You can express your opinion, flat-out. It’s better to show than to tell, yes, but sometimes the strongest thing you can do is both. Instead of using the reporting trick of finding someone to give a quote that expresses what the writer really wants to say, the book author gets to just say it. So I state that it is inane to make teachers write the day’s objectives on the board, especially in the jargon that is encouraged; that educators should not blame No Child Left Behind for their own stupid policy decisions; that it is educationally unsound to expect every child in a grade to reach the same level of achievement in the same amount of time; that the basic readers assigned to kindergartners make Dick and Jane look plot-thick; that it is bad science to pay teachers based on their children’s test scores; that Tyler Heights students should learn more facts; that the math curriculum seemed to have been designed by someone with attention deficit disorder; that it is crazy that the same people who call the principal a hero for getting test scores up don’t seem to want her input on developing the curriculum.

And so on.

You benefit from a loosening of attribution. My work is by all means informed by data and the research of experts, but I don’t have to be as explicit about showing it, or I can tuck it away in footnotes. You can also get away with not attributing to anyone, basing your authority instead on your own accumulated expertise and a decade of immersion. You are allowed to say, “It’s hard to get parents to school in a poor community,” rather than, “Experts say it’s hard to get parents to school in a poor community.” With myself as the expert, I get to make some broad statements: that parents at Back to School night in low-income schools often speak mainly with each other, while at middle-class schools, parents interact with teachers; that those things most middle-class parents do as a rule to make sure their children learn often went neglected at Tyler Heights; that disadvantaged children need more than anyone to learn problem-solving and interpretation skills in their classrooms but are most often deprived of such instruction (while receiving the most test prep).

I make my own analyses, of how limited the Maryland state test is, of what I call the “imagination gap” between well-off students and poor ones and how that impacts their ability to learn; of how middle-class students have an exposure to the world that fuels motivation. I don’t know if there is a sociologist somewhere who explains that more convincingly and more scientifically than I do, but I’m glad I got to say it without having to find him.

Nearly every scene I paint in the book I witnessed myself, and with those I didn’t, I filled in the gaps by speaking to others involved, as anyone at a newspaper would. But in general, I get to be my own arbiter about whom to trust, about distinguishing gossip from reality. This is a weighty burden, but it becomes manageable when you get to know people well over a year. I did not ask Autumn’s aunt if the girl was enrolled in school after she had been pulled out of Tyler Heights; I was not there when Reggie’s aunt told the principal that his father accused him of “acting white” when he started improving in school; I did not confirm with the police that one mother instructed her youngsters how to steal diapers from Rite Aid; and I didn’t actually see Cairo choke his pre-K classmate. These are all mentioned in Tested, and I had no qualms about passing them on, because I was around when staff members discussed how to handle those events, and I calculated that they had no reason to make them up. Newspaper editors would be more cautious about passing on secondhand information, which makes sense. They have hundreds of reporters whose judgments they rely on. I have only myself.

Linda Perlstein is a former Washington Post staff writer and the author of Not Much Just ChillinÕ: The Hidden Lives of Middle Schoolers and Tested: One American School Struggles to Make the Grade.