Are We Measuring Academic Ability or the Ability to Afford an Education?
My son came home last Thursday with a book report assignment that had to be presented on a tri-fold cardboard display board. The instructions said, “Use materials you already have around the house or can easily purchase at any local store.” We don’t have a craft store within walking distance, and payday wasn’t until Friday. I looked at the kitchen counter, still smeared with breakfast, and tried to figure out what we had on hand: a cereal box, some old socks, a roll of paper towels, and a half-empty bottle of school glue that was more crust than liquid.
He ended up doing his project on a piece of flattened cardboard from a shipping box, with drawings done in my old gel pens. It was neat, but it wasn’t what the teacher pictured. The grade came back as a “C” with a note that said, “Excellent content, but the presentation lacked the visual quality we discussed.” I signed the form and didn’t write anything back. I didn’t know what to say.
It wasn’t the first time, either. The week before, there was a math assignment that included a link to an online tutorial. We couldn’t watch it because our home wifi had been shut off for three days. My son did the problems from the textbook on his own, worked through the steps, and still made mistakes. I couldn’t help him because I hadn’t seen the tutorial. The teacher later mentioned that “everyone should have watched the video” before coming to class. I nodded.
I don’t think the teachers are doing this on purpose. Most of them work within a system that assumes a certain amount of resource—not just money, but time, quiet space, printers, parents who speak English, parents who aren’t working two jobs. When my son’s teacher says “use materials you have around the house,” she probably means a house with a drawer full of construction paper and a printer that works. She doesn’t mean my house, where “around the house” means a flashlight, a butter knife, and some spare buttons.
The tricky part is that none of this shows up on a report card. My son is bright. His reading is above grade level. He can explain the plot of a book in two sentences and tell you why the character did what they did. But the display board grade doesn’t ask about that. It asks whether he has access to a tri-fold board and color markers. And I watch other kids in his class who have those things, and their projects look completely different. They look like something from a classroom magazine. Mine looks like it was made by a kid who had to figure it out on a Tuesday night.
I start to wonder how many grades we’ve celebrated or worried about over the years were actually about something else. When schools talk about achievement gaps, we usually talk about test scores in reading and math. But underneath those numbers is often another set of gaps. Who could pay for the test-prep workbook? Who had a parent available to quiz them after dinner? Who had a computer at home that loaded the practice test without freezing?
This isn’t about shaming teachers. I’ve met my son’s teachers. They’re tired. They have thirty kids in a room. They can’t see into our cupboards. But I think they’ve been trained to spot a missing pencil, not a missing printer. So the student with the pencil and the printer gets called “prepared,” and the student without them gets called “behind.” And the parent without the printer gets called “uninvolved,” even though I’m sitting at the kitchen table every single night, watching my son work.
One thing that helped us was learning to say something. I used to just let it go. I didn’t want to seem like I was complaining. But now, when an assignment comes home with a list of materials, I read it the same afternoon, not the Sunday night before it’s due. If it asks for things like foam board, sticker letters, or specific apps, I send the teacher a short email. I write things like: “My son doesn’t have access to a printer at home. Would it be okay if he writes his final draft by hand?” Or, “We don’t have a dollar store nearby until the weekend. Is there any chance the project could be turned in a few days later?” Most teachers say that’s fine. A few don’t respond. But at least we know where we stand.
I’ve also learned to teach my son to ask for options. Not in a whiny way, but straight-up. The other day he needed to present something on a poster, and he asked, “Can I do a spoken presentation instead?” The teacher said yes. He got a B. It wasn’t because I bought anything. It was because we asked a direct question.
At the same time, I think teachers can do small things that make a big difference without changing their whole curriculum. For example, when giving a project, they can include “alternatives to purchasing materials” as an actual part of the instructions, not just a side note. They can say, “You can use cardboard, an old bed sheet, or a plastic container. The goal is the ideas, not the materials.” They can have supplies in the classroom—tape, scissors, paper, glue—and let kids build during lunch or after school. They can also be careful with phrases like “illustrate your project” without checking whether every kid has access to colored ink.
I also think schools could start standardizing what they really mean by “academic ability.” If a test is supposed to measure reading comprehension, it shouldn’t require a stable internet connection at home to access the reading material. If an assignment is about showing you understand the civil war, it shouldn’t require a three-foot foam diorama with minifigures. We could measure what the child knows instead of what the child owns.
I don’t have a neat ending for this. My son still does okay, mostly because he works hard and because he’s learned to improvise. But every time an assignment comes home, I feel a small tightness in my chest. I wonder if this is the one that will require something I can’t provide, and whether his grade will pay for my shortage. He never blames me, but I blame the situation.
The other day, he came home with a project description that said, “Your finished piece should reflect your personal learning journey.” The school had provided a list of possible formats, but there was one line that stood out: “If you need supplies, check with your teacher first.” I checked. They had some colored pencils. He made something from those pencils and a piece of paper he tore out of his notebook. It wasn’t glossy. It wasn’t fancy. But it was his, and it was good.
I just don’t know if good is enough when the whole system is measuring a different kind of wealth.
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