WordUp by Chad Gramling

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When I was in fifth grade (I think it was fifth), our teacher forced us to participate in a science fair. There was no choice in the matter – we simply had to do it. I was none too thrilled to say the least. I always hated projects of this sort because most of the other kids had parents who would help with the projects so much so, you knew they ended up doing most of the work.

I didn’t have parents like that. Let’s just say, my parents were pretty hands off when it came to my education (and pretty much everything else for that matter).

Anywho, the teacher blocked off portions of class time to allow students to do research and develop ideas. However, ultimately, the student had to complete the project at home on their own time – which I waited until the night before to do — because I could.

I ended up making a portable fan out of an old tape recorder motor, a piece of cardboard and a nine-volt battery. I used a little box, glue and uncooked spaghetti noodles to make the grate; so it would look like a real mini-fan.

Even though one of my former teachers complimented me on my “great and creative idea” I knew it sucked.

What I remember most from that whole project, though, really had little to do with my own. One of my classmates/friends made that project memorable. When the teacher went around the room and asked what each student’s topics were, Josh said simply; “Eyeballs.”

The teacher, in a weird mixture of confusion, frustration and fear could only respond by asking him how he would go about doing a project on eyeballs – since it required a visual example (no pun intended) rather than a simple report.

Josh told her he would get a cow’s eye, do a diagram and present the parts of an eye and their functions. I don’t think the teacher believed him. I could tell by the look on her face when she wrote the topic next to his name in her pad of paper on her desk. I think she figured he would blow off the project and she would have to fail Josh.

Josh’s parents were probably even more hands off than mine, so this task was all his. A few days later, he asked if I wanted to ride my bicycle out to pick up the eyeballs with him. Not wanting to miss the opportunity to watch my buddy bail himself out of this jam, I jumped at the chance (when I should have been working on my own project).

So, we rode our bicycles about a mile to the meat market. I figured they would turn us away when we got there. There was no possible way these people were going to give us eyeballs to tote home on our bicycles for the world to see. I guess I didn’t believe in Josh either.

When we walked through the door, two men quickly acknowledged us. It was obvious they knew we were coming.

“Can I help you?” one man asked.
“I’m Josh,” my friend said.

The man, surprisingly excited, got up and said; “Right. The eyeballs!” Then, he walked over to a large refrigerator and retrieved a large, clear plastic bag and presented it to Josh. It contained three or four cow eyeballs.

A third member of our brigade shouted as though horrified at the sight (I remember thinking about how much of a wussie I thought he was at that moment). Josh took the bag without a second thought and seemed to be in awe that he was pulling it off. I know I was amazed.

We rode our bicycles through town that day, victorious. Every person we saw heard the same shout of “We’ve got eyeballs!” Josh held them up for all to see, a prideful smirk on his face the entire time. I know he was thinking about how he would show up the teacher who had cast considerable doubt upon him. I was certain he would too.

On the night of the science fair, he had only one eyeball available for his exhibit. I had asked him what happened to the others, and he said they could not be preserved because he didn’t put them in the correct solution like he did the one remaining – but I have always assumed there is more to that story.

Josh’s project was the talk of the show. Everyone would ask “did you see that cow eye?” Josh had won that battle. He had done the unthinkable by pulling off a project that no one – especially his teacher – thought he could. He was going to get an A-plus.

Or so we thought.

Turns out, his final grade was something in the realm of a C-minus. I was shocked. Josh said he got nailed on a lot of technicalities like the neatness and accuracy of the accompanying chart as well as the fact that there was no “experiment” per-se (although I am betting at least one of the others was dissected in some fashion).

I, on the other hand, think I got a B-plus for pretty much throwing together this crappy little contraption that I had done about thirty times before.

That was the day that I learned that grades in the school system are meaningless. They are simple judgments passed on from one person to another. Too often, those judgments will determine the fate of an individual.

Predictably, my average grades have translated to an average life with an average career. Predictably, Josh’s life took a different direction that some might consider less than he was capable of having. To this day, I will readily admit to anyone that Josh is more intelligent than I and that there are many more like him who have been cast into a corner simply because someone posted judgment on them.

When my daughter (or any of my children if there are more) brings home a “poor” grade, anger will be the last reaction I respond with. I will ask if she learned anything. If she can respond in the affirmative and tell me what she learned, that is all that will matter to me. I’ll tell her good job and ask how she plans to improve upon her next grade. (At some point, we’ll talk about the BS I learned to snowball my teachers into giving me acceptable grades for piss-poor work and effort – but I am sure she’ll figure that out on her own and will even use it on me).

After that, we’ll probably go out for ice cream and put the “poor” grade behind us. I don’t want to allow a teacher with a stick up his or her you know what to paint my child into a corner.

I want her to paint a path out of the room!