Hot Topic: That One Time I Failed A Subject

I was scrolling through Tumblr when it sparked a thought in me about school, tests, grades, and what it really means to score an A. It reminded me of the time I failed a class, and I'm still pretty angry about it 6 years later. I will carry that F until my deathbed. I would have been able to say, "I've never failed a class!" if it wasn't for 10th grade Humanities. To be quite honest, I still do tell people that I've never failed a class before, because even though I failed on the report card, I did not fail in any other aspect of the semester.

Let's get to it:

Here's how the situation went down. It was a Humanities test (note: not an exam, just a class test like any other minor mark) about the Age of Enlightenment. We had to memorize all the great philosophers and scientists of the period, and I was pretty much already a pro at it. Why? Because I fucking loved Humanities. I have loved this class since I was a wee girl; it was the one class I looked forward to everyday.

Throughout our lunch break, my friends and I studied in the library, memorizing who did what and why they were important. During the test, the substitute teacher sat in front of the classroom, probably planning the murder of each one of us for the next 50 minutes. I finished everything pretty quickly because I studied enough and I knew the philosophers like the back of my hand. There was one question, though, one question that I conveniently skipped. I knew the answer was Rene Descartes, but there was a part of me that was unsure. I was a perfectionist, and I didn't want to make a mistake on this test I studied my ass off for, so I did what any 15 year old would do, I tried to make eye contact with anyone willing to look at me. Lo and behold, the girl across the room was staring right into my soul.

I mouthed to her, "whats the answer to #7?" 

"Descartes," she mouthed back, "what's the answer to #5?"

I gave her the answer and jotted down Descartes' name on the blank, feeling satisfied that I was correct all along. Turns out, the sub had witnessed the interaction, told my teacher about it, and failed both my friend and I. No, I'm not saying that he failed the test, he failed the entire semester. He had negated all the assignments, essays and projects that I had aced throughout the past few months because I was caught cheating on one small test. The worst part was that I didn't actually cheat. If I hadn't asked her, I would have written Descartes anyway.  I needed a confirmation. I need to be right.

I failed the class because I was afraid to fail. Do you all see the irony in that? I was so afraid to make a mistake on that one question, so afraid of receiving a mark less than perfect, that I would go through every means to achieve the best score I could ever get. I was raised not to learn, but to succeed. Not to understand, but to memorize. To bring home an A, not a C, no matter how much I studied. It was not a household where 'do your best!' was the mantra, it was a family of overachievers whose advice was to simply 'be the best'. So I had to be the best, even if it was only an insubstantial Humanities test. I had to succeed. Even if it meant cheating. 

But my teachers didn't understand the pressure I had at home to get straight A's. The way my mom would throw my report card to the ground if it was unsatisfactory. Or how she would compare me to every single kid out there who was smarter than me in nearly every aspect. I cheated on that test, and I have cheated on so many tests before and so many tests after, because I was afraid to fail. I would risk failure, time and time again, in order to avoid it.

If I could turn back time to answer my teachers who asked me with disappointment why I had cheated, I would tell them that I did it because I was afraid that I would get it wrong. That I knew the answer, but I didn't believe in myself enough. I cheated because I loved this class so much that I didn't like seeing my inadequacy. I cheated because like most students, I was afraid to make mistakes because mistakes aren't allowed in school halls. Mistakes aren't allowed at home. Mistakes aren't allowed at all.

I wished that teachers were more in tune with their students back when I was in high school. They should look past the act of cheating and understand every student's fear of failure. I had friends who were beat up with belts if they failed their tests. I knew a girl who showed up to class with bruises and scratches from being abused at home. Students who didn't have a choice but to study, to cheat, to succeed. I am not condoning cheating, but teachers need to realize that adults have taught us to avoid mistakes so much that we must go through all means not to make them. It isn't a matter of, "maybe you should have studied enough," because we that's not always the case. It's a matter of telling us that it's okay to make mistakes. We are like toddlers on a tightrope that are forbidden from falling. Sometimes we do. Let us fall, and we won't need to cheat our way out of a test.