A Tale of the Search for Wisdom
by Walter Agnew Moore II
15 February 2002, University of Picardy, Amiens, France

Fat birds are hopping around in the sun, trees are sprouting out new green, and Valentine's Day came and went without too much mayhem, but you can't tell my students that. You can't talk to them about anything but their grades. They are wandering the halls hollow-eyed, shattered because their numbers don't add up to enough to make them pass.

Some teachers say "fine". Some teachers fancy themselves as tough trainers of Special Forces commandos instead of whatever luxury subject they have as their job. Some teachers like to flex their power.

Some teachers need to get kicked in the head by a mule.

The best professors I ever had, the ones I learned the most from, never really gave a rip about grades. Those are the ones I try to imitate. I have been brought here to get these kids speaking a little bit better English (some teachers are rushing to pick apart my grammar no doubt), and so long as the kids get better, I try to give them some credit for the course.

I thought I had this damned French grading system figured out. I thought if I gave the kids grades that averaged out to at least 10 out of 20 at the end of the year, everything would be all right.

Nothing can ever be that simple in France. And apparently I graded even harder than a French professor would have. Some of them are trying not to cry when they see me.

Most of the time, I can look at their exam, and say "Hmmm, this kid really didn't understand. I'll give her some extra work to do next semester to help her out, because she really isn't up to speed yet." But with my more advanced classes, my grading was very subjective, and that caused problems.

THE CASE OF MADEMOISELLE C.

Mlle. C. is in my third year class. Their job was to bring a post card and describe it in English, then we would chat a little off-the-cuff, so I could see how fluent they were, make notes about pronunciation, and write down bonuses if they showed a flair for expressing themselves.

I listened to descriptions until my head was numb. A few days later, I consulted my notes and cobbled together a point system based on four main criteria. One or two students had done outstanding jobs, and it was easy to give them good grades. But honestly, for the rest, they all sort of ran together. All the students had succeeded in expressing themselves, so I couldn't see failing anyone. I rather arbitrarily chose "11" as my base grade, something like a "C" in the American system, and I added points for successfully doing things like, say, pronouncing "th", or using different verb tenses or varied vocabulary.

In the case of Mlle. C., I see that I have written almost nothing. Must have been mediocre. 11.

I almost change my mind and give her a 12—something doesn't feel right—but I stop myself. After all, I can't even put a face with the name.

Well, I sure can today. Mlle C. is in the hall, furious. She and two other students have just found out their grades from the office. The other two girls made higher scores. Not a problem, except those two are total duds who refuse to speak in class. Mlle C, on the other hand, is one of my most talkative students, in a class where they are supposed to talk. And how she is talking now.

"Monsieur, I have to tell you, this 11, I do not feel as if I deserve it. I am not even talking about class participation, WHICH I DO, but just the exam itself— you did not listen to my full description, I was only given half the time the others got, you made me change rooms— it is not fair, not a reflexion of my work, this grade!"

OK, so I am being bullied into changing a grade. Not gonna work. I almost snap some smart-ass comment at her, but don't. I do say: "This is a serious thing, an exam. Not something to discuss between classes in the hall. I need to go teach, but I can meet with you at 12, and we will talk about this."

Mlle C. nods. "OK, 12..."

I cut my next class short a few minutes before noon and go to my office to dig through my notes. I get sick. My God, the girl is right, we did change rooms during her exam. I did cut her short. And I did it because when I was talking to her, it was obvious she was better than average. And I made the mistake of thinking I'd remember that.

What am I going to tell this girl?

Mlle C. comes in. She is almost too calm. Sad. "Monsieur, let me start out by telling you that I don't expect you to change my grade. If you did that, everybody would expect it. That doesn't matter anyway. All I came here to say is that I was really let down. When you told me during the exam that everything was OK, that I did fine, I believed it was better than an 11."

"Uh, Mlle C., I looked at my notes, and I think you deserved better than an 11. Like you say, I can't just go changing grades, but I could take it into consideration for this coming semester."

"It doesn't matter now. It's too late. I have to take the exams in September because I didn't do better."

"But you have an average better than 10, it doesn't matter, does it?"

"That's not how it works. I messed up last year, and I needed to get an 11.5 this semester to be OK."

Jesus. I was about to give the girl a 12, and didn't, for no good reason.

"Monsieur, what really bothered me, is the professors in these classes always say, 'participate, participate', and I do. And it never matters. I make worse than the others who sit there and wait for the hour to run out. They make 14, I make 11, or 10, or worse."

She is right. I gave good grades under the pretext of impartiality to some of the most tiresome individuals who would just sit and stare during class. Mlle C. doesn't speak perfect English, I doubt she'll ever pronounce a "th" as anything but a "z", but she was a jabber-box in class who usually advanced the discussions and asked intelligent questions. I had power over a part of her life, and I totally botched it.

She succeeds in maintaining her dignity, but I have to get her out of here. I promise to see what I can do. But I know I can't just go changing grades. That would bring 130 sob-stories to my door.

Talk to someone more experienced. My office mate agrees I can't go changing things at a whim. "But she really did deserve better" "Weeeeell... if it's a question of insufficient time during the exam, that is a one-time thing that you COULD allow for..."

Must think. Can't go changing things just like that.

Secretaries run the planet. My Uncle David taught me that before I applied for my first real job, and it has never failed to serve me well. I go down to the office and ask them, "Tell me about Mlle C..."

They pull a file, "Oh yes, nice girl, hard-working girl... a little trouble last year, but doing better now..."

"What does she need to keep from having to take the exams over again in September?"

"Hmmm, let me add this and multiply that... yeah... What did she make in your class?"

"Um, an 11".

"Oh yeah, she is just a tad shy of a ten— that gives her a 9.75 overall. Just a little smidgen of dust short of passing."

A little bit of dust. I have royally screwed this kid with my sloppy book-keeping.

"I almost gave her a 12. God, I wish I could change it now, but it'll be hell if I do with all the rest."

"A 12 would be all she needs. If you want, just change it without the rest knowing it."

"Huh?"

"Sure. We haven't posted them yet. After those girls came in earlier, we quit telling anybody their grades." And she pulls my grade sheets out of a cabinet and gives them to me.

"If you need to adjust a grade, just do it, and get it back to me next week."

The other secretary looks in, speaks discreetly:

"Which student is Monsieur asking about?"

"You know, Mlle C. She is the one who had so much trouble because of money, when her mother died, and her father is, well, you know..."

"Ah oui, it was sad..."

I roll up the grade sheets under my arm and say "I'll get these back to you later."

It's too late to swap the dud student's 14 with Mlle C.'s 11. But I have a sneaking suspicion that my math was wrong the first time around, that maybe, maybe none of my students made worse than 12.

I can see certain professors back at the University of Texas rolling their eyes at me. It's alright. I never learned much from those professors anyway.