The Math Exam

The math exam is scheduled for 9:00 am. Mr. Bill is ready. He will ramrod 22 white dishdasha-clad young men through a 45-minute math exam. The task is, without question, the hardest thing he will have to do this school year. To a man/boy, the students are polite and pleasant to associate with. There is none of the ‘attitude’ that is so often shown by western students. They are a pleasure to work with. Yet, something comes over them at exam time. Gone is the easy-going compliance, replaced by a dogged determination to cheat. It’s a cultural thing and Mr. Bill does not judge. What the west calls cheating, they call cooperation. In any case, it’s him against 22 suddenly-clever adversaries, not struck dumb by the boring strictures of math, but keenly anticipating the opportunity to successfully navigate a tough exam without actually knowing anything.

Mr. Bill’s eyes blaze with his own sense of anticipation. They will NOT cheat. Not on his watch. His hands collapse into fists at the thought of what lies ahead. He is an instructor for Dubai Men’s College, part of the Higher Colleges of Technology system in the United Arab Emirates. The words ‘college’ and ‘technology’ convey a notion of advanced education, but such conveyance gets fuzzy when applied to HCT. Three years earlier, Mr. Bill traded a rewarding but ill-paid post at a Canadian technical college for an unrewarding but well-paid job in Dubai. That’s not entirely true as regards the ‘unrewarding’ part. Mr. Bill did enjoy the students and Dubai was a great place from which to travel. And no income tax.

Still, the educational standards were something less than rigorous and geared to the stated wish of the ruling sheikhs that their boys be educated, western-style, even if career prospects seldom rose above boring careers in the army and/or police. Given the wealth and rich history of the area, Mr. Bill might have questioned this policy but he supposed they thought that behind the b-movies, Beyonce, BMW’s, and baseball caps, Western civilization might have something of substance to offer. Although bright students did attend HCT, and did graduate to assume useful positions in UAE society, most were there because their fathers were tired of having them loll around the villa all day, munching on schwarmas and trying to figure out how to meet girls. If an instructor genuinely strove for excellence, it could, at times, be discouraging.

Asked once to give a year-end appraisal of his own performance, Mr. Bill exclaimed, ‘I’m a goddam babysitter’. His superiors were not amused and Mr. Bill had to employ a common euphemism related to bussing the gluteus maxima in order to keep his job.

And now, the math final. Two weeks of review has honed the students’ computing skills to Yorkshire pudding edge. The curriculum has been covered and questions solicited. Unfortunately, the questions revolve around a central theme. ‘Will I pass, Mr. Bill?’ It is a phenomenon Mr. Bill has become inured to. Almost to a man, the class is of the belief that passing an exam has less to do with mastering the course material than it does in ingratiating themselves to the instructor. And, of course, ‘helping each other’. They also believe exams are often marked not right or wrong but in accordance with the warmth the instructor holds in his heart for each student. And, if they actually are caught ‘helping each other’, Mr. Bill would surely do little more than waggle a finger. Being the veteran he is, Mr. Bill knows he is not one to gainsay a mindset that has stood the test of centuries.

The final review takes on the mood of a boot camp, a mind-control exercise in which Mr. Bill repeatedly blandishes his charges not to master the intricacies of complex fractions but to show up on time with pencil, eraser, and scientific calculator in hands that have never known the ravages of manual labor. Mr. Bill barks out these instructions while standing one foot from each student’s face, daring the student to let his attention wander, a method long employed by tyrannical nannies and drill sergeants. ‘BE HERE ON TIME! DO NOT FORGET YOUR PENCILS, ERASERS, AND CALCULATOR! BE HERE ON TIME. DO NOT. . . .’ Timid students cower in the face of such aggression but most respond with smirks. ‘Inshallah, Mr. Bill. I know you like me and are only having fun at my expense.’

At five minutes to nine, Mr. Bob stands at his desk watching the students file silently to desks. To discourage cheating, the room is big enough to separate each student by at least one desk. Mr. Bob sees – too late – that he ought to have spent more time explaining this arrangement. The students gather in the middle of the room, a white-clad muskox herd, opting to make their pitch for cheating at close quarters. Mr. Bob scatters them throughout the room, the grumbling desultory and good-natured. If Mr. Bob is lucky, only three or four students will show up late (‘Accident on Sheikh Zayed Road, Mr. Bob!’ ‘My father, he sleep in, too!’), two or three will show up without calculators, but at least one student will show up late with nothing. Despite dire threats of 0% for violating any of these exam essentials, the teacher generally does what he or she has to do to see that the student writes the exam. Too rigorous an application of the stated rules will a) occasion a sad look of disappointment from Mr. Bob’s supervisor and, if ignored, b) a one-way ticket back to Mr. Bob’s country of origin. The supervisor’s doleful face read as follows: ‘We thought you KNEW the subtleties of teaching at DMC.’

The time has come to pass out the exam papers. Mr. Bob first has to get the class' attention. Emulating a medieval town crier, Mr. Bob barks out the terms. ‘This exam is 45 minutes long. The penalty for cheating is a lifetime - YES, A LIFETIME! - expulsion from the Higher Colleges of Technology.

As he hands out the exam papers, his windy exhortation continues.

On the cover sheet write down your name and student ID number WHILE NOT OPENING THE EXAM. DO NOT OPEN THE EXAM! JUST YOUR NAME AND ID NUMBER! DO NOT OPEN THE EXAM! DO NOT TURN THAT COVER PAGE!

'Clear everything off your desks. And, remember, NO TALKING. If you have a problem, put up your hand and I will come to talk to you. Do not bother the other students. That will be cheating and I will pick up your exam and you will get 0. Is this clear? DO NOT OPEN THE EXAM! And, lastly, if you finish the exam before the 45 minutes is up, please hand in your paper and leave QUIETLY.'

Another student straggles in, smiling and pointing to his watch. ‘Plenty of time, Mr. Bob. Eight-fifty, it says.’ He has no calculator.

'The army’s going to love your ability to tell time, Nabil. Hurry up and take that seat over there.'

'But, Mr. Bob, I want to sit there,' pointing to the desk immediately behind the class’ best math student.

'Nabil, please sit down in that seat and be quiet. You're late as it is.' Mister Bob looks about quickly. 'MOHAMED, WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT OPENING THE EXAM PAPER?!' He notes that 2 students are without calculators.

'Does anyone have any questions?' One hand is raised. 'JASSIM, CLOSE THAT EXAM PAPER! DO YOU WANT TO GET A ZERO MARK?'

'HEY, WHAT DID I TELL YOU PEOPLE ABOUT OPENING THOSE EXAM PAPERS? NOT UNTIL I TELL YOU!'

‘Ali, what’s your question?’ Mr. Bob KNOWS what the question is.

‘I pass, okay, Mr. Bob?’

‘The world needs ditchdiggers, too, Ali.’ The ‘Caddyshack’ reference is lost.

'Where's YOUR calculator, Nabil?'

Sheepish grin. 'I leave it at home.'

'Let's get this straight, Nabil. You're writing the math final exam today, a very IMPORTANT exam, and you leave your calculator at home?'

Bigger, sheepier grin - what's the big deal?, it says.

'How about you, Saeed? Where's YOUR calculator?'

Injured look. 'Somebody steal my calculator.'

'How do you suppose such an awful thing could happen, Saeed?'

'I do not know. Stolen,' He shrugs. The world is an uncertain place in which calculator thieves abound. Surely, Mr. Bob knew that. Mr. Bob actually DID know that and brought two calculators. Nabil and Saeed are not surprised at their good fortune. Mr. Bob grits his teeth.

'Okay, students. It is now 9:05. You may begin the exam.' Another straggler saunters through the door as if it were the first day of class. 'YOUSEF, hurry up and sit down. Where's your calculator? You do not have it?' Yousef is the class project. His English skills are almost non-existent and he has lasted this far only by the charitable offerings of his fellow students, charity not about to be forthcoming in this exam. 'You don't have a pencil, either? Why did you come here today, Yousef?' Railing at him is futile. He doesn't understand a word Mr. Bob is saying. Yousef is a project, a boy whose father has wusta (influence arising from proximity to the sheikhs) and wants him to attend an English-language school even if the only English his boy knows involves American cigarettes and British beer. He nods and smiles. Mr. Bob gives him an exam and a pencil. "You'll have to do the math in your head, Yousef, there's no more calculators available. I can't help you.' Yousef smiles slightly and recoils from the exam as if it were a very large and hairy insect.

Meanwhile, the rest of the class is still sitting, staring at their exams, peeking inside when they think Mr. Bob isn't watching. Mr. Bob forgot to be clear with his 'you may begin'. I SAID YOU MAY BEGIN.'

'Now, Mr, Bob?' 'We begin NOW, Mr. Bob?' 'Okay to begin?'

YES, YES and YES. Mr. Bob now has the potential to become a mass murderer. He dreams of wielding a Kalyshnikov.

A sudden quiet fills the room as heads bend toward desks. They try to concentrate but everyone has an ear cocked to hear that one student who will valiantly try to write the exam while suffering from a persistent, loud, and sickly, cough. Mr. Bob scans the room for the telltale signs of Kleenex. Sure enough, Hamad, sitting in a corner, begins to hack. Students near him shift slightly as if trying to move upwind.

Mr. Bob patrols the aisles to ensure there are no bits of exam contraband on the desks - notes, textbooks, pocket computers. Yousef waves his cellphone. He wants to know, without being able to articulate himself in English, if he can use his cellphone calculator. Mister Bob tries to explain that the cellphone won't perform the necessary math functions, but Yousef is too proud of his ingenuity to do anything but smile. Mr. Bob lets it go, certain in the knowledge that Yousef wouldn't get the correct answers to half the questions if Stephen Hawking was his tutor.

Mr. Bob returns to his desk. The exam proceeds quietly for ten to fifteen minutes. Suddenly, a hand goes up. Mr. Bob might have guessed. Tariq has a question. Tariq ALWAYS has a question. Mr. Bob walks slowly to Tariq's desk.

Tariq points to an answer he has written. He looks up at Mr. Bob and whispers, 'This is right?'

'Is what right?'

'This answer is right?'

'Tariq. This is an exam. You don't really expect me to answer that, do you?'

Tariq frowns. Evidently, he does expect Mr. Bob to answer the question. He scowls as Mr. Bob turns and walks back to the front of the room.

The staggered seating seriously hinders cheating. Students have to rise from their desks to survey a neighbor’s paper. Several students do this, masking their intent by straightening their clothing. Mr. Bob glares them back into their seats and notes, with some small pleasure, that most are trying to cadge answers from students even less skilled than they. Cheat away, Hamad!

The student who finishes first wants to know it it's okay to leave the exam room. Mr. Bob nods. The student rises and delivers his exam to the front desk. As he exits, he mutters something in Arabic to another student. Mr. Bob yells at him to get out before his exam is marked with a zero.

'I just tell Ahmed I wait for him at car.'

Completed exam papers start coming in. Students leave and mutter in Arabic as they go out the door. It is impossible to stop.

Soon, the room is down to three students, two of whom are scratching their heads and slipping their sandals on and off as if contemplating toes as potential calculating aids. One of the remaining students is Hamad, hacking now as if trying to rid himself of a lung. Another student looks up at Mr. Bob, his arms spread wide, and shrugs. Mister Bob smiles, understandingly. The student speaks.

'You help me, Mr. Bob. This stuff I don't know.'

'Sure, Mohamed, why don't I just write your paper FOR you? Would that be okay?'

Mohamed nods furiously. Mr. Bob turns to the other two, neither of whom appear to have heard the conversation, engrossed as they are in a painful last-ditch attempt to penetrate the mysteries of mathematics. It is not working. With roughly a minute to go, they seemed resigned to handing in a paper from which any satisfaction ended after writing their name and ID number.

Finally, Mr. Bob announces that time is up. 'Put down your pencils, gentlemen.'

Mohamed, of course, sees this as an instruction to begin writing. As Mr. Bob approaches him, Mohamed's non-writing arm shields the exam paper, denying Mr. Bob the opportunity to retrieve it. The ploy is unsuccessful, however, as Mr. Bob, with practiced deftness, snatches up the exam. Mohamed glowers, incensed over the unfairness of it all.

Mr. Bob prays that Hamad will do the decent thing and voluntarily place his contaminated exam on the stack on the desk so that Mr. Bob won't have to touch it.

Mr. Bob bundles the exam papers and leaves the room behind Mohamed. Some students are standing around, as if the wait might improve their chances of passing. Mr. Bob asks, 'Well, was the exam easy?'

'Too much easy, Mr. Bob,' says one, a student who hasn't shown up for half the classes, was late for the exam, and wouldn't know a fraction from a decimal.

'Too much hard, Mr. Bob,' says another, a hard worker who Mr. Bob hopes will make it through.

The other students smile nervously as Mr. Bob passes by, their continued presence in the hall a possible aid, they speculate, to a better mark. One never knew.