I’m taking some classes right now in the attempt to get a business administration degree so as to have a nice little piece of paper that tells the world I can manage businesses and thus am hireable at a rate higher than someone without that piece of paper. In one of my classes today, I got a test back. With the online system they have for the classes, I was able to see before this point various statistics about grades in the class. I knew my score was 100, and that I was the only one to achieve the score. Awesome. Then I get to the class and I find that I actually got three questions wrong, worth two points each. The instructor later tells everyone he adjusted the final scores by 6 points, and this set me off thinking about why one would do that.

That, of course, devolved fast into an entire consideration of the nature and meaning of grades.

First, what does a grade mean? When you tell someone that you got an “A” in a subject, what information is that supposed to convey? The reaction that everyone has is along the lines of “Oh, s/he must really know that subject well.” But is that really the case?

To continue, we must acknowledge a few things. First, any analysis of this sort can only produce effective results if analyzing things of the same general group. A primary school grade means something entirely different than a college grade, so they shouldn’t be compared to each other or jumbled together when trying to develop wild theories. As such, this will be continuing under the assumption that we are looking at grades in one particular category. For ease, I’ll stick will college grades.

Next, we must acknowledge there are a variety of different kinds of grades that represent different things. From my experience, I can identify three general category of grades: Assignment Grades (characterized by any graded assignment done either during the class session or at home,) Examination Grades (which would include any form of quiz, test, exam, mid-term, or final) and Course Grades which are generally accepted as the culmination of the three previous grade categories.

Talking about a grade in any of these areas means something very different, as they’re meant to measure different things as demonstrated by the intention behind each category of graded work. Assignments are given to provide a form of practice of a small subset of information provided. A grade on this is representative of your understanding of that particular subset of information. It shows what you know at the moment of instruction, which I will call “Instantaneous Comprehension.” What does it mean when you get back a graded homework assignement,what does the average person think? They think “Okay, so I must understand the material we have gone over already.” This is a reasonable conclusion, far as I can see.

A test, under the assumption that one is required to rely only on what they remember and not notes or the like, tests retention of a certain subset of information, varying in size from the small sized quiz to the comprehensive final exam. We’ll call this category of grading “Retained Comprehension” as it demonstrates what was actually retained following the natural attrition due to forgetfulness. When you receive a grade on any form of test, it sets to mind that you have retained and truly understand the material present.

Of course, this is thrown off by studying for a test, as it causes the grade from the test to be a mixture of Instantaneous and Retained Comprehension, but for the sake of argument say you’re like me and actually want your tests to be reflective of how well you’ve retained the information so you don’t study. (Sorry to any of my instructors reading this, but yes, my principles prevent me from studying.)

Both of these can only truly work because of statistics. You can’t ask someone every possible question relating to a given subject area. You can, however, ask them a sampling of questions from each general area they should understand in order to claim they “know” something. The Central Limit Theorum tells us that the sampling, if it is truly representative of the whole, can be extrapolated out into the whole. So there we can dodge the issue of whether or not grading works, so long as the sample group of questions asked are uniformly representative of the whole body of information being tested upon.

Now the third category of grades: Course Grades. When you receive a given grade in a course, it is supposed to demonstrate how well you understand the material of a given course. Yet the calculation is generally done by giving the sum of your Assignment Grades and your Examination Grades. You add your Instantaneous Comprehension to your Retained Comprehension. Your Instantaneous Comprehension will inherently be higher than your Retained Comprehension as the second (assuming you aren’t cramming before tests) is a measure of the first, less natural forgetfulness. Yet a course grade is expected to be a measure of Retained Comprehension.

For this to be the case, one would have to remove the Instantaneous Comprehension from the grade. Further, to be truly accurate, one couldn’t rely on previously performed comprehension tests, as retention continues to decline after the test. So, the best you could measure with a course grade would be Retained Comprehension as of the last date of the class. For a course grade to represent that properly, it would mean that the entire course grade was dependent on the final examination.

Rarely do I see this, though. Instead, you end up with a grade composed of various different forms of Comprehension. Sure, Examination Grades may be weighted more heavily, but the presence of any degree of Instantaneous Comprehension in the grading scheme inflates the overall grade.

And that doesn’t even begin to cover things like Extra Credit Assignments, or the variety of adjustments instructo

So when someone tells you they got an “A” in a given subject, ask yourself, what does that really mean? Does that person really know anything at all about that subject, or did the inherent problems in grading as a whole prop them up? And sense degrees are issued based on getting “passing” grades in a variety of different courses, and those grades are inherently meaningless due to the problems in their structure, does that degree actually mean anything?

I’m working on a bachelors in Business Administration. But what will that degree actually mean in the end? Will it mean I have demonstrated all the skills necessary to administer business affairs? Or could it mean I was really good at looking up the answers at the last minute but unable to retain anything of value? If you can’t tell the difference, then the risk of the second will undercut what compensation you’re willing to offer the first.

So what does it all mean? Grades are meaningless, as are the degrees they attain, at face value. But really, what alternative do we have to measure education by?

Can you really, truly quantify how much a person knows about anything?

A legally insane killer who escaped in Washington state during a field trip to a fair was recaptured Sunday, the Spokane County Sheriff’s Department said.

I’ve been chided for focusing too many of my posts on current events and not things of personal interest, but I couldn’t pass this one up. A man who confessed to murdering someone because the voices in his head told him she was a witch was confined to a mental facility. Alright, I can see that. But to take someone from that facility, and give them a field trip to the state fair? Excuse me? What could the department of corrections possibly have been thinking? I’m sure it had something to do with the humanitarian interests out there.

“He didn’t know what he was doing was wrong.” If that’s the case, wouldn’t you want this man locked even further away? Should we be more afraid of the man who knows that murder is wrong but, in a fit of rage, kills the wife he finds cheating on him, or the man who cannot understand the fundamental rules that govern our society and has voices commanding he slit people’s throats to release the demons from within them?

Even then, what is the humane treatment for these people? And is one’s sense of humanity comparative? Is it better to treat the impaired better than regular felons? Should the violently insane truly be given a better life than the simply violent? Because when I’m at the state fair, who do I want to stand next to? When you’re there, who do you want your kids standing next to?

To whom should we be more humane? Ourselves, or our criminals? Is there really a balance that can be met, and if so, where?

It can take years to build respect, but only one moment to destroy it. With the most casual, unconsidered comment, one can decimate a reputation fostered over great spans of time, bring crashing down any sense of decorum or engendered worthiness; what we work to create through dedication and invested efforts can be brought to nothing if we fail to uphold the preconceptions that we so slavishly empower ourselves with to those around us, transferring that carefully manicured approval to a fiercely opposed, seething distaste — all with one simple word, phrase, or careless act.

What does this say about us in a general sense, that when someone speaks things which ring true with us, we are still wary, still so paranoid of their motivations that we’re unwilling to subscribe to their ideals without an in-depth examination of their essence, and yet, we are so willing to turn on one another in spite or in anger? What a grand orchestration of our innermost demons it must be that our instincts teach us to refrain from trusting one another, yet be willing to fuel an unquenchable hatred when we feel betrayed or let down! When the champion of the cause we hold most dear makes one misstep, we sever all ties as quickly as possible, lest others with whom we share our goals think we side with the betrayer, that we would truck with the errant hero-turned-devil without pause to consider the humanness of his misdeed; the cruelest lash is saved for he who drove the throngs.

And why? What motivations stir in us this unshakable fear of being associated with a person who demonstrated that they are, as we all are, human, capable of error? We so deceive ourselves that the most we think of it is how this person used to be so correct and true, and we wrack our minds for reasons that they would so venomously, so egocentrically, belie their heart with their mind and so renege their right to call us friend. We see it in all forms of public idolatry; the sports star thrown from grace for an angry comment about his opponent, the politician dragged through fire for being so untoward as to speak his honest mind about a fellow party member, the songstress cast from her limelight for her night on the town not unlike the nights on the town of her devoted fanbase.  We are ever skeptical of those we would adore, and ever quick to snap at anyone so unfortunate as to remind us that they are, like us, a person.

And there, I think, is the crux of it. We deify these people, associate the image of their persona with them so completely that we ignore any shred of humanity left in them past all the spin, the agent-approved appearances, the scripted and thrice-reviewed statements; their ever-so-carefully crafted plastic panorama of themselves becomes such a glorified entity beyond the person that when we see a reflection of our own hypocritical inability to conform to that ideal, we boil with rage that they should have the audacity to miss our expectations and forsake the coveted image we’ve bought into by their desires. It is not that we forget that they are humans, but that we wish that they were not; humanity, we know, is a creature of suffering, of weakness, and is not that which we would wish to see embody the purest sense of our desire.

When a hero falls, it is not the image which falters, but the person; like the all-powerful wizard of Oz, we glimpse the man behind the curtain, and we fear him too similar to ourselves. Our inner doubts and perceived limitations spark up, and we cry against their ineptitude because we know it is our own, and we are furious to think that those upon these pedestals of greatness would show the same cracks as we feel in our own minds, the affront of their likeness to us makes us hesitant to accept that any other person could be better; this fosters our fear of placing this mantle on those to come once the latest fall from grace is complete, crippling our trust, and leaving us unready to believe in the next White Knight.

We here at Elitist Idiots were chatting one day on various things we could do with this here domain we maintain and the conversation was derailed, as they often are, into the things going on in our world today that seem precursors to the dystopian worlds of the cyberpunk genre. Being fans of this genre, our opinions are often mixed as to whether we welcome or fear these changes, but it sparked off a bit of creativity in us.

Specifically, it called back to mind the fact that I have been wanting to write for a long time, and write in the cyberpunk style. What I had always been lacking was a story. A story idea came together as we discussed the future of our society by pulling events out of the real world (such as Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission.) Some stylistic decisions had to be made and it was determined that the best way to express many of the concepts carried out in such a world would require the story to be written episodically.

And then we decided this was the perfect place for it. Why horde it all to ourselves when it could be presented to our readers? The blog-post system is almost perfectly designed for single chapter or short story style publishing. Plus, with how much free information and entertainment we get off the Internet, it’s only fair we give something back, right?

So we created “The Firms,” the first episode of which you will find below. They will be updated irregularly, based on whenever we can complete them. However they will be organized into their own separate category listing, allowing easy perusal later. And we do have an RSS feed to update you whenever we update. So, we don’t feel bad about any predicted irregularity.

Enjoy.

Thunder crashed overhead though no flash could be seen. No one could see the sky from the city, be it day or night. The sun may shine, but you’d be hard pressed to notice it through the constant fog belched forth by the factories. The overcast of industrial clouds meant most citizens kept their lights on during the day anyway. They might not help much, but it was better than nothing.

The bar was shoved off in the dark corner of a dark hole that passed as an ally off a side street downtown. The type of place that you had to know about to find, the type of place you’d best have a local with you. A man stood outside a few yards from the door doing what he could to check it out without looking suspicious. He kept himself mostly hidden inside the protective sheath of his trench coat, but so did the vast majority of the citizens of this pit the world passed by. Satisfied, he pressed hard on the steel door that creaked a warning to all inside. “Outsider” it seemed to say.

Inside, no soul looked up. The bar was a dive; the type of place occupied by serious people with serious drinking to do. A flickering monitor near the door claimed to have a variety of songs to play yet either none of the inhabitants were interested in lightening the mood, or the jukebox worked as well as everything else here. Not even the bartender seemed interested in the new patron.

The outsider scanned the room, choosing a spot on the bar next to a table occupied by two men. Factory workers by the look of them, but in this part of town they could be just about anybody. The bartender walked over to him with a sense of obligation. He didn’t want to be here. The job couldn’t pay enough to make up for all the things he had been through here, but no one in this neighborhood had alternatives.

The two men at the table were having an intense conversation completely ignored by the few other patrons.

“I’m telling you, John, ain’t no one made money of a scam like that in twenty years. You don’t cheat AgraTech like that.” A short red-headed man was getting more passionate about his position as the beer flowed on. The other man, dark haired with pale, sharp features, drank more slowly than his companion.

“They won’t know a damned thing, Michael. Not unless you or I go tellin’ anyone. If we keep our mouths shut, who’s to know the difference?” Both men were either just drunk enough to not care that others were around or were relying on the patrons to mind their own business.

“At least think this thing through, John. ProStar is offering you a lot of money to do what exactly?”

“They’re offerin’ to pay for copies of the production specs for the new well drillin’ rigs.”

“What would a security company want with that?”

“Christ, Michael, how should I know? I just build the damned things, I don’t know the first thing about business. Maybe someone paid them to get it. Maybe ProStar is being used as a cover for a competitor who wants in the industry.”

“What competitor would that be? AgraTech controls the whole damned farm industry. Ain’t no one out there who can compete, least not without running into unfortunate accidents or being bought out.”

“I can’t pass this opportunity up, Michael. The money’s too good. I could get away from here. Run from the States to South America or somewhere. They’ll never find me there.”

“Do you hear what you’re sayin’, John? You know how these corporations are. They’re bigger than the government. No one tells them what they can or can’t do. They’d either pay off the police wherever you went or just gun you down and be done with it. You can’t hide from The Firms.”

John was growing more agitated as the conversation went on. “So I should pass it up, then? The only chance for Susan and I to have a good life for our kids? We could retire on that money, never have to show up in public again. The kids could get a degree and make real money for themselves. What kind of father would I be if I said no?”

“A live one, that’s what you’d be! How long do you really think you could get away? A year? Two years? Ten? You can’t hide forever and when they find you, they’ll take it out on you and your family. Don’t do that to your kids, John. Megan and Ryan are good kids. They deserve to have a life, and a father, even if it’s in this hell hole.”

John hung his head, thinking hard to himself. Michael watched him carefully, looking for signs that he’d convinced his friend. Neither of them noticed when the man at the bar finished his beer, nor did they notice when he pulled a pistol from his jacket, nor when he swiveled around to get a good look at them. They paid no attention to him until he placed the pistol to John’s head and fired.

Michael’s eyes went wide with horror as he reeled backwards, knocking over his chair in a desperate attempt to get away from the shooter. A second quickly-fired shot went into the back of Michael’s head. The bullet didn’t exit. The man picked up the remnants of John’s drink, looking around the room for anyone ready to make a scene. He slowly finished the beer amidst a long silence, broken only by the bartender, unconsciously cleaning a glass.

“Cleanin’s ‘spensive, these parts.”

The shooter looked at him for a long moment, but the bartender had seen his like before. He pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket, setting it on the bar as he left. He could hear sirens outside, but there were always sirens in this city. They weren’t for him. No one who cared saw anything and those who saw anything didn’t care.