oh, yes, I said it, sisters!)
Last time I took the SATs, the questions were all about trains reaching stations, "A is to B as C is to ...." and things I never quite got, like the quadratic formula. Now that they're starting to factor in the kind of stuff that makes your brain rot, I might retake them and see if I can get a scholarship somewhere.
Be prepared, Thurston. Your roommate next year might be 50 years old and somewhat crabby. And just so you know, on weekends, it's "RHoBH" time.
First Published: March 26, 2011, 4:00 a.m.
