At the end of the grading term one year, my seventh- and eighth-grade students wrote down their impressions of how grades and grading works. We asked ourselves, “Are we using grades, or are grades using us? How do we get the biggest possible benefit from grades for academic work? Who actually gives a grade, anyway? Who makes the grade? Is a grade a reward or a stimulus — and when should it be applied?” We all wrote our answers during a quiet writing period.
I found myself thinking about an important teacher in my life. It’s good to have students “see” the teachers behind their teachers, the ones whose influence persists. For me, it was Mr. Walker, my high school English teacher. I can still recall his voice, tone, facial expressions and wry humor.
I worked really, really hard for Mr. Walker. It wasn’t that he wrote many comments on the weekly papers he assigned — for one thing, I could barely read his handwriting. It was a standing joke when he annotated the blackboard during class discussion. But everyone knew his high standards.
His assignments were known simply as “Walker papers.” The scope was unlimited; length to be determined by the writer; and correct grammar, spelling and punctuation were very much part of the assessment. One a week. All year. It was Mr. Walker who made me think that being an English major would be a good thing to do.
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My first attempts were B’s. Little by little, as I eased into the routine of writing on demand, filing on deadline, the rhythm of reflecting, drafting, tinkering, editing and submitting some piece of narrative, dialogue or opinion, my grades rose higher. When I finally earned an A, it made me want to write more, write better. I finally had a key to unlock my style and content.
Was it Mr. Walker and his comments on my work that made me a better writer? Was it the writing frequency? Was it the value I attached to his opinion, reflected in the letter grade in red ink at the bottom of the paper? Somehow the process of being asked to “say” something led me to having something to say. And now I find myself writing in order to find out what I think — right now.
I worked mostly in middle schools that used letter grades. And I always assigned frequent writing so that the routine of putting ideas on paper — or, now, on laptops — became part of the rhythm of the class. But did my grades and comments matter?
The students I taught always seemed conditioned to want good grades, and to think that the grade is the goal of the work they submit. It’s ironic, then, that I always wished that my students would work for the goal of understanding, clarity and effectiveness in written expression, beauty, joy and truth. Idealistic? Yes. Untested? Yes.
Or is it?
Many of my former students have gone on to careers that involve writing. One is a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist. Others are poets and well-known artists, musicians, lawyers, clergy and doctors, among many intriguing career paths. Is there a relationship between my language arts assignments and grades and their eventual achievements as adults? I don’t know. They never write!
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Perhaps it’s about trust. How do you turn the matter of inspiration and stimulation into intrinsic motivation and put students in charge of their own aspiration and results — as will be the case in any endeavor in life?
Does the use of grades suggest that we don’t trust them to achieve success on their own terms? If they failed, whose failure would it be — the teacher’s for not giving grades, or the student’s for ignoring his or her responsibility?
At what point should the responsibility be turned over to the nascent journalist, writer, artist and lawyer to become the person they wish to be? What would Mr. Walker say? Would I have written “Walker papers” without the high standard represented by “Walker grades”?
Ideally, I would prefer to trust that a mere shard of truth in a single poem, story, novel or play is enough to make anyone strive for better skills in their native language; that the beauty of one metaphor exacts a lifelong yearning for mastery and fluency; that the wrangle involved in creating a sonnet seeds a whole year of “Walker papers,” and all that that metaphor stands for. It did for me. But that’s just me.
Although I eventually earned A’s from Mr. Walker, it isn’t the grades that I look back on with a sense of accomplishment or pride. It’s the affirmation of having a reader I respected say, “good work.”
Todd R. Nelson is a retired principal. He lives and writes in Penobscot.
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