Teachers must deal with lights that turn off on their own, toilet paper rationing and hot water shortages in the bathrooms, and not enough books for their classes. Ms. Horn argues that asking teachers to work in these conditions while holding them accountable for dramatic improvements in student performance threatens to drive current teachers from the profession and discourages others from considering it. I AM SITTING here in the dark. When I get to school early or stay late and then sit still at my desk, the lights turn off automatically. In order to make the lights go on again I have to get up, take three mother-may-I steps from my desk, and flail my arms around. Given that it takes me about 15 minutes to grade a student essay and that I have to jump up an average of three times per paper, I'd have to say that the motion sensors are set to turn off the lights about every five minutes. The sensors are some architect's or engineer's idea of how to make energy use in the classroom more efficient. The assumption -- the beautiful, sad, I wish-it-were-so assumption -- is that when the students leave and the motion stops, so does the life of the classroom. Ha! A big fat ha! So, I'm sitting here in the dark. Sometimes, when I'm having a parent conference after school, the lights turn off, and my unwitting guests think it's a power failure. (This is California, after all.) Some of my regulars now know to flail their arms too. I know one teacher who wads up papers and throws them at the lights. (I'm hoping that it's scratch paper and not her students' work, though who knows what kinds of madness the lights inspire.) The sensors cause a kind of writer's block -- who could create under such circumstances? And then there are the bathrooms. There's no hot water. In a profession where children sneeze into their hands while simultaneously asking to borrow your pen, there is no hot water. And the toilet paper. I could create an entire metaphor for public education based on tales of toilet paper alone. The first round of a school construction project included new toilet paper holders that were rigged to prevent teachers from tearing off more than one square sheet at a time. One square sheet! We're talking about people who do not have time to get to the bathroom before the next bell rings and who are expected to work with one square sheet at a time. So I fill out a work order. I get a response: the device is rigged to prevent the careless waste of paper, but they'll go ahead and dismantle it. The result? The toilet paper won't stop flowing. It rolls and puddles on the floor. Waste galore. I wish I could stop here, but there remains the installation of the hand dryers. You know, the ones that are designed to prevent more paper waste. But the bell she is a-ringin', so we all run around wiping our cold wet hands on our laps and backsides as we head back to class. Where's the dignity? I secretly suspect that teachers, when their colleagues aren't around, have all but given up washing their hands after visiting the rest room. I ask you, What's next? The state of California wants to hold teachers and schools accountable for improving the performance of low-achieving students. And I say, yes, yes, yes! We all need to be held accountable. But, I tell you, they're making it all but impossible for a good-hearted, smart professional to do her job well. You want greater literacy? Did you know that of the 50 states and the District of Columbia, California ranks 50th in class size? An English teacher who teaches five periods a day finds herself accountable for more than 150 students. At 15 minutes per essay? That's a lot of jumping up and down. The options are downright dismal: streamline your efforts, conserve your energy, ration your desperately needed comments -- one little square at a time -- or you can just keep flailing about until you're all out of steam, of innovation, of charm. …