Making the A

In a recent class meeting, a highly motivated and talented student asked, “Is it possible to get an A in your class?” In responding, I found myself becoming defensive, especially when I recalled that the student already had an A in my class. She had answered her own question and found the answer (I assume) she was looking for, but she wanted more. She wanted the assurance that her current grade would be her final one, if only I could provide some kind of foolproof method for earning the A, like a list of instructions for putting together a piece of furniture from Ikea. Although a literary analysis essay is different from a piece of Ikea furniture in too many ways to make the instruction-manual approach applicable, the student’s point is well-taken now, even if it was not then. She is right to infer that every student, no matter how talented and diligent, operates under the ever-present possibility of seeing a B where they once saw the A, and she is right to hold me responsible for the fact, even if she is (blamelessly) wrong for disputing it.

     I chose this essay’s title purposefully. The A paper is truly made; that is, the A is the result of the author’s creativity, originality, and insight, not the result of the author’s following a formula or instruction manual provided by the instructor. This frustrates many students who covet the A grade, like the student in my introduction. Such students ask, even demand, that the instructor tell the students exactly what they must do to earn the A. The wise instructor shows the students A-level work by their peers or predecessors and invites the students to observe the properties and qualities of the model work, then to examine their own work and modify or add to it to match the quality of the example. The misguided instructor attempts to use the model work as a formula and/or (perhaps because of the inevitable failure of the first resort) accedes to the students’ implicit demand for an A rating for B-level (or even C-level) work. I am guilty of this. In general, I grade papers from half a letter to a whole letter grade higher than they probably merit, mostly because doing so is easier than explaining why the truly deserved grade is the one awarded, which is why I am taking a break from correcting student essays to write an essay of my own--preparing myself to explain to them why they (in most cases) are earning a B or C, rather than continuing to lie to them to make my own life easier. 

     The demanding instructor is not purposefully (or in any sense) hiding the way to earn the A grade. The instructor truly does not know how the student will earn the A grade, because the A students have consistently surprised their teacher. The A students have made observations and inferences that their teacher failed to make in reading the text. The A students have structured their sentences in creative ways and with extensive vocabulary--vocabulary with which, of course, the instructor was familiar, but which impressed the instructor in the way in which it was used. In interpreting a text, the A students have raised possibilities that did not occur to the instructor. How do I, your teacher, tell you how to find something that I do not know is there? 

     Of course, the experienced teacher comes to recognize patterns in A-level work from which the teacher can infer general statements about such work. The teacher then inserts those statements in a rubric template and calls it a day. This still does not teach students how to get the A--because there is no way to teach students how to earn an A. The students must learn by doing, by creating, by working independently--by being their own teacher. 

     From this fact, I draw a controversial and easily misunderstood conclusion: not every student is ready for A-level work, nor is it reasonable to expect otherwise. Perhaps the A student has a certain natural talent for which no amount of teaching can substitute. Perhaps for some students, the B, or even the C, is the best they can do right now, at least in that particular discipline--and perhaps this is perfectly acceptable. If a student does their absolute best and earns a B, do you fault them? If not, why fault yourself if you do the same? 

     Of course, one naturally wishes to do better. I wish to someday run a five-minute mile, or at least a six-minute mile, but so far, even my sincerest efforts have left me twenty seconds short of the more modest of my goals--and for that I am disappointed but not devastated, nor do I consider that my running career is for naught if I never reach my goal. Sometimes the goal is just to get better until your better is your best. And not everyone’s best is the same. For some, the lesson is that their B is both deserved and highly commendable; for others, like the student in my introduction, their A is both deserved and yet somehow unsatisfying, because it is never final. This teacher is at peace with that fact, and, though I doubt my student will ever share this sentiment, my own peace is all I can offer beyond my teaching, which can never offer something that must come from within someone else.