What Standardized Tests Really Measure: Academic Ability or the Ability to Afford an Education?
Last spring, I sat in the back of a classroom while a group of seventh graders took a practice reading diagnostic. One boy, Marcus, finished early and laid his pencil across the desk. I asked if he wanted to use the remaining time to check his answers. He said, “Why? The kids who go to the test prep class always score higher anyway.”
I didn’t have a quick answer.
Marcus wasn’t being lazy. He’d just spent the last ten minutes listening to another student talk about an after-school prep program that cost almost exactly the amount of my own monthly grocery budget. He knew the math. The state test, the one that would help determine his placement for eighth grade, was supposed to measure reading comprehension. But what it measured, in part, was the outside help he didn’t have.
We like to believe standardized tests show academic ability. The assumption is that every student gets the same question and the same grading rubric, so a score is a fair reflection of what a child knows and can do. But there’s a hidden variable that shows up early and keeps showing up: money.
Not everyone sees it. In the school where I teach, the students who score highest often have parents who paid for online prep subscriptions, private reading tutors, or summer enrichment programs that teach the exact type of passages the test uses. Those families don’t call it test prep. They call it “support.” And in a way, it does support learning. But when a score is used to decide who gets into advanced math, who gets considered for the honors program, or who is told they are “college ready,” we are not just measuring ability. We are measuring access.
I saw this again at a parent-teacher conference. A mother of one of my students asked why her daughter, who read constantly, didn’t make the cutoff for advanced English. I had to show her the score sheet. Her daughter missed by two points. The girl above her had missed by one point. It wasn’t a meaningful difference in understanding; it was random variation. But the school policy treated it as if it were a clear line in the sand. The first student was “advanced.” The second was “proficient.” The words sound absolute, but they were built from a handful of answers on a Tuesday morning.
She asked if I thought her daughter needed a tutor. I said no. I showed her the released practice questions from the state website and explained that the reading passages were long but predictable. The skills weren’t mysterious, but they were specific. We had practiced them during class, but not at the level of detail the test required.
That conversation changed how I talk about tests. Now, before the state assessments arrive, I try to make sure every student has seen the format. Some parents assume the school handles this. Some students get extra help at home. But if I only cover the material once, I’m making the same mistake as the system: treating test prep like a private good instead of a public one.
This isn’t only about middle school diagnostics. The pattern shows up everywhere. Advanced Placement exams cost money. A student who can’t pay the fee might be less likely to sign up, even if the teacher says they’d do well. SAT and ACT prep courses are a whole industry. Many families spend thousands, not because they believe the test measures something deep, but because they know it can affect scholarships and admission. In the end, the score doesn’t separate students by talent. It separates them by what their families could buy.
I’m not saying every high-scoring student got there because of money. Some students are naturally strong test takers. Some have parents who read to them every night at no cost. But when we aggregate all the scores and call them “achievement,” we’re averaging in a lot of purchases. And then we use that average to make judgments about hard work, intelligence, and potential.
For parents who can’t afford test prep, there are a few ways to make it a little fairer without spending much. First, ask the school what test preparation is built into the school day. Many schools provide practice materials, but teachers don’t always have enough time to use them. If there’s a free after-school homework club, find out if it includes time for test practice. If not, suggest it. A teacher can often pull up released questions from the state department of education and run through a few passages with students, but they may not think to do it if nobody asks.
Second, if your school uses a test to decide placement, ask what exactly determines the score and whether there’s any flexibility around it. Sometimes the cutoff is treated as if it came from letters chiseled in stone, but it’s usually a number someone chose. You can also ask when the test will be given. If it’s early in the morning, after a long bus ride, or on the day after a holiday, some students are at a disadvantage. It’s not a reason to excuse the score, but it’s a reason to question its weight.
Third, look up the fee waiver policies. Many families don’t know that AP and college entrance exams can be waived. Schools have funds for this, but they don’t always advertise it. A parent who knows how to ask can save a child from missing a test that could change their options. The problem is that requiring parents to know the right question is itself a kind of privilege. That’s why teachers and counselors should offer the information proactively, not only when it’s requested.
There’s a deeper issue too. “Education” has shifted from a shared resource to a product with different tiers. When a child is labeled “below grade level” on a reading test, parents are often told to invest in extra help. The school can’t provide it because there aren’t enough staff, so the family buys a tutor. A child whose parents can afford the tutor improves. A child whose parents can’t stays in a lower group. Over time, the gap looks like an ability gap, but it started as a resource gap.
That’s what Marcus was noticing. He didn’t call it systemic. He just said the test was for kids whose parents had money. He might have been a little too cynical — he could still do well with effort and support — but his point was hard to argue with. We tell students that hard work leads to achievement, and then we hand out the first advantage before the test even begins.
I don’t have a clean solution. I’m a teacher, not a policy maker. But I’ve started asking different questions before accepting a score. “What did the student have access to before this test?” matters just as much as “what did the student know on this particular morning?” It’s not something I can print on a report card, but it’s closer to the truth.
Marcus didn’t suddenly decide to love reading. But after I started showing him the test format and the kinds of questions that appear again and again, he improved a little. He still had moments of doubt. He still compared himself to kids with tutors. But at least he knew that the test was a specific kind of hurdle, not a measure of his worth.
I think that’s what we owe all students: not a perfect score, but a clear look at what the test actually measures. The rest is still being figured out.
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