Eenie, Meenie, Meinee… C+?

Calculating the grades for a writing class is much more art than science. How I would love to have only “multiple guess” tests to grade—better yet, Scantron—instead of a mound of mushy, subjective, eight to ten page student research papers.

I accepted my first adjunct professor position less than a year after I graduated with my Master’s in English Education. I took in my first load of papers about three weeks after that. It was the moment after I read the first paper that I realized I had NO idea how to grade.

In grad school, the professors used words like “paradigm”, “rubric” and “rhetorical”. I went home and looked them up in a dictionary. The grad school professors tossed around these words like we knew what they meant, and most of the students nodded and tried to look sophisticated while wishing somebody had the guts to say, “Er…what?” We looked at high school papers and puzzled out the anonymous students’ cognitive development based on handwriting factors. We heard over and over again that “multicultural = good”. We learned that the most fantastic idea for a writing class (and for investors in 3-ring binder stock) is called a “portfolio”.

What I never got was an explanation, an example, or a template (I mean a rubric) for grading.

So, how DO you grade a pile of papers?

• Read them all. (Try to ignore the fact that Timmy is a douche bag and concentrate on his writing.)
• Make yourself a cup of peppermint tea to quell the nausea that rises as you imagine yourself having to read them again.
• Read them again, this time pen in hand. Red pen is traditional, but I’ve found it scares students too much so now I use blue. Avoid committing to actual grades.
• Play some Spider Solitaire to let your mind go blank.
• Read them again, this time making helpful comments at the bottom while trying not to overuse the words “awkward”, “wordy” and “sucks”. Continue to avoid grading.
• Wash the dishes, vacuum, dust, reorganize your DVD collection, watch You’ve Got Mail again, print those return address labels you’ve been meaning to make for the past year. In other words: avoid.
• Force yourself to read them again (skim, at least). Find the best and the worst—now you’ve got your A and your F. Sort the rest based on those first two. (Use the “Douche Bag Scale” for any students on the cusp.)
• Try not to think about the fresh pile of papers you’ll get in about two weeks.

Grading = Guessing + How Much of a Pain in the Butt Were You?

Jimmy is a model student. He listens attentively and takes careful notes. When teacher asks a question, more often than not, Jimmy’s hand will be politely raised to just above his right ear and he always has a thoughtful answer. If Jimmy doesn’t understand a lesson, he asks a pertinent question that invariably helps the entire class. His work is always on time and it steadily improves as class progresses.

Jimmy gets an A.

Timmy is a douche bag. He constantly talks to his neighbor during class and rarely brings a working pen. When teacher asks a question, Timmy either mutters a wiseacre comment to anyone listening, or he will shout out the first thing that pops into his head, relevant or not. If Timmy doesn’t understand a lesson, it’s because he’s been texting his friends all class or because he has fallen asleep under his hoodie. His work, however, is never late, though it usually has mustard stains. As it turns out, Timmy went to an excellent high school and he has a natural talent for writing. Timmy’s final work is of exactly the same caliber as Jimmy’s.

What grade should Timmy get?
What grade will Timmy get?
What grade do you want to give Timmy?

For this reason, and this reason only, teachers have always had a sizable portion of their final grading chart devoted to “The Douche Bag Contingency Reserve”, a.k.a. “Class Participation”.

The adventures of grading to be continued in “Eenie, Meenie, Meinee… C+?”