A Letter to Letters
Dear Letters,
We’ve known each other for as long as I can remember. You’ve been on every report card, every quiz, every essay, lurking in the margins and scrawled in red pen at the top of my papers. For years, you were the air I breathed, the unspoken measure of my worth, the way I understood myself as a student. You were what my parents asked about at the dinner table, what my friends compared in whispered conversations after a test, what I chased late into the night with caffeine and highlighters.
I want my learning to be measured by how much I’ve grown, how deeply I’ve understood, and how boldly I’ve tried, not just by the shape of the letter at the top of the page.
You made yourself so normal, so constant, that I didn’t even notice how much power you had over me. And, it wasn’t just me. You were everywhere. From the GPA charts on classroom walls and in college admissions brochures, I could feel the constant hum of academic competition. Schools were filled with you and your close ally Numbers, floating over every assignment, test, and project. In the end, we all just accepted that success meant having you in your perfect, polished form: an A+, a 100, a 5 on the AP exam.
But I need to tell you something: our relationship hasn’t been healthy.
It hit me one day, in my AP Precalculus class. I had just gotten my first A-, and at first, it didn’t seem real. I stared at the paper, scanning for a mistake in the grading. My stomach sank. I could hear that tiny but sharp voice in my head: You’ve failed. It wasn’t just a grade; it felt like a public announcement that I was no longer the “straight-A student” I had always been. Suddenly, I was doubting everything—my intelligence, my ability to keep up, my entire image as a “good student.”
Looking back, I see now that this was the first crack in our relationship. You had convinced me that my value was tied to your approval. An A- wasn’t just “good, but not perfect”, it was “less than,” a blemish on my record. A few months later, I got my AP Exam score: a 5. And just like that, the A- didn’t seem to matter. You had validated me again, and I let you. I told myself, See? You’re still capable. But instead of freeing me, it locked me deeper into the same cycle. Every dip in my confidence could be patched over if I just got the right number or letter next time. That’s when I realized something dangerous: you weren’t actually helping me learn. You were training me to seek constant reassurance instead of genuine understanding.
What makes it worse is that it’s not just a personal problem; it’s cultural. Achievement culture has rewired how students think about themselves. A “B” doesn’t mean “good” anymore; it means “not enough.” A “D” isn’t a sign you need more support, it’s a brand of failure. We absorb these meanings without thinking. For some, the result is anxiety and perfectionism; for others, it’s disengagement and giving up. Alfie Kohn writes that grading systems “tend to chase the why’s of learning back into the shadows.” And he’s right. When you, Letters, are in the room, learning often turns into a checklist game: figure out exactly what the rubric wants, do it as efficiently as possible, and move on. We stop asking, “Why does this matter?” and start asking, “Will this be on the test?”
I saw this in full force during AP Chemistry. The grading was simple: your entire grade was based on test scores. No homework grades. No points for labs or participation. At first, I thought, Perfect! Less pressure for the small things; I’ll just focus on the big tests. Except that’s not what happened. Without the small, ungraded steps to keep me accountable, I let myself drift. I tuned out during lectures, telling myself I’d review before the test. I rushed through homework because it “didn’t count.” And when tests came around, I crammed. My only goal was to score high enough to keep you happy.
Now, with the AP exam around the corner, I can feel the consequences. I know how to somehow guess on the multiple choice questions, but I can’t confidently explain the deeper connections between concepts. The cramming worked short-term, but in the long run, I robbed myself of real understanding. And unknowingly, I fell into the trap you set: thinking the “how” of getting a high score was more important than the “why” behind the science.
And maybe this is the most heartbreaking part: I forgot that assessments are supposed to help me grow. As Dylan Wiliam points out, students often ignore feedback when it’s paired with a grade, and I know that’s true because I’ve done it. The moment I saw your letter at the top of the page, I’d stop caring about the comments below. Why focus on how to improve when the verdict had already been delivered? You make it so easy to see learning as a finish line rather than a process. And while that may work for a sprint, education is supposed to be a marathon, or maybe even a lifelong journey. But you’ve trained us to measure our worth in split seconds, in neatly packaged symbols that leave no room for the messiness of growth.
And let’s be honest: it’s not just us students feeling your weight. Teachers, too, have been affected by you. Under constant pressure to produce high test scores, maintain perfect gradebook records, and prove “rigor” to parents and administrators, they often become data managers more than mentors. Arthur Chiaravalli describes the modern teacher as “an independent contractor in a bidding war for scarce resources and support.” The human side of education—creativity, risk-taking, curiosity—gets squeezed out when everyone is looking over your shoulder.
But I don’t want this letter to just be a complaint. I’ve started to learn that there’s another way to relate to learning, one that doesn’t revolve around you. I saw it most clearly in Ms. Humes’s math class. Her grading wasn’t about punishing mistakes or rewarding perfection. Instead, she gave us “opportunities” to show growth. A bad quiz wasn’t a permanent scar; it was a checkpoint. We could revisit concepts, try again, and actually see how much we’d improved. Instead of rushing to memorize formulas for one shot at a grade, I slowed down. I let myself struggle through problems without panic. And here’s the surprising thing: I remembered the material months later, because I’d actually understood it.
The human side of education—creativity, risk-taking, curiosity—gets squeezed out when everyone is looking over your shoulder.
This felt freeing. And it reminded me of something I’d almost forgotten: learning is supposed to be about building, not just proving. That’s why I believe in the idea of “ungrading”—not because I think standards should disappear, but because I think they should reflect growth instead of snap judgments. Ungrading isn’t about letting students coast; it’s about replacing fear with feedback, replacing competition with curiosity. It means students and teachers talk about what quality work looks like, and students learn to measure themselves not against a perfect score, but against their own previous selves.
If we made this shift, the changes would ripple outward. Students could take intellectual risks without fearing the fallout of one bad grade. Teachers could focus on cultivating understanding instead of obsessively logging points. Classrooms could become spaces where it’s safe to say, “I don’t know yet,” where the “yet” actually matters. Letters, I’m not saying you should disappear entirely. But I am saying you should lose your monopoly on defining us. I don’t want future students to grow up believing that a single letter can sum up their abilities, potential, or worth.
Because here’s what I know now: my A- in Precalculus didn’t mean I wasn’t cut out for success. My AP Chemistry test score didn’t capture my curiosity about science. And my growth in Ms. Humes’s class can’t be reflected in a single symbol. You’ve had too much power over me for too long. Now, I’m ready to see you differently. I’ve grown to see you as one piece of the puzzle, not the whole picture. And now, I want my learning to be measured by how much I’ve grown, how deeply I’ve understood, and how boldly I’ve tried, not just by the shape of the letter at the top of the page.
So here’s my ask: step aside. Let our curiosity, creativity, and growth take the lead. If you can’t do that, then maybe it’s time for us to part ways. And don’t take it personally, you’ll still have plenty of work…in the alphabet.
I'm just not letting you grade me anymore.
Sincerely,
Subhiksha Sreeram
Subhiksha Sreeram is a senior at Olentangy High School in Columbus, Ohio, where she serves as Co-Editor-in-Chief of the school’s newspaper, The Beacon, and competes with the Speech and Debate team. A lifelong reader who found her voice through writing, she is passionate about storytelling, advocacy, and exploring the intersections of neuroscience and psychology. Subhiksha is committed to using her words to challenge systems like traditional grading and to amplify student perspectives in education. Subhiksha was one of the three winners from our Growth, Not Grades writing contest.