There is a moment — a time right before a class is set to begin. You are standing on the threshold, and you must make a decision: do I sit in this classroom, or do I leave and save myself from one to three hours of abject discomfort? I often choose the latter. I often don’t make it through that door. I often lose anywhere from 5 to 20 per cent of my mark, from a B+ to a B through to a D+. It is not because I have not done the readings; often I have done them weeks in advance. It is not because I do not know the course material; I have studied to the point of certainty to ensure that if I am asked a question I will be able to respond with a correct answer, and save myself from embarrassment. It is not because I am behind; I know I am further ahead in the course material than at least some of my peers. It is because “I just can’t.”
There are times when the truth lacks some of the descriptors, and all of the anguish, some of the reality. There are times when “I just can’t” doesn’t embody the full realization of what one means. “I just can’t” means so much more than “I am not physically able,” because I am physically able; it means so much more than “it is hard”, because it isn’t just hard: it is, as far as I can tell, impossible at times.
There are times in my life when saying, “I just can’t” is the equivalent of reading only the headlines of the news. It covers the basics, but you and I both know that it does not come close to the truth of what is really happening. On the majority of occasions, all I can muster is “I just can’t,” and watch as my grade in the course goes from being based on what I have handed in and the test I have written to being an amalgamation of those things, plus a varied amount of how often the body that houses my mind has been present in the classroom.
What I am saying is that there needs to be a standard. There needs to be an all-encompassing rule. I have asked for note-takers. I have documentation to attest to my condition. The burden of proof does not lie with me. So to whom does the responsibility lie? Often I approach the instructors. I ask them if there is anything that can be done. Some way of transferring the marks I have lost because I just could not be physically or mentally present in the classroom, onto some other way of proving my knowledge of the material. Sometimes, they make concessions; often, nothing is done. So, I accept a mark far below a reflection of my competence in the course, all because I wasn’t physically present in the room. I did not make the professor remember my name and face. I did not ask questions and give answers that everyone in the classroom already knew.
I am pleading with whatever authorities have the power to create change: please ensure that those that follow me with mental health issues do not lose grades based simply on their lack of presence in the classroom. I assure you, I do the homework, I do the extra readings that we will never be tested on, I practice the material that is voluntary. Nevertheless I lose whole grade points based on whether a lump of flesh took up a seat in the classroom; whether there was a person in a collared shirt asking questions that were obvious; whether there was a boy who worked up the courage to ask the question everyone was thinking of asking.
I promise you that this is no way to grade a student. I promise you there are those who have scored higher for doing less. I assure you there are those who have finished with higher marks than mine who have studied less, who have understood the material at a more basic level, and who have less to show for a higher grade. I am asking that something be done; that 20 per cent of a course be based on more than how often a student was physically present; that there be ways to distribute those marks for those who have documentation and attestations of their condition. They should be given some other way of proving their understanding. I know I am not the only one. My accessibility services coordinator — along with all of her coworkers — would not have a job if I were the only one. I know there are others who are accepting marks in silence; marks that do not in any way reflect our comprehension of the material.
Please let us see change. Let us see this rectified. I am not asking for a note-taker because I cannot take good notes. I am asking for a note-taker because there are times when entering a classroom seems like the hardest part of the course.
Michael Iannozzi is a third-year linguistics student.
