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The Great Grading Hoax: Why English and Numbers Don't Mix

There is a great lie in English: numerical grading. English, by its very nature, is a subjective field. Not to digress too deeply into linguistic theories, but great thinkers like Derrida argue that language is inherently unstable. He's the king of slippery meanings, shifting contexts, and perspectives so varied that the idea of two people reading a sentence identically is practically science fiction. If you were to pause for a moment and say aloud a sentence only means one thing and it means that thing to everyone, it feels frankly idiotic.

Structuralism has long lost its foothold in English studies, replaced by theories that embrace subjectivity, fluidity, and relativity. Today, in the age of critical theory and English teachers must dance carefully around the labyrinth of meaning their beloved language constructs. No one sentence means the same thing to all who read it. Did I mean that? Or, did I mean that? Emphasis, tone, and experience all twist the knife on stable meaning.

Yet here we are, with English teachers confidently (recklessly) assigning grades like 83/100, as if there’s any meaningful distinction between an 83, an 82, or an 84. Itemized rubrics, which attempt to neatly categorize elements like word choice, fluency, grammar, and structure, often end up creating a convoluted maze of criteria that even their creators struggle to navigate. Each category becomes a brushstroke in what should be a fluid piece of writing, yet many teachers insist that more criteria mean better assessment—as if the quality of a Monet painting could be measured by the number of techniques he used or the sheer variety of colors on his palette. 

This obsession with quantifying the unquantifiable reduces writing to a checklist, missing the point that true artistry lies in the harmony, not the parts. Rubrics, with their quantified certainty, seem to offer a comforting rigidity. But in reality? It’s an arbitrary game—applying numbers to an unquantifiable craft.

Rubrics, often seen as the gold standard for objective grading, are not without flaws. They promise consistency but are built on subjective language. Terms like "thorough explanation" or "clear argument" are open to interpretation, leading to varied assessments even with a rubric in place. In fact, “the rubric descriptors can become so detailed that they obscure rather than clarify the expectations for both raters and students, making consistent application challenging.” Moreover, the development of complex analytic rubrics “with numerous subcategories has been criticized for creating a false sense of objectivity and precision in writing assessment, masking the inherent subjectivity of evaluating complex writing tasks” (Shabani and Panahi). Despite the use of standardized rubrics, significant discrepancies in grading persist, revealing the limits of what rubrics can actually achieve.

Here’s the kicker: the more certain someone seems in their grading, the more likely they’re insecure about the point they’re trying to make. Rigidity in grading doesn’t usually stem from confident competency, but rather uncertainty. It’s often the young or inexperienced teachers, desperate for structure, who lean heavily on these numerical labels to justify penalizing a student for missing a comma or omitting the holy grail of structure: Topic Sentence, Concrete Detail, Commentary. In their gradebook, every rigid score represents the teacher’s own boundaries more than the student’s ability.

Veteran teachers, too, often hold tight to the comfort of certainty and routine, assigning students to formulaic structures and predefined interpretations like they’re checkpoints on a lesson plan highway. After years in the classroom, it's easy for teachers to slip into the rhythm of "proven" methods—structured rubrics, precise essay formats, and color-coded grading systems that create an illusion of control. In this world, clarity and predictability are king, leaving little room for the chaos and wonder that language naturally invites. But this security blanket of routine can stifle students' ability to navigate ambiguity. Instead of teaching students to swim in the murky waters of interpretation, we often hand them neatly packed life vests, anchoring them to shorelines of certainty rather than encouraging them to explore the vast, unpredictable ocean of meaning.

Picture this: A teacher, veteran or novice, assigns an essay to their class. They stand before the students, armed with a meticulously crafted rubric and a list of “must-haves” that outline each sentence down to the thesis and closing statement. The more they specify, the more uniform the responses will be, creating a comforting mirage of success and structure. Even the observing administrator might nod approvingly, mistaking this orchestrated uniformity for true mastery. But in reality, this approach stifles genuine growth. Each directive, every sentence-by-sentence guide, isn’t there to support the students; it’s a scaffold for the teacher’s own sense of order. By prioritizing the outcome over the messy, winding process of discovery, these rigid expectations serve to reassure the educator and not the student. They exist to feed the teacher’s ego, to protect them from the fear of falling short in the eyes of peers, parents, or, worst of all, themselves. Real learning is unruly, unpredictable; it doesn’t fit neatly into rubrics, but that’s where genuine growth happens.

We’ve ingrained these expectations or linear writing so deeply into our educational culture that new teachers often step into the classroom feeling completely unprepared for the reality of student writing. Faced with disorganized thoughts, rough grammar, and authentic but messy expression, they feel overwhelmed, disappointed in themselves, and discouraged by their students' progress. The outcome? A cycle of panic sets in, where teachers grasp even more tightly to an ideal of "consistency, cleanliness, and perfection" which are all standards that don’t reflect the true nature of learning or language.

And for those students who do manage to write in neatly prescribed forms? How much of their voice, creativity, and curiosity has been stifled by this rigid molding? If students were only encouraged to think and explore beyond the constraints of rigid rubrics, perhaps they’d discover that poetry, imagination, and deeper meaning could find their way through the doors of academic structure. Research indicates that standardization in grading fails to capture unique learning trajectories, as “rubric descriptors tend to focus heavily on structural aspects and writing mechanics, leaving little room for creative or non-conventional responses that do not fit neatly into predefined categories.” These grading norms often conflict with differentiated instruction and diverse educational needs, limiting the full potential of student expression as teachers "narrow and cement visions of good writing, reducing students' opportunities for creative exploration and unique expression" (Rezaei and Lovorn).

But instead, many students are cut and shaped to fit into a mold defined by teachers who, consciously or unconsciously, are desperate for validation. How dare these young minds deviate from a vision that isn’t truly theirs to fulfill! The students’ voices aren’t echoes of their teachers, and this difference is too often viewed as an inconvenience. The cost? A missed opportunity to cultivate genuine, independent thinkers who bring their full selves to the page.

But let’s test this notion, shall we? Imagine handing a teacher the same ten papers twice, spaced a week apart, and asking them to grade with the same rubric. Would they produce identical scores? What would be the margin for error? Because, spoiler: grading consistency in English is a myth. 

Grading doesn't teach kids; teachers do. Yes, it provides valuable feedback but that feedback is always comparative to their peers or to the standard set by outside forces. Instead, mreasures of self-assessment actually create larger growth and a healthier mindset of self-competitiveness, internalizing value and the value of self improvement. In other words, the more teacher emphasize external comparison and external validation, the more they will find students abandoning their internal growth.

And when students are placed in the position of a teacher to self-assess their work or assess the work of their peers, they grow even more and that learning experience transfers into other tasks. Furthermore, new models for self-assessment are currently in development to further this growth and "development of critical thinking and the fostering of positive learner behaviours" (Nielson). Yet, educators often prioritize ensuring their number system of external validation is accurate, as if it possibly could be, rather than providing solid, written feedback to their students or creating opportunities for self-assessment. This focus on numerical precision over meaningful guidance overlooks the true purpose of education.  

With this in mind, I’ve ditched the overly detailed rubrics and stick to 2-4 broad categories. I also round individual essay grades to the nearest five, because I can explain the difference between 85 and 90, but trying to articulate why one paper deserves a 93 and another a 91? Not happening. I’ve also reoriented my grading to focus more on meaningful feedback and less on numerical specifics. The rubric is merely a guide—I’m the teacher and the evaluator; I will not be subject to the tyranny of rubrics.

So, next time you see that magical 83/100 on a student’s paper, pause and ask yourself: What does this number really mean? Is it a true reflection of the student’s ability, or just a placeholder for the complexity we’re afraid to acknowledge? How rigid or attached are you to the number? Are you willing to acknowledge the reductive nature of numerical grading? Perhaps it’s time we reconsider the stories we tell ourselves through these numbers and embrace the uncertainty that true learning invites.

Written by Pavel Tretyak

November 8 2024 - Last Edited: November 8 2024