Illustration by Shenuka Corea/The Gazelle

I’ve always harbored a deep suspicion of multiple choice questions. They seem so deceptively simple and yet, the probability of getting a standard four-part multiple choice question wrong is a whopping 75%. On a standardized test like the SAT, this probability is in fact even higher, because in order to answer the question you have to make sure to shade within the lines of those painfully small circles. And if you accidentally use a pen instead of a pencil, god help you. God help us all.

This semester, thanks to an introductory course requirement, I had my first college-level exam. It was rife with MCQs, along with a sadistic mix of both short and long answer questions. After handing in my paper, I sat down in the central plaza and sadly looked out at the sea for a while. What had just happened? What had I just been tested on?

Educators have always had debates about what examinations really examine. Intelligence? Your ability to learn by rote? Your natural aptitude for the subject? Unfortunately, these educators never thought to check with me, and if they’d dropped me a line after that exam, I would have informed them, weeping, that exams don’t actually test any of those.

What exams test is your basic aptitude for life. Let me elaborate:

Discriminatory ability The ability to discern between similar objects is an important skill, especially if you enjoy taking Buzzfeed quizzes titled How Well Can You See The Color Yellow? Luckily for us, we have MCQs to help us detect our shortcomings in that essential area of life.

I’ve noticed that MCQs often seek not the right answer, but the least wrong answer. I generally find myself faced with having to decide between options that I would classify as: quite wrong, wrong, very wrong and certainly very wrong. More than once, I have been in a situation where I’ve looked at the question and then immediately thought, Duh, the answer is obviously duck. And then I look at the options: A) 30, B) 56, C) 23 and D) 408.67.

I am consequently compelled to pick D because I am easily impressed and just a little bit frightened by decimal points. Also, I admit, because the word duck begins with a D.

Susceptibility to peer pressure Given that exams are an individual enterprise, I am acutely aware of everything that everyone else is doing at any point in time. This is terrible. During every exam there always comes a moment when everyone audibly turns the first page of the question paper, presumably having finished all the questions on that page. I, however, am still on question one. The feeling of inadequacy is so strong that I am compelled to turn my first page too, even if I haven’t finished all the questions on it. All I want is to feel like I belong.

I also feel a bit threatened when other students raise their hand during an exam to ask the professor a question about the paper. Is there something wrong with the paper? Why haven’t I noticed it, then? I watch as student and professor converse in whispers, and I wonder about what they’re saying. I can almost hear it: Nice paper, Amy! I especially like question 2, part b! — Thanks, I tried! Or, even worse —maybe they’re discussing the answers.

At this point, my paranoia gets the better of me. I wave my hand and the professor comes over. Then I point to the paper and ask a question of my own. “Is this typeface Helvetica or Arial?”

Spatial ability Short answer questions aren’t much better than MCQs. Having to write answers on the question paper confronts an infuriating variable manipulated by the professor: the amount of space provided for the answer. In some cases, questions are extremely specific: What is the lower part of the spine called? But the paper provides one entire blank page for the answer, and then I’m confused. I have three options: scrawl SACRUM in massive letters diagonally across the page, draw a sketch of a skeleton making an amusing pun about the sacrum or write a stream-of-consciousness essay about the hardships of life from a sacrum’s point of view.

Other questions ask for a comprehensive examination of the evolution of the human race since the Big Bang, and the space provided by the professor is barely enough for a sentence. Either I shrink my handwriting to produce an answer for ants or I wantonly throw asterisks all over the page, with each leading to a different section of the answer, like a treasure map. Either way works if you’re the vengeful type.

Sense of humor I love when professors try to be funny in exams. It is truly heartwarming to see an attempt at a pun or a joke, usually italicized or with an exclamation mark to emphasize that it is a joke and that we should take some time to appreciate it. I’ve noticed that cleverly named anthropomorphic alien life expressing confusion about inherently human activities, like banking, is a particularly common comic trope among academia, especially within science departments. Sometimes, in fact, the entire exam paper seems like a joke, although I am guessing that this is unintentional.

I also hate when professors try to be funny in exams, because of how much it makes me laugh – I really don't need this in my life when I'm trying to solve a complicated question. Jokes in exams slow me down by at least five minutes: three minutes of laughing uncontrollably, and two minutes of looking around to see if anyone else got the joke. It’s annoying because in that same duration of time, I could have incorrectly answered at least two MCQs.

Sensitivity to sensory stimuli All exams are scheduled during breakfast time, lunch time, dinner time, tea time or snack time. This can’t be a coincidence. A grumbling tummy is like a yawn – contagious. The only thing more distracting than 20 grumbling tummies all around you is one grumbling tummy of your own.

Speaking of sounds and sensations, exams held in lecture halls are the worst because then you have to go an hour early and sit in every seat to figure out which one has a functional attached desk. Failing to do this means spending most of your time attempting to maneuver the desk into some semblance of deskness, and the rest of your time trying not to die of embarrassment because of how noisy this process is. Exam halls have better acoustics than the Black Box Theater at the Arts Center, so one squeak of your chair and everyone looks at you like you’re torturing the campus cat.

Exams, therefore, are Life’s great Buzzfeed quizzes, where the professors are the content creators, everything’s made up and the points, unfortunately, do matter. Whether it’s not giving into peer pressure, not being easily distracted or working on your handwriting, these are life skills that you need to know. This also explains why freshman grades don’t count – we aren’t nearly as prepared for life as upperclassmen – and why freshman grades do count for study away:

If you can’t adjust the size of an answer to the amount of space provided, how on earth will you find your way abroad?

a) Oh wait, I thought that was a rhetorical question. b) I’m confused. Am I really supposed to answer this? c) 408.67. d) The end.