Grading my Classmates, and other 4th Grade Crimes ;)
#terribleRhymes #playgroundpolitics #art #creativity #childhood #quoteoftheday #confidence
Memories from the 4th Grade
On a recent visit to my parents' house in Southern California, I stumbled upon a plastic storage bin in their garage. Inside? A time capsule from fourth grade: crumpled writing assignments, school portraits, and crayon-heavy masterpieces.
Somehow, through several house moves and the Great Spring Cleaning of 2012, my mom had managed to hang on to this relic of my elementary-school self. And thank God she did—because it’s equal parts hilarious and mortifying.
The crown jewel of the bin was a sheet of our class photos—tiny yearbook-style thumbnails of every kid, plus the teachers and principal, all smiling. What made it special wasn’t the photos themselves—it was the fact that I, in a burst of childlike tyranny, had graded each classmate using our school’s official marks:
“O” for Outstanding
“GP” for Good Progress
“N” for Needs Improvement
Let me be clear: no one asked me to do this. This was not a class project. This was me, armed with a fluorescent green marker and way too much self-assurance.
Naturally, I gave myself an “O.” My friends? High marks. A few neutrals here and there—“GP-” if you were on thin ice. And then… poor Tim Anderson. Tim didn’t even get a grade. Instead, I drew a line through his name and carefully wrote: “frankenstein jr.”
Savage.
The best part? I remember liking Tim. So either I had a complex understanding of sarcasm at age nine, or we had a brief feud over handball and I handled it like a miniature dictator with art supplies.
Another gem from the bin was a Mother’s Day card I’d made, complete with pastel drawn flowers and this earnest poem:
On Mother’s Day I’d like to say
Thanks to my Mom in a special way
Because when my feelings get hurt
Or I scrape my knee,
My Mom’s always there to take care of me... I think she’s great, and I love her a lot Because she’s the best friend I’ve got
At the time, I was so proud of this poem. Reading it now, I realize the rhyme was terrible. We’re talking "roses are red, violets are blue, I like pizza and so do you" energy. A literary crime spree.
Still, holding that brittle paper and rereading the clunky rhymes, I remembered how much I felt this poem was some of my best work. At the time, I didn’t yet know the difference between “good poetry” and “rhymes that hurt the ears”. A kid who unapologetically graded her classmates and marched every assignment home like my family might not be ready for the brilliance about to hit their fridge.
That kid was kind of awesome. A little ruthless, sure—but earnest, creative, and not yet self-conscious about social decorum or poetic restraint.
Now, as an adult who adds a 30-second delay to outgoing emails (just in case I need to unsend and edit), I kind of celebrate her.
So here's to the tiny movers and shakers, the crayon poets, and the kids who graded their classmates like it was their moral duty. May we all occasionally tap into their unapologetic confidence.
What’s something from your childhood—whether remembered or retold—that still makes you laugh, cringe, or maybe both?
Me and my twin, not in Southern California:
Fast forward to the current digital age ;)
