The Fetish for Grades (by Ricardo G. Abad)

I once surprised my sociology class with this question: “How many of you,” I asked, “will stop coming to this class if I assure you, right now, a passing grade of D for the course?” Four people raised their hands. I raised the ante: “What if I assure you a grade of B?” Half the class raised their hands. “What then if I give you a grade of B+ or A?” All but two of my 47 sophomores, among the best of their batch, raised their hands. “So,” I said, “it’s the grade that matters, doesn’t it, not the learning you’ll get in this course?” And this applies to you and many students too, no? Silence filled the room. A few bowed their heads in shameful supplication. Supplication to whom, I wondered: the god of grades?

This fixation for grades – ratings, points, or any number used to measure school success -- has long been seen to undermine education. These numbers box learning and overlook dimensions of success that are difficult to quantify, among them the creativity and enthusiasm of students. Yet the practice persists, and with little protest. Who’s to blame? The students? Not really. The fault, I think, lies less on the students but in a system that has grown too dependent on numbers.

The academic lives of students have been ruled for years by all sorts of numbers. Students qualified for admission on the basis of test scores that become the basis for sifting them into sections, tracks or programs. They enroll for subjects that meet a set number of units – this many hours for science, for example, and that many for the humanities. They also take a fixed number of units per semester.

Students also talk with guidance counselors who enlighten them on personality traits or career options based on another set of scores, displayed sometimes in nifty-looking graphs.

Students are then evaluated through a point system that demarcates what’s passing or failing, excellent or mediocre. They quickly learn that academic survival depends on reaching a certain number of points. The high pointers win praise, while the numerically challenged suffer various degrees of social stigma. And since no one wants to be branded as a scholastic idiot, students carefully track the number of cuts they have, and spend hours calculating their imagined final grades. The school system, they also discover, doesn’t round off decimals that may spell the difference between passing and failing – this arithmetical procedure would compromise academic standards. Knowing this, students figure out that survival in school is a game of millimeters where every damn point counts.

School bureaucracies need units, points, quotas, and ratings to operate efficiently. These numbers plot profiles, tally trends, facilitate forecasts, and balance budgets. They even help set norms for equity and fairness in academic practice. A grading system also links schools to outside worlds -- companies, foundations, families, and other schools -- that interpret report cards and transcripts as indicators of human worth.

But grades and cuts also act as instruments of conformity and control. They force students to attend courses that mean little to them. They warn students to tow the line. They also mold the academic identity of students, roughly classifying them as good, average or bad. Good students enter honors programs. Average students stay in regular programs. Bad students are banished into exile. Theirs is not the kingdom of heavenly summas.

Numerical ratings have their uses. But these ratings can kill learning when the quest for a good grade becomes a fetish, the primary measure of academic success. This fetish makes students play it safe: why question the teacher at the risk of failure or a low grade? The fetish also limits class performance: why bother working hard when less work results in a good grade? Why join discussions if class participation comprises a small percentage of the final mark? Or, why don’t I say what the teacher wants to hear so I can get a high grade? The fetish also dissuades active involvement in co-curricular activities and invites cheating. Why spend lots of time in a student club when it will lower the chances of getting a high grade? Why not copy answers to deal with the pressure of grades?

I stand in front of my class, looking at students who have started to acquire the fetish for grades. Will they learn sociology? I can’t say. Some will and some won’t. Like the love that may come after marriage, it’s a learning that may come after enrollment. Much will depend on the teacher to make the class enjoyable and enriching.

But aye, there’s the rub! For in a system addicted to a fetish for numbers, the burden of learning falls into the weary laps of teachers. Instructors must now master two kinds of knowledge, an academic discipline and a student-centered pedagogy. But the mastery of these two kinds of knowledge will bring success if the school (and the society that breeds the schools) continually worships numbers. Only when the system --and the students-- detach themselves a bit more from the fetish of numbers will teachers be able to heighten creativity and intellectual independence in the classroom.

Students complain that many of their classes are boring. Many don’t even remember the names of former teachers. Students have become comfortable sitting in “silent classrooms” where only the teacher’s voice or the sound of a film or video is heard. They can’t wait for the bell to ring. They are a “hostile class” - a bunch of students who are there because they have to, initially indifferent to the subject, and desirous to get a high grade with the minimum possible work.

The situation will stay for sometime. The system must change, but I cannot wait for change to happen before I can act in the here and now. Maybe it’s not too late. I’ll have students enjoy sociology. I’ll treat them to a feast of insights. I’ll open their minds and hearts. Perhaps some will care more for learning than the grade. Perhaps a few will take another sociology course. Who knows? At this moment, I’ll simply make their brief encounter with me as luscious and exotic as, well, a guava in Ethiopia.

Dear Ricky,

I was in that SA 21 class you mention in your 2004 article. In 1985, it was.

But then again you probably made that dare more than once.

I was one of those who bowed my head in shameful supplication.

Alas, this fetish for grades extends outside the classroom and into professional life. Sad that many remain obsessed with titles and certificates of recognition.

I enjoyed your class. I enjoyed your mentoring in TA. And although I never graduated (I still cringe when I recall your rushing to the dressing room when you heard of my series of Incomplete Grades. I disappointed you, I must admit), I am proud to shout to the world that of the many things I did learn in school, many of nuggets of wisdom I continue to hold dear to this day, I learned from you.

You indeed are worthy of top teacher's honors. And belated as it may seem, I just want to thank you not just for teaching me introductory SA or college theater acting, but more so for imparting in me and the hundreds of wannabe actors and actresses who made TA their home throughout the years, that passion for life that is so well… Ricky Abad.

Thank you, Ricks! I miss you.