My recent scholarship to study writing mandated an English assessment at Las Positas College. “Arrive fifteen minutes early,” the online instructions warned. “No admittance after the test begins.” Arriving even earlier, I peeked through the heavy glass framing a locked door. Dark, no movement inside. I retreated to a wooden and wrought iron park bench on the shaded corridor. Two female students in towering platform and spiked heels tried the door, peeked into the darkened room before joining me on the bench. They fidgeted nervously, texting and alternating glances at the closed door. I was invisible.
More students arrived at the deadline time, heads down, thumbs flying on a variety of cell phones. They, too, peaked into the darkened room and tried the door before resuming texting. Five minutes into the sacred fifteen-minute limit, more students arrived. They alternated texting and trying the locked door. If they had glanced my way, I could have spared them the ritual, but I was invisible. Click! The monitor swung the door open. The young students dashed ahead of me to form a single line. They flaunted campus IDs on lanyards and scurried inside to settle at individual computers for dreaded Math or English assessment. Third from the end of the line, I logged in at a computer five minutes before starting time. I was invisible.
I finished the English assessment thirty-one minutes into the hour exam and signaled the monitor. His face showed surprise, but he motioned me forward to his desk. He whispered and handed me printed instructions to view my test results online later that evening. I tiptoed toward the door. Heads turned.
Everyone noticed the invisible student.