A Life Full of Typos
Once I
failed a final in grad school.
It made me
remember the only other time in school when I’d failed a test.
I was a
sophomore in high school. It was chemistry and the test was one of those unit
tests. I remember the big, red “37%” glaring at me when I flipped over the
sheet on my desk.
I remember
going to the teacher—after spending one grueling hour trying not to cry during
class—and begging her for an opportunity to retake it.
She said,
“I always cancel out the lowest grade. It’s likely it won’t even count.”
I
remembered those angry red numbers when I pulled the essay questions from the
envelope as I sat in a classroom during Finals Week of grad school. I skimmed
over the essay questions and realized, with dawning horror, that I was only
familiar with two of the five essay questions.
What the
hell? Did I study the wrong material?
Panic began
to quicken my heart. My hands started shaking. There was nothing left to do.
There was no possible way I was going to pass this final that was worth 40% of
my grade.
I only knew
two of the five questions.
So I was
faced with a dilemma: Put the final back in the envelope, return it to the
proctor, and walk out of there, knowing I was going to have to retake the most
boring class of all time—not to mention having to dish out the money to pay for
it once more.
Or, I could
answer the two questions I knew, make up some bullshit for the other three, and
then pray that by some miracle I still passed this class.
As I
struggled for air, I looked around at the other test takers, hoping one of them
would look up and mouth the solution to me.
No one did.
I squeezed
the pencil. I had three hours. I was going to fail, which meant I would fail
the class, but I had to try. I couldn’t—just couldn’t—give up.
I chewed my
lip and went to work.
I used
every last minute of those three hours. I answered the two familiar questions with
meticulous detail, giving five references where the question only asked for
three, checking and rechecking and re-writing, and rechecking again.
Then I
added some mumbo jumbo to the other three questions. I think I might have been
snarky in my answers—maybe my sense of humor would earn me a point or two.
I turned in
my final with no time to spare. In a haze of shock, I left the building with
the realization that my perfect attendance, high average on book quizzes, and
As on my papers were not enough.
All that
work, only to fail in the final (literal final) hour.
And the
image of the blaring red “37%” from high school popped into my head.
Not ten
minutes later, I ran into my professor for this class. “Dr. P. I just failed
your final,” I said. My voice sounded as dead as I felt inside.
He looked
surprised. “I’m sure you did better than you thought you did.”
“Nope. I
failed. I only knew two of the questions.”
“It’s okay,
don’t count yourself out. We’ll figure something out.”
He muttered
something about the possibility of retaking it. I clung to this hope. I’d do
anything to not have to retake the class.
The next
week, I waited in cringing anticipation for my overall grade to be posted.
I waited
and waited as the time to go to my family’s for Christmas drew closer.
I wanted to
study to prep for the retake but I just couldn’t. I was dried up. Depression
began to set in and I realized, probably for the first time ever, that I was a
perfectionist.
Not in the
sense that everything had to be perfect all the time. Rather, I was a
perfectionist in that I set a standard for myself. If I failed to meet that
standard, then I failed utterly and completely.
I was a failure.
The memory
of this comes back to me today. I find myself depressed. My essential oils and
yoga aren’t working, so I know it’s not hormonal or due to something I ate.
The memory
of the failed final works its way into my head. And I realize I’ve done it
again.
I’ve set
lofty, over ambitious goals for myself. I have to. It’s just what I do. It
pushes me and keeps me going. I almost always meet my goal—making me that much
more ambitions the next time around.
But this
time around I have a deadline. This time around the deadline dangles like a
guillotine. This time I can’t finish and I am not going to make my goal.
I’ve failed
again and the fingers of panic are inching closer to my throat, preparing to
choke out the joy of any past accomplishments because I only have this one
thing holding me up at this moment: my ability to defy what is humanly possible
and the knowledge that I am better than even I thought I could be.
I’m not going to make it.
The
knowledge that I’ve failed trickle over to everything else. Not only did I not
make it this time, I also am not going to make it ever. This one failure supersedes any other times things have
turned out the way I wanted them to. This one failure predicts my future
forever.
Two days
before I left to go visit my hometown for Christmas, I got an email from my
professor for the class with the failed final. He’d graded my final first, he
said. He did the math for me in the email, but I didn’t understand it.
It turned
out I was counting the failed final as a zero grade. But it was actually
factored in as a percentage (I think). The percentage of my grade for the
final, factored in with the rest of my grade for the class, came out to a
whopping B for my overall grade.
Not a B
minus or even a C. It was B. A big, fat, red-lettered B.
I stared
and stared at the email.
Then I
started to cry.
In true
Katherine fashion, I’m not going to conclude this story with a moral or a
lesson or a recipe for success.
I’m also
not going to wait my typical 24-hours before posting it.
I am going
to read it through one time for typos.
Then I’m
closing my computer and going on a walk.
I’m not opening my computer again
until I get back from vacation: ten beautiful days from now.
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