“How was the test?” your friend asks.
Before you can answer, though, she says, “I got a 96.” She grimaces. “I could’ve done better, though. You?”
“I, uh, did OK.” You think of the squashed-tomato C nestled in the top right corner of your trig test and avoid your friend’s eyes as you say the words.
Sound familiar? We’ve been part of this conversation countless times — on both sides. As any Saratoga student can attest, academic pressure is a huge part of the school, and this obsession with high scores leads to a negative cycle of judgment.
For us, the competition to be the best began four years ago, when as sixth graders, we took the placement exam for Redwood Middle School Math Club. Since neither of us knew much about math, we were placed in the second-to-lowest group, the Green Team. A year of embarrassment followed, as each club meeting reminded us of our shameful incompetence.
The clear team divisions did more than wound our sixth-grade egos. It separated us from the “smart” kids, the ones who sauntered into our classroom whining about scores we could only dream of achieving. Those godlike creatures became aliens to us; we didn’t feel welcome in their territory, and we felt their scrutiny when we asked them for help.
We found an identical predicament upon entering high school. Our formerly relaxed friends turned into stress-filled strangers who bookmarked Aeries on their computers and skipped lunches to study for tests in the library. They fussed over the health of their GPAs as if speaking of their dying puppies. As for us, we learned to dodge the topic altogether.
Day by day, we began to feel more and more inferior. We began to seek the company of those who shared our less-than-perfect grades, whose eyes we could look into without feeling shame. We’re still friends with high-scoring students, of course, but it’s different.
As freshmen, we would wait in dread after teachers passed back tests for the inevitable question, “How did you do?” Then our failure would be scrutinized and dissected under our friends’ shocked stares. It had always seemed better to just lie about our grades.
When it comes down to it, it’s hard to tell others about our private struggle with grades. We tell ourselves that we’re tough and independent — and we harbor the irrational hope that lying will motivate us to achieve the grades we claim to have.
At the same time, we’re guilty of inflicting the same pressure on our friends. We, too, check Aeries far too frequently and are self-proclaimed grade-grubbers who will beg teachers for that extra half point.
Even crazier than the bragging rights over top grades is the pecking order created by what classes students take. We remember the frenzy last year during schedule requests as our peers chose between honors and regular Chemistry.
“Are you taking Chemistry Honors?”
“I don’t know, I might just take regular.”
The former walks away, wordless.
Sure, we’re guilty of doing the same, but we still hope that the time we are occupied with choosing between classes like AP US History and regular US History, we will have moved past our culture of judgment. With luck, the academic hierarchy that exists on campus will have faded away in the transition between sophomore and junior year.
