Lexile and (Lack of) Subtext

Yesterday, Mike posted about the Lexile system being used in schools to guide students towards reading that is challenging enough for their reading comprehension levels. It was the first I had heard of it. After reading Mike's post, I checked out the Lexile site to see what Lexile measures, and now I am even more sure that solely using Lexile scores to determine what students should read is doing them a grave disservice.

What does Lexile measure?
Lexile measures the quantitative aspects of text complexity, such as word length or frequency, sentence length, and text cohesion.

What doesn't Lexile measure?

Lexile can't measure the qualitative aspects of text complexity such as subtext, symbolism, and figurative language. It also can't measure the complexity of story aspects such as multiple plotlines, settings that require background knowledge to fully appreciate, and non-linear structure.

Some very challenging books are written in a deceptively simple way.  Let me offer up my experience with HOMO FABER by Max Frisch as an example.  HOMO FABER was the first novel I read entirely in German (the language it was originally written in). At the time, my German skill was on the advanced side of intermediate, and I could easily understand the vocabulary used in the novel.  What I didn't understand, however, was the subtext - and consequently, I missed the entire point of the story.

Witness this reconstructed conversation between my husband Daniel (who is a native German speaker) and me.

ME: So, HOMO FABER was pretty boring. The main character just travels around and has these romantic affairs with women. Big deal. 

DANIEL: Actually, HOMO FABER is a powerful treatise on fate versus coincidence. I thought you'd love it considering your interest in coincidence. Also, it alludes to the Oedipus myth. 

ME: Really? What were the coincidences? I didn't notice any. And Oedipus? Really? 

DANIEL: Uhhhh... did you not get that the woman he proposed to on the cruise to Europe was actually his daughter, but he didn't even know he had a daughter? It's a modern twist on the Oedipal archetype.  

ME: !!!!!!!! 

DANIEL: Yeah ... maybe you need to read it again.

HOMO FABER doesn't have a Lexile score, but I can imagine that if it did, it would be low - and summarily dismissed as too easy to waste precious reading time on. (This, of course, is entirely avoiding the topic of age-appropriateness of content). 

There is so much more to reading than a quantitative score based on word choice and sentence length. And students who are forced to adhere to such a strict system are sadly losing out on the qualitative experience a book can provide. 

How the Lexile System Harms Students

About a month ago, a woman approached me at a conference. She picked up a copy of ASHFALL and asked me, "What's the Lexile on this?"

This question threw me for a bit of a loop. I'm used to being asked what ASHFALL's about, how much it is, or where I got the idea for it. "What's a Lexile?" I asked.

"They use it at my daughter's school," she replied. "To match students with books at the right level for them."

"Oh, like the Guided Reading level." I happen to know about those because my wife's school district uses them. They always seemed a bit idiotic--what reader chooses a book based solely on its reading level? But since at her school they're used as suggestions, not mandates, and take the content of the books into account, they've never really bothered me. "ASHFALL is a Z+ on the Guided Reading level scale," I said.

Here's where the rabbit hole started to get twisty. "We don't use Guided Reading," she said. "We use Lexiles. And my daughter isn't allowed to read anything below 1,000." The italics are mine. You'll have to imagine my angry shouting at a school that won't allow their students to read--no matter what the excuse.

"I'm sure it's fine, then. ASHFALL is a Z+. It's got to be at least a thousand on your school's scale. What does she like to read?"

"She loved The Hunger Games, but the school wouldn't count it. It's too easy for her." (I later looked up The Hunger Games--its Lexile level is 810.)

"A lot of teens who liked The Hunger Games enjoy ASHFALL. How old is your daughter?"

"She's in sixth grade."

"You should read ASHFALL first, then--it depicts an apocalypse realistically. It's very violent. Definitely not appropriate for all sixth-graders."

"That's okay. I just need to know what the Lexile level is. Can you look it up?"

I obliged and found ASHFALL listed at Lexile.com. Its level? 750.

"It's too easy for her, then." The woman walked away as my lower jaw hit the table with an audible slap.

For kicks, I looked up Ernest Hemingway's masterpiece, A Farewell to Arms. Its Lexile? 730.

Is my work more difficult, more sophisticated, or more appropriate for older readers than that of Mr. Hemingway, a Nobel Laureate in literature? Of course not! Think about it: If this poor student stays in her school system, she'll NEVER be allowed to read A Farewell to Arms. It's allegedly too easy for her.

Since this conversation, I've heard of a high school that boxed up all its copies of Night, Elie Wiesel's classic account of surviving the holocaust, and sent them to the elementary school, because it's "too easy" for high school students. It's Lexile is 570.

Shocking as that example is, there's a bigger problem: the Lexile system punishes good writing and rewards bad writing. I'll illustrate this point with an example. Here's the first sentence of a book that sixth-grader would have been allowed to read, a book with a Lexile of 1650:

"ON the theory that our genuine impulses may be connected with our childish experiences, that one's bent may be tracked back to that "No-Man's Land" where character is formless but nevertheless settling into definite lines of future development, I begin this record with some impressions of my childhood."

Forty-eight words that can be replaced by three with no loss of  meaning: 'My childhood was.' This is a truly awful opening, whatever your opinion of the overall work.

Here's a novel millions of sixth-graders have enjoyed. A novel with a Lexile of only 820. A novel this woman's daughter would not be allowed to read:

“They say Maniac Magee was born in a dump. They say his stomach was a cereal box and his heart a sofa spring. They say he kept an eight-inch cockroach on a leash.”

It's clear and concise. It introduces the main character and opens irresistible story questions in the reader's mind. If it were rewritten as one sentence, it would lose the flavor of gossip that makes it intriguing--and have a much higher Lexile score.

Good writing is simple. The best writers never use two words where one will do, and they choose their words with precision. But the Lexile system rewards complexity and obscurity by assigning higher Lexile scores for works with longer sentences and longer words. In short, students forced to use the Lexile system in their reading are being taught to be bad writers. And some are likely being forced into books that will turn them off to reading.

What should you do? If you're a school administrator, teacher, or librarian, quit using Lexiles. I realize your motto isn't, "First, do no harm," but is that such a bad precept to follow? The Lexile system is actively harmful to your students.

If you're a parent, let your child pick books the way you do--based on interest and need. Ask your school to dump the Lexile system. The last thing we need is an expensive program that makes the great work parents, teachers and librarians do--educating our children--more difficult.

Mrs. Gick's Library

Last week in this space I wrote about two uncomfortable experiences I had while visiting libraries. But I’ve presented in dozens of school and public libraries over the last six months, and the vast majority of those visits have been wonderful. So this week I’d like to talk about the value of libraries. I’ll illustrate my point with a story about a typical library visit.

On December 9^th I spent the day with Sherry Gick at Rossville Middle/High School. The library wasn’t the biggest one I’d seen, or the newest, or the fanciest. If anything, it looked a little tired. Until the students came in, that is. I’ve never seen a group of teens more excited about reading, their library, or their librarian.

The book discussions over lunch were non-stop and so varied as to be dizzying. We didn’t just talk about my book, ASHFALL—we covered Cashore, Collins, Shusterman and a host of paranormal romance authors I haven’t read. I finally wolfed my cold slice of pizza during the passing period after lunch.

This is what a great library does: It develops passionate readers. How does Mrs. Gick achieve this? Even in my brief time there, I noticed a few things. First, the library is laid out like a bookstore. Fiction is separated by genre—science fiction, paranormal romance, realistic fiction, etc. Big, inviting signs hang over each section. The books all have their original covers, and some of them are faced out. There are paperbacks available for those who prefer them. And the first thing you see as you walk in isn’t a row of computers; it’s a book display on the counter of the library desk. (The computers are around the corner to your right.)

But even more important than the physical layout of the library is its emotional tone. The first question students hear isn’t, “Do you have a pass?” it’s something more like, “How are you doing today, Todd?” One girl told me she volunteered to work in the library during 7^th period because it helped her wind down after a stressful day of classes. That she loved the library because it felt “safe”—her word, not mine. Another student told me about coming to Mrs. Gick for assistance with a disturbing and thorny issue with another teacher, and how Mrs. Gick had helped her resolve it. These teens have so much trust in their library and librarian that they feel comfortable asking anything. During our discussion of ASHFALL, one student wanted to know about my use of the term “spooning”—did that mean Alex and Darla were having sex? As I listened to the question, I expected raucous laughter and teasing. Instead, her question was met with nods and some embarrassed glances. What followed was a thoughtful discussion about the definition of spooning and the role of sex in ASHFALL—why it wouldn’t have been appropriate for Alex and Darla to have sex in the scene under discussion, and whether it was appropriate at all.

By all measures—books circulated, computers used, and classes taught—Mrs. Gick’s library and thousands like it are excelling. But both school and public libraries across the country are facing devastating budget cuts. Between 2000 and 2008, the per-student funding available for school library materials fell 31% in the U.S. It’s not that we lack money for education. Between 2002 and 2008 we increased spending on standardized testing by 160%. Overall education spending increased 21% between 2000 and 2005. Why do we starve libraries while throwing bushel baskets of money at testing companies like McGraw-Hill? The short answer is that McGraw-Hill has better lobbyists than the American Library Association. (Which industry do you think spent more on lobbying in 2011—defense or education? If you guessed defense, you’re wrong.)

Library funding is being cut despite a long and rich history of studies linking school libraries to student achievement. But the most important way libraries matter isn’t measurable in studies. It’s the things librarians like Mrs. Gick do—creating passionate readers and providing students a safe place to reflect and learn. 

Let’s spend more time and money on what works—reading, libraries, and librarians—and reduce the amount of time and money wasted on standardized tests. Every student deserves a library like Mrs. Gick’s.

p.s. If you’re interested in having a day of presentations at your school or library like the one I did at Mrs. Gick’s school, I’m offering them at no charge in 2012 and for a nominal fee in 2013.  There’s more information here. 

Mrs. Gick and me