Grading.

I'm grading 400-level term papers. Or, I should be grading 400-level term papers. In reality, the papers are sitting quietly in a stack next to me on the couch, waiting patiently for my acknowledgment. I try my best to be as fair as possible, but in assigning people actual numerical scores I can't help but feel arbitrary. Student X writes an adequate essay--nothing spectacular, but nothing fatally flawed. Do I give him an 81 or an 83? Student Y knows what she's talking about, but egregious surface errors distract me from giving her a score she might deserve were my opinion based on content alone. 85 for her. Maybe. And Student Z, an overachiever after my own heart, presents a picture-perfect paper (I tried to think of another p-word to put here, but gave up after my first thought: "pyelogram," an radiographic image of the renal pelvis), but I don't give her a perfect score. It's a 97 for you, Student Z, though if you asked me what you did wrong, I'd nit-pick over pointless flaws subject to my mood.

My score sheet shows that I prefer odd numbers to even and that it's difficult (if not impossible) for me to award any of my students less than eighty percent. After all, I ripped apart their rough drafts with my merciless red pen (really, I use blue, not red, because of something I read that said receiving a paper back covered in red pen is a sucker punch to the self-esteem), and if my seniors incorporated my extensive revisions, they should sound fine. Actually, I guess, they should sound like me. And honestly, I can't decide whether or not that's fair.