Memories prod me to consider how to best approach a new opportunity: teaching writing at a local college. In particular, how should grades be assigned to students of unequal ability?
An intimidating panoply of grading schemes unfolded during my first year in college. English composition reeked of whim and caprice whenever a paper with hardly a squiggle received a "B," but one bleeding red garnered an "A" with no glimmer of distinction.
No so with mathematics, for each problem solution resolved inflexibly to either right or wrong. And physics professors devised devious multiple-choice exams where a correct choice earned one point but incorrect answers (guesses, they presumed) deducted two points.
Grading scales erected a façade of precision: an "A" demanded 90 percent, though some (physics again) raised the bar to 95. But peculiar variations soon declared themselves.
Cigar-chomping Dr. Hicks, for example, unashamedly asserted his "scientific" basis for final grades in thermodynamics: 20 percent of the grade would come from homework, 20 from regular exams, 20 from the final exam, and 40 from an unexplained, undocumented "personal evaluation." Hopelessly mired in incomprehensibility and unable to tell enthalpy from entropy, I shadowed Dr. Hicks to plead help–which didn't appear to elevate my "C" one bit.
But when he posted final grades, however, I could only attribute my solid "B" to a remarkable "personal evaluation," unexplained and undocumented. But real and tangible nevertheless.
Another enlightenment stuck fire when a friend (with grades usually a tad lower than mine) and I juxtaposed our exam papers to decipher the scores. Though virtually identical, subtle errors marked in his exam had escaped notice in mine. The regularity of this anomaly pointed to but one logical explanation: because of past behavior, the teacher expected me to do better–and graded accordingly.
Great embarrassment accompanied another incidence of this irregularity. Enrolling a week late in a class, I furtively slipped into a back row seat in a room of strangers. But Admiral Bryson dispelled my desired invisibility. "Gentlemen, we have a late arrival. Be on your toes, because I expect him to make the highest grade in this class." As 40 withering eyes melted me into a puddle of trepidation, remaining ambiguity vanished. Teachers' expectations and observations exert considerable influence in how grades are finally rendered.
In a real world devoid of semesters and formal exams, those who continue to dig at problems may eventually unearth reasonable, workable solutions. And a strong finish should offset a lightning start that fizzles.
In that coming day when each man will be rewarded for the deeds of this life, I hope to hear words like these: "You started poorly and fell by the way many times, but in the end you ran your course with endurance and kept the faith and finished well."
The fragrance and beauty of late bloomers make welcome contributions to their season–if they're not clipped too early for non-performance. May final grades be assigned–mine especially–with a benevolent eye toward effort.
Copyright 2003 James McAlister
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