Little Lizzie's Straight A's

Just once. In, like, sixth grade.

Over the next few months I’m going to waffling wildly about applying for an MFA. Bit by bit, I’ll explore if I *should* go through with this, how I might convince ‘em to even consider me, and what I’ll do if I get accepted.

For now, some thoughts on grades:

I’ve never cared about them.

Name this dude and I’ll mail ya somethin’ fun!

I remember looking at the letter grades thinking, “yeah, that tracks.” A in art and English? Always. C in math? Sure. A’s and B’s in sciences and history, which were hit-or-miss depending on my interest. And an occasional salty remark from the gym teacher (exscuse me, physical education) because I was a saucy lass who didn’t trust someone who couldn’t do what they were teaching. Never saw the dude even jog, let alone run.¹ But gym class was still the bomb. DO NOT CANCEL PHYS ED.

I never clocked when something was a test, a competition, a thing to beat, to best.

In gym, for example, it started with running a mile. I thought it was just a thing to do. Not a thing to do well. Like body-bumper-car-ing on those flat square rolling things that crushed your fingers. How was that constructive? (More like destructive.) Clearly a way to keep us active while the dude sipped coffee, ate donuts, and quietly chuckled.

Memories… splintered, finger-crushing memorieeeees!

Anyhow, I couldn’t imagine a time when running exactly a mile as fast as possible would be necessary so I ran a bit, walked a bit, chatted with friends (the best!). Next thing I knew, some tall, lanky kids were cheering for themselves because they beat everyone. Cool. Great. Whatever.

Now I was curious. How much I could push myself?

Next up was number of sit-ups per minute. Fine. I competed. I kicked butt (well, abs). And the sit-and-stretch thing? Super bendy. No prob. Even climbed the rope higher than everyone and did real pushups.² Because if you tell me I am supposed to win, then I pretty much will.³

In sixth grade, Ben, Martha, Brendan, and maybe Marla were all showing their report cards to one another, sharing and comparing grades. One of them was bragging about Straight A’s in awed and hushed tones. It had never occurred to me that grades were important. It had never occurred to me to try. So I decided to give it a go. See if it was a big deal.

I went home, searched through the report cards I could find, and noticed my grades were all fine, though I’d never gotten Straight A’s. I’d come close once, but got a B in something. Dang.

I put my mind to it next quarter and fairly easily achieved Straight A’s. Now I had bragging rights with the smart kids, which was a nice way to feel some pride and belonging for a moment.⁴ Then I took the report card to my dad, expecting, hoping for praise:
”Look! I got Straight A’s!”

“Of course you did.”

He was neither surprised nor impressed. He said he knew I was a smart kid and asked me why grades even mattered. I was crushed. (What kid doesn’t want—need—some validation now and again?) But I also realized I did it to see if I could. I could. And my main motivation was hearing other people care about it. They didn’t.

I promptly stopped caring again.

Fast-forward to high school. I’m in a few AP classes. We all take the exams. I get thoroughly mediocre scores. I only bothered because I was doing what the other kids were doing. Then they all start bragging about their scores and I realize, once again that I could have cared. And maybe I should have…

It was only well after the fact that I learn I could have gotten college credit for top AP scores. I mean, jeeeeez. If someone had told me WHY this stuff mattered, I might have actually cared and given it a try!⁵ Instead, I kinda coasted, just doin’ me.

Meanwhile, in the chemistry lab with the smart kids, Kirsten was asking the instructor what her ranking was (ranking?).

“I’m not allowed to tell you yet… but it’s ‘no’ in German.” She looked confused.

“Nine,” I offered. She squealed and said something about “top ten” (top ten?).

Months later, in the last weeks of the end of all grade school for all time, some teacher tells me I’m number 21. Still no real grasp of what that means. They explain I’ve ranked 21 out of however-many-students for good grades (260, I think?). I wondered how well I might have done had I known (and cared) and tried.

I thought about who the top ten were—all bright, shiny seat-mates in the same fancypants classes. I had done just fine. Yeah, no, I don’t think I would have wanted to try much harder. It was a good run. I was satisfied. It was done.

1. There was a rumor back then that some kid saw him walking down the street in his usual track suite carrying a thermos of coffee and a donut. Kids are cruel.

2. Back then we girls were allowed to “cheat” and do “girl” pushups. WTF.

3. “Winning,” to me, can also mean reaching a personal best if not also impressing folks who expected less (after all, I’m a teeny tiny GIRL).

4. I’ll always be an outer planet in the smart-kid solar system.

5. On the other hand, when would I learn to ask for calirification, for the why of things? Something to explore in another post…