Grade angst.

Today I just received my 11th A out of 11 grad school classes. *glee!*

Now, I’ve NEVER been one to care much about grades (I graduated 40th out of 88 in high school, and while I did earn a 3.8+ in my undergrad theatre major, everything else was sucky enough to get me a total undergrad GPA of 3.18.) Also, according to my grad school mentor my very first day of my first MA class, grades are the last thing PhD programs look at, likewise employers. In higher level academia, it’s all about publishing and active work in your field. That’s advice I’ve taken to heart, and in these three years I’ve presented papers at conferences and have worked on journal articles (with one under peer review right now). So, whether or not I care about graduating my master’s program with a 4.0 seems odd, and possibly hypocritical.

But darnit, now that it’s possible, I kind of care. The problem is I have just two classes left before graduating, and they’re potentially my two hardest I’ve yet to take. Two B’s out of 13 grades would lower my GPA to 3.85! Almost as if 11 A’s didn’t even matter.

And then I think about the fact that most people in this world don’t even get the chance at any education at all; attending an elitist liberal university to earn a degree in something as squishy as “English” isn’t even imaginable. The reality-check of my privileged life seeps in a bit.