A couple of weeks back I was once again amazed by the sheer fatuity of our school’s grading system upon discovering that my finals account for up to 50% of my year. 50%. As in: one half.
Let us do the math here. Say I got an 80 in the first trimester, a 74 in the second, and an 85 in the third. Pretty constant, right? Now, the last trimester is taken into account more than the other to, making up 60% of the 50% of my grade, whereas the first two account for 20% each. According to my calculations that makes a mark of around 82 for the entire year. Not too bad.
Let us now assume that the day of my finals for some unknown reason, I mess up. Because my dog recently died. Or because I have a terrible headache. Or because my calculator stopped working and I don’t have any spare batteries. I don’t know. Stuff happens. For argument’s sake, let us say I caught a terrible cold, I can barely breath and my head feels like it’s about to explode during the exam and I get no more than a 50.
This case, while very (VERY) improbable, would cause my final grade to be no more than 66. Even though, for the entire year, my grades were…well, maybe not brilliant but still quite good. And in two hours I destroyed a year’s efforts because I had one bad day.
Like most things I rant about, this is something that, in all likelihood, won’t affect me or anybody I know personally, but it’s a matter of principle. I can’t help but ask myself what exactly the logic behind this is. Is it supposed to teach us a lesson? “No matter how hard you try, in the end all your work will be futile”? Or the contrary: “Don’t worry about school during the year, you’ll just study for the last two weeks and you’ll be fine.”?
The Unbearable Lightness of Writing 