“Submission Posted: Politics Essay…” is the notification that caused it. A buzz of my phone in the middle of a lecture. My heart does its usual jump at such a notification, my attention immediately taken away from what my lecturer is saying. You’d think by now, three years into my degree, that I’d be used to this feeling. The nervous anticipation, the opening of the grades tab on canvas, breathing a sigh of relief at the high sixty or seventy sitting comfortably at the side of the screen. The proof that all the work and research gone into each and every assignment was worth something, that I was worth something.
Whilst the routine of receiving the notification was as it should be, the sigh of relief didn’t come. Instead, my head rang, my hearing went fuzzy, my eyes narrowed into the number. A 44. It didn’t seem real. This time last week, sitting in this exact lecture, I confidently stated that “I have blind faith in every essay I write, that it’ll get a 2:1 or above”, and now, glaring at me from my too-bright laptop screen, is the proof that I was so bloody stupid to ever believe that.
My entire life, I labeled myself as an academic weapon. High school wasn’t about having fun in class, it was about being the best in the class. A-Levels only helped to boost this ego – top of the class, A+ student – and I went to university riding this high. I’m “the smart one”, the “academic one”, the one who gets the best grades.
Or so I thought.
When you base your entire self-worth on grades, test scores, and positive feedback, what are you supposed to think about yourself when you fail?
Yes, I know, a 44 is a passing grade. I am happy I passed, don’t get me wrong, but this is not me. I don’t get below a 65, ever. I just don’t. Even when I get anything below a 70, I’m disappointed. I overachieve and anything less than that is wrong, something to be shameful about.
An extensive crashout in a committee group chat followed the notification, along with an angry email directed at my lecturer sitting and haunting my drafts. An impulsively bought bottle of wine later, here I am, thinking that maybe if I write my feelings about it down, they’ll go away. I can’t get the thought that I’m a failure out of my head.
One grade completely discounts all other successes I have achieved. It will weigh on me well into my final year, lingering in the back of my mind. It means I didn’t have a completely perfect run at university. I know that if sixteen-year-old me, who was obsessed with her grades, knew about it, she would be so disappointed.
The anger came as I filed out of that class, watching as everyone else took in their perfect grades from their perfect essays. Anger at my lecturer, yes, but mainly anger at myself. I ruined my streak, I fucked it all up. I’m the one who has to drink an entire bottle of wine in one sitting and write an entire rant to make myself feel even the slightest bit better. If only I had done more, worked harder, been better.
I guess I’m not as smart as I thought I was. I guess that means I’m not worth all that much, because what am I if not my grades?
Braw Magazine co-editor for Stirling University’s Brig and a third year English and Journalism student.
