I used to love this season a lot more. I carried wounds out of college — fleshy, red stripes — inflicted by the dozen-or-so final exams I took each year. It was refreshing, then, even thrilling in some unfortunately sadistic sense, to be the one doling out the pain.
I was finally the one being begged for small granulated clues to exam content, rather than the one wheedling the same clues from some lame bohemian TA. Their anxiety, their whimpered pleas for a study guide, repaired me and, in the same regrettable sense as before, made me stronger. At one point I tallied all the final exams I’d taken in my life and then determined a five-year teaching stint would be enough to mend.
I’m here to report a full recovery, three years ahead of schedule.
Now they’re a nuisance. My exams are worth a paltry 10%, simply because I’ve already assessed my students so much.
I know what my students know about Algebra and Geometry. In fact, if any grade out of any of my three classes rises or falls by a letter grade or more, I’m buying drinks for the entire blogosphere.
My WordPress dashboard is reporting eighty hits a day on this here blog thing. I reckon forty of those are my mom, the other forty are teachers, and maybe twenty out of those know how to leave a comment.
So here’s the question I’m pondering right now of you twenty teachers, twenty minutes before my first final: how much is your final exam worth?
If you answer 20% or anywhere above, well, congratulations, friend, you’re today’s celebrity commenter! Do stop by and let us know why you hang one fifth of a student’s final grade on a two hour fraction of the semester.