I have a spotted post-secondary history, for one reason or another. After attending McMaster and Leeds University, I chased my wife-to-be, Rachel, across the continent. So I find myself applying to the University of British Columbia, to complete my degree in Physics and Math on the west coast. During the hoop-jumping that festers about such things, I repeatedly come across the acronym LPI. The Language Proficiency Index is a standard screening test used by UBC to pick out applicants and transfer students who don't speak a word of English. Apparently, I need to take the LPI.

I duly sign up for said test, and a painful $45 later I'm on campus, waiting in a large lobby. I'm missing a day of work. All around me are fellow test-takers; mostly nervous looking, all foreign looking. A lecture hall lies across the lobby, with two sets of double doors. Above the doors are signs, dividing the alphabet into sections: A-L, M-S, T-Z. Eventually, invigilators arrive on the scene and open the doors:

"The test will be starting in fifteen minutes. Please line up according to your last name, as indicated by the signs."

I'm amazed at the mayhem that ensues; stricken by panic, people randomly dash for lines. For the next ten minutes, the invigilators send people from this queue to that, guiding those who don't understand the procedure.

If this is the competition, I think, then bring on the test.

Some weeks later, I receive a letter from UBC letting me know that, although I clearly have some grasp of the English language, I'm not at what they considered to be a "university level".

"Hello ... LPI testing centre."

"Yeah, hi. I'm calling about a mistake I think you made on my LPI exam."

"What sort of mistake?"

"It says here that I ... failed to meet the requirements."

"Do you need to book another test date?"

"No. Besides, I can't afford it. I need to talk to whoever marked my test."

"Well, unfortunately, that's not possible, but you can appeal your mark and have it marked by a different referee."

"Look, if I couldn't pass that test, then I couldn't really be holding a conversation with you now, could I?"

"Sorry, what's your name?"

"Mike Hengeveld."

"Can you spell that?"

Was this lady mocking me? I arrange to have another referee look at my exam while I wonder what I possibly could have done to fail a rudimentary English test. I can clearly remember the nature of some questions:

3) In the following sentences, circle the error(s) if any are present:

a) Yesterday, the boy walk to the zoo.

b) In spring, people often take their dog to park.

c) The reign in spade falls manely on the plane.

Some time later, Rachel answers the ringing phone. She hands me the receiver with a grimace on her face.
I request solitude.

"Hello?"

"Hello. This is <name> calling from the LPI centre."

"Yes?"

"I've taken a look at your exam."

"Yes?"

"You did very well on the first part of the test..."

"The part where we conjugate verbs? The boy walked to the zoo. Yeah, I was always pretty good at that stuff."

"Yes, you did very well. The problems came in the essay part."

"Really. What kind of problems?"

"There were a number, actually."

"I'm an example based type of person. Maybe you could help me out."

"Let's see ... okay. Here you write 'My parents were my largest and primary role models.' "

Of the three choices of short essay topics, I chose the standard comparison essay, answering the question: How are you similar/different from your parents? Introduction, presentation of thesis statement, argument supporting similarity, argument supporting difference, summary, and a jaunty "Amen" placed at the bottom of the page. It was a classic essay.

"What's wrong with that sentence?"

"The adjective largest is misused here."

"I don't understand."

"Well, role models can certainly be primary, but they can't be large."

"How can you say that? You haven't even seen my parents. They could be obese!"

"Ok ... (laughs). But there are other mistakes here too though."

"Bring it on!"

This goes on for some time. Most of the arguments are over colloquial use of language. At many points, lockjaw takes hold of me. Restricting my speech, this built in phenomena provides the negative feedback loop that keeps me from crossing the line into a cacophony of cursing and name calling. Seeing no end in sight, I resort to exploiting the weak point of most arguments: logic.

"What is the point of this test, anyway?"

"The university uses our test to reduce the number of students that can't communicate at the level that is required in courses."

"Really. It's a miracle that I got through my first three years, I guess."

"Yeah ... unfortunately, most transfer students have never done this test before."

"Why do you suppose that this test is at UBC, and not, say, anywhere else."

"Well, many of the applicants to UBC have English as a second language. It can be a problem ... "

"Clearly I'm one of those people. It must be nice to know that your test is weeding out the losers."

"Sorry. Many people have to write this test a second time. It can surprise them."

"Oh- I'm surprised."

"We can book you a tutor if you want." Was she calling me on?

"Look. Writing your silly test is one thing. Paying for it is another. Do you really think I'm going to hire a tutor at twenty bucks a pop as well?"

"Test booklets are quite affordable..." Toro! Toro!

"Hmmm...Proficiency Index. So this test ranks how well I can communicate?"

"That's our goal."

"I know a number of people who speak a second language. They all say that the familiar uses, or colloquialisms, are the most difficult to master."

"I imagine that that would be true."

"So colloquialisms are a sign of mastery."

"Well ..."

She's wasn't going for it. Although she admitted that I was a very clear communicator, she wouldn't take the bait: I didn't fit their damn marking scheme. In this hive, there was no queen bee, so despite my protest, I was required to sign up for a retest.
$45 dollars later, payable to the LPI Centre, I'm again sitting in the lobby of a building on campus--missing work. Watching the alphabetic scramble that proceeds the test, I wonder to myself how much money each of these people have invested in the LPI.
I write the stupid thing, never straying far from the mantra my brother learned in the army; K.I.S.S. or, "keep it simple, stupid." Apparently, passing the LPI only requires one to convince the examiner that English is not your native tongue.

$90 later, I'm enrolled and attending, among other pursuits, a compulsory English course. Naturally, I'm surrounded by people who have received the LPI stamp of approval. The atmosphere is like that of a correctional facility. I inwardly groan as we start analyzing how to write an informative essay.

"So, first we need a subject for the essay."

Our professor looks around the room, hopelessly, before turning her attention to a girl towards the back who is chatting animatedly to her friend in a language other than English.

"<name>, perhaps you could help us out?"

The girl looks up in horror. Her friend removes herself from the situation by shrinking back. Waiting, the professor repeats the question. After a thoughtful pause, she utters:

"How ... play piano?"