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In the last essay I wrote to attain my bachelor’s degree in English & Creative Writing, I compared a novel’s main antagonist to the Joker from Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight. Considering this was a class about ethnic literature, and the book in question was Kindred by Octavia Butler (wherein a black woman unexpectedly travels back in time to meet her white, slave-owning ancestor), even I felt like this was a bit of a stretch. But it was my last essay, for a class I hadn’t even wanted to take, and I figured I could fake it enough to pass.
I got an A.
My husband once wrote a book report in high school about Kate Chopin’s The Awakening, which he didn’t read because he hadn’t felt like it. Once graded, his teacher singled him out in front of the class as a shining example of how great and accomplished an essay can be when you actually take the time to read the book. Because—and here’s the kicker—she can tell when students hadn’t read the book.
(Obviously, he got an A.)
What am I getting at by telling you this? Not that my husband and I are mega-geniuses (though we could be). Not that our teachers were ridiculously easy to please (which didn’t really seem to be my case at all). No, I’m trying to convey to you a truth:
The written assignment is a scam.
Beyond being able to spell—which automatic spell-checkers can help you with anyway—and having a modicum of usable brain cells, anyone can write a passable paper. It’s all about playing to your audience. Or, in another, truer sense, it’s all about knowing how to lie.
I learned this lesson early, and by the end of high school, I was adept in the art. College had to be different though. I mean, I’d actually have to put in hard work to impress my professors, right? There was no way I could possibly keep doing what I always did, which was come up with an idea when the paper was assigned, wait until the last two or three days before it was due, then crank out pages full of the language and (mind-numbing) thoughts I knew my teachers would eat up.
If TV had taught me anything, it was that colleges HAD to want more than that. They wanted conviction! They wanted belief! They wanted you to spend days in the library, scouring all available resources for every piece of relevant data.
Right?
The only true differences I found about writing essays in college were that they were a little bit longer, and I was now allowed to say when I felt like the author was completely off-base… provided I had a sufficient example to back up my claim, of course.
Otherwise, the same rules applied. Because here’s something they don’t tell you: The paper (and your resulting grade) is never about the paper. The paper is about your relationship with your professor and how well you can speak in their code.
Once you know who or what you’re dealing with, you’re good till you graduate.
I suppose there are a few caveats to this. I mean, I’m making it sound so simple, but we all know nothing ever is.
In many ways, you have to know and exploit your academic privilege for this to work. For example, I got away with a lot of unconventional things in 9th and 10th grade Pre-AP English because my teacher (the same guy both years) liked me. I slapped another student hard upside his big, stupid head and received no punishment. I refused to read a poem out loud—even though I’m pretty sure reciting it was part of the grade—with a silent head shake once my teacher got to me. For the final project sophomore year, where we could either write a standard paper or complete a visual project with a small written statement, I opted to submit a painting and write a standard paper as my accompanying statement. Why? Because I knew I could get away with it.
If I had been a worse student—one who couldn’t read teachers and regularly deliver what they were looking for—these little forays outside the norm wouldn’t have been tolerated. I mean, I went to school in Texas! They don’t like anything down there, let alone anything “abnormal.” But because I was quiet, respectful, and did my work, I was “a pleasure to have in class” (so sayeth every progress report from elementary school). So, when it comes to the great lie of a college paper, I wouldn’t recommend just winging it if 1) you don’t have a good read on your professor or 2) they already don’t like you.
Whatever the case, my point still stands: Very little is real when it comes to writing in college. It’s all just a game of 12-point font, inline citations, and giving off the impression that you got out of this assignment exactly what your teacher wanted you to.
It’s not about how smart you are. It’s about how well you play along. And boy, oh boy, I knew how to play.
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