Ms. Montgomery,

I’d like to write something about your grade.

First, I should give you some background.

I am not, as you know, a teacher who attempts to endear herself to students by blurring the line between the personal and the professional. You will have noticed, I suppose, that at no point this year have I ever disclosed anything about where I live, whether or not I’m married, whether or not I have children, what I like, what I don’t like, or even how I feel.

I speak.

You listen (hopefully).

I distribute education.

You absorb information.

I give out tests.

You take them.

I grade them.

The same with assignments.

The same with projects.

The same with exams.

That’s our relationship. It’s our arrangement. I maintain it, and I maintain it well. I’ve maintained this kind of relationship with students for over thirty years.

Now, teaching is different.

The students are different as well, but the students are always different.

My second year teaching was drastically different from my first year. I was advised by a mentor in my fourth or fifth year to simply develop a steady technique and never modify it based on how the students behave. I’ve done just that, and it’s served me well.

At least, it had.

Until a few days ago.

I’m not on social media, but I do read the newspaper everyday. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I’m at an age where I check the obituaries fairly regularly in the event that I recognize the name of a classmate or former colleague. Someone from the neighborhood I grew up in, or a man I went on a date with years ago.

This week when I checked the obituaries, I saw a name that stopped my breath. It was the name of a former student. She’s much older than you, but, then again, most people are older than you, and she was significantly younger than me. I had her as a student twelve or thirteen years ago. She was a very nice girl, but she was not a good student.

Let me modify that statement.

She was a good student in the sense that her homework was always done. She listened. She took notes. She raised her hand and participated. She never missed a day of school.

The trouble is, Ms. Montgomery, I teach math.

Whereas in some subjects--like English or the Arts--effort is everything, the same cannot be said of mathematics.

There are very clear right and wrong answers, and you either know those answers, or do you not. Yes, you may show your work and get partial credit for an incorrect response, but ultimately, the only way to pass a math class is to have all the answers.

I’ve seen students grow frustrated, because there are those who simply get math. They do not try hard. They don’t listen. They don’t study. They simply show up and something inside them allows them to get a perfect score on every test. Their lack of effort may prevent them from getting an A, but I’m prohibited from giving them anything less than a B. It’s not fair. Perhaps that’s why I like teaching it.

It reminds me of life.

Some people are given the answers.

Some people work hard to learn the answers.

Some people never learn them whether they try or not.

In that way, I see my role as teacher as that of a documentarian. I tell you what you need to know, and you either understand or you don’t. If you don’t, you fail. There’s no judgment on my part. I’m simply marking the facts.

Two wrong gets you this grade.

Five wrong gets you that grade.

Enough wrong and you fail.

You fail and you go to summer school.

You fail and your parents are disappointed in you.

You fail and you’re disappointed in yourself.

Contrary to what some might think, I’m never disappointed in anyone. Even the ones who fail. It’s not my job to be disappointed or proud. I’ve got very little to do with it. Some teachers believe they can make their students better somehow. Maybe some can. I don’t believe I’m capable of that, and, truthfully, I don’t believe it’s my job.

I’m just here to give you information.

The woman who died was a student who tried very hard, but it didn’t matter. She failed. Although I should mention that she only failed by one point.

I don’t always remember how many points the students who failed fail by, but in my entire career, she’s the only one who ever failed by one point.

Until now.

You see, Ms. Montgomery, I have graded your exam, and averaged it against your other grades for tests and homework assignments. When I do that, it appears you will have failed my class by exactly one point.

Years ago, when that woman who passed away was failing by one point, I considered giving it to her. One point would not have made her or her parents happy, but it would have spared her summer school. It would have spared her feeling like an official disappointment. It’s that old joke about law school--

What do you call the one who’s last in their class?

A lawyer.

A pass is still a pass, isn’t it?

I didn’t give her the point.

I felt that it wasn’t my job to supply something that somebody hadn’t earned. The consequences of that point weren’t something I could take into consideration. If you didn’t deserve the point, and I gave it to you anyway, then what? Would I have to do the same for two points? If one point doesn’t matter, why would two? Why would three?

It seemed to be a kind of relativism that was the antithesis of the subject I teach.

I didn’t give her the point.

After that, I have no idea what happened to her.

I knew she must have gone to summer school, or maybe she didn’t. She wasn’t in school the next year. She might have moved. She might have done a lot of things. She might have been very successful in spite of failing my class. Her obituary said that she worked as a public relations specialist. That’s a very impressive line of work. She was married. She had children. So I shouldn’t feel any sort of way about failing her all those years ago.

And yet, I do.

I feel…terrible.

I didn’t feel that way at the time. I didn’t feel any way at the time. Now, she’s gone. And what was my relation to her? I was her teacher, but I was the teacher who failed her. I’ve never thought about that word being used in that way until now.

I failed her.

Ms. Montgomery, I cannot fail you.

I will give you the point.

I have not put much thought into this decision. For the first time, I’m using subjective judgment. I’m doing what I feel I should, not what the evidence demands. You have not earned this point, Ms. Montgomery, and I feel that doesn’t matter. Some might see it as a rash decision. I would have seen it that way just a week or two ago. Knowing that won’t change my mind. You’re going to get a grade you don’t deserve.

It will be the last grade I ever give. After this, I plan on retiring. I am not, despite how it may seem, in any kind of crisis over this. I am confused by this sudden onslaught of emotion regarding something that didn’t bother me at the time, but I don’t plan on questioning it too deeply. When the teacher changes, they are no longer fit to be a teacher. That’s what I believe. I could be wrong, I supposed, but if I am, there’s nobody to tell me so.

Nobody grades the teacher.

If they did, I’m not sure what sort of grade I would get.

It’s possible I’d pass.

Perhaps I’d fail.

I doubt I’d get an A though.

After all, they’re so difficult to earn.