So my literacy instructor posted my grade – finally. I’m ashamed for two reasons to say I got a B+. One: I got a B in an English class, which is my major. Two: why do I care that much? I did what I wanted to do; pulled up my GPA above a 3.5 so I shouldn’t be bitching.
But it’s the eighth of all the English courses I have taken and is considered a 200-level “gateway” class, required for literacy minors. The fact that I was given less than an A is embarrassing because I feel like I must not have done what I needed to succeed. But I also take it personally.
I like my instructor as a person. He is fun and outgoing and interesting to talk to. He’s well-versed on the topic and energetic about it. He is also, however, very opinionated, kind of defensive, and a bit on the long-winded side. In class he did not like to call on people if he was running with an idea. Most of the students in this seminar gave up and put their hands down when he was on a tear and I can’t recall how many times he would say, “Oh. Hannah, did you want to add something?” And Hannah would say no, she’d forgotten what she wanted to say, or that it was moot at this point.
As a youngster I’d have taken this B+ as a blessing – glad that I at least passed, and trusted the teacher’s assigned grade. Today, while I won’t dispute the decision, I have absolutely no doubt that the “quieter” of my fellow students were given higher scores and my being older and more willing to discuss things in class actually hurt me a bit. Although this instructor swore he hated with a passion the “five-paragraph essay,” and wanted us to write in our own voices, I was the only one in the class who wrote creatively or non-traditionally for our weekly essays.
He could have given me the requisite A or A-minus that I’m quite positive my younger, more self-conscious counterparts were given, but chose not to. And I wonder how much of that had to do with my questions.