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Does grading make grade?
How do I grade my grading?
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Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Grading on My Nerves
By MAX CLIO
I am an embedded observer in the decline of Western
civilization. At least, that was the distinct sensation that
came over me earlier today, while working my way through a
pile of student papers.
I have never been keen on grading. I still remember my shock
as a graduate instructor reading my first stack of papers.
Someone actually handed in something this bad? Must it receive
a passing grade, simply because it arrived on time? Others
before me, I suspect, strived toward perfection on every
assignment, then became instructors, only to discover the vast
sea of student mediocrity.
Even so, at the other research institutions where I taught
before arriving on this regional campus of a major state
university, student papers were different. The typical batch
contained a far larger proportion of talent and merit, and a
far less demoralizing proportion of illiterate and
semiliterate scribbling. Essential to a grader's morale is
that occasional breathtaking paper that proves conclusively
that excellence is attainable and expectations can be met.
Those are the papers that sustain hope in the face of
overwhelming evidence to the contrary. I don't get many now.
Autumn is especially rough. Amid the bright leaves and crisp
air, the return to school is bracing. But once the grading
phase of my courses begins, I remember that fall is when I
teach mostly introductory-level courses to students who, in
many cases, will not make it past one term of university life.
Last year, I was forced to fail 20 percent of the students in
a class of 40. "This isn't education," I told my dean. "It's
triage." His reply: Nothing can be done. At an open-enrollment
state institution, anyone who graduates from high school can
take a whirl at university. After a term or two, many realize
they aren't mature or prepared enough. A good number of them
put in zero effort and seem to expect as little in return. A
colleague who departed a chic private high school to teach
here is astonished that she can dole out undesirable grades
without consequence. "They don't come to your office," she
said. "Their parents don't call."
On our campus, the average ACT score is 20.5. The range
stretches, improbably, from a bare 13 to a respectable 32 (the
maximum is 36). At the main campus in our system, the average
score is 25. At a highly selective institution, the average
would be a notch further up. In short, my students have the
lowest scores among four-year university students. The pool
here is closer to the general mill of high-school graduates
than instructors at selective institutions ever see.
When I was first trying to find my bearings as an instructor,
I read an elegant memoir of teaching by Wayne Booth, who
taught English at the University of Chicago. His diary of his
students' progress and seminar experiences was humane, but
would, if replicated by me, seem absurdly precious. Instead of
tales of college girls' intellectual coming of age, I would
record such stories as the 50-something student of mine this
term who, having missed four classes straight, told me it was
because she had been evicted from her home. The first night
she drank wine coolers. The other days she was moving to a new
place.
Besides the humiliations of poverty and class, another simple
fact intrudes here: High schools no longer prepare most
students to express ideas coherently or follow accepted
English, let alone carry on serious intellectual work. My
students can read carefully, when they do the reading. They
ask good questions about lectures, showing attentiveness and
curiosity. They discuss ideas and texts capably. Their weak
spot is writing. The task falls to me -- in courses ostensibly
about specified topics, not composition -- to patch up these
leaky vessels.
Some of my colleagues, I notice, take a pass on this
challenge. Their introductory-level courses feature a series
of multiple-choice tests. They apparently haven't the patience
to read essays, and automatic tabulators all but eliminate the
time they spend on grading. This bothers me. I hold that a
university education ought to include a significant writing
component, that student writing deserves substantial
professorial comment, that every student can become a better
writer with practice, and that this is the last effective
chance for them to get practice and feedback. If not us, who?
I hold this conviction without being able to extend much
confidence to any particular set of student essays. The
prospect of working through the stack of papers sitting next
to me right now, for example, is enough to send me into fits
of distraction. Writing this column is one stalling tactic
among many that I have invented. I have a powerful aptitude
for evasion, delay, and self-protection when faced with the
chore of grading.
In graduate school I knew a professor who poured herself a
generous glass of cabernet sauvignon before sitting down to
grade papers. I would follow suit myself, except somnolence
would be the result. My approach is far less satisfactory. I
turn irritable. I grade restlessly. I start one paper, get
through a page, then turn to the next paper in the stack,
hoping for something better. No sooner do I start the next
paper than I discover its grave weaknesses and move on to
another.
Eventually, I abandon this hopscotch of aversion and work
through the pile in a more deliberate way. When I finish a
paper, I pick up some published item as a reward to myself, a
reminder that somewhere else in the world, there is writing
worth reading. My first batch of papers this term was so bad
that I suddenly vowed to read the entire Bible, cover to
cover. I made it to Abraham and Isaac. I may finish it yet.
I have been known to procrastinate all weekend, to the point
where I must wake up at 4 a.m. on Monday morning in order to
finish the papers by the appointed hour. Once I get down to
brass tacks, however, I am methodical. I make extensive
comments in green ink on every paper -- a reflection of my
belief that better writing comes with recognition of audience,
an impression reinforced by readers' comments. I strive, in my
marginal notation, not to be harsh or cruel, but rather
suggestive and helpful.
I urge students to take a position on the assigned text's
validity or merit, not just summarize it. I encourage them to
put their thesis somewhere near the outset of the paper, not
in the middle or at the end. I demand that they pay closer
attention to grammar and spelling. (Many of my students
believe that the following set of words, for example,
qualifies as a sentence: "A state of equality.") I recommend
Bartleby.com, where Strunk and White's The Elements of Style
and various other useful guides are available free.
Reports have it that I am a tough grader. This seems to mean
that I do not hand out A's like there is no tomorrow, not that
I haven't considered it. A more lenient hand would undoubtedly
boost my evaluation scores, good as they are. There is an
ethical quandary, moreover, in the issue of whether to grade
by conviction or on a relative scale. A scale of conviction
holds students to a universal bar of excellence; a relative
scale or "curve" judges them against their immediate peers.
This dilemma is real. Is it reasonable to expect students in a
backwater to rise to supreme heights? Shouldn't they be judged
relative to their campus? Why should I be tight with the A's,
if most students at Ivy League universities get them, as
reports indicate? In the end, however, I have decided to award
no paper a high grade if its excellence does not actually have
my complete confidence. I judge by standard, not pool. That
makes me "tough."
Sometimes, the vagaries of grading do result in self-doubt.
One student was so grateful for his B recently that I wondered
if I had been too easy on him. In another case, I wondered
after the fact if I'd been consistent in giving one student a
C+ while another got a B-. Subtle differences of gradation on
humanities papers are hardly fast and firm. It is impossible
to draw up absolute criteria that would tip an essay one way
or the other in marginal cases. However, major differences of
grading do reflect very different levels of quality. On the
whole, I am confident that my grades are meaningful and fair.
Grades are earned -- not given.
Interior vacillations of mind and spirit are inevitable in any
grader with professional dedication and a conscience. All that
can be done in the darkest hours before the dawn is to apply
intellectual standards as best one can -- and hope for the
rare student who rises to the occasion.
Astonishingly, it does happen once in a while. The other day I
walked into class to overhear a group of students comparing my
comments on their first papers. They were earnest, almost
sweetly so. They vowed to improve their writing the next time
around. Maybe that will be the batch I've been waiting for.
Max Clio is the pseudonym of an associate professor of
history on a regional campus of a major Midwestern research
university. He welcomes letters sent to max_clio@yahoo.com.
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