In our modern society, we love metrics. Measurements, numbers, goals, things to easily compare across different modes.
And why not? Humans, we’re a complicated bunch, and for most of our history, we have tried in various ways to understand ourselves. One of the best, and most devastating ways, is through measurement. It makes sense: if someone has the most number of something, whether it is money, land, or children, then that is measured by the rules of their society as success. But this can lead to terrible things, ranging from eugenics to genocide. If someone does not measure up to the rules of the governing party that oversees them, then life can--and usually does--become incredibly difficult for them.
But can everything really, and truly, be measured?
Despite humanity’s repeated and failed attempts, it is really hard to measure someone else’s beauty, for example. It is also jealous of another's accomplishments when they aren’t personally impressive to you (ie, my uncle’s fishing trophy means nothing to my vegan friends).
But using numbers makes things easy to compare in our society. Grade point averages. Standardized test scores. How many cookies you sold as a Girl Scout. High numbers gain prizes, pats on the head, commendations from teachers and parents. Low scores mean the opposite.
But what if you can make one number easily, where the other falters? What if you’re a terrible test taker, but can write beautiful essays? What if you organize your essays, but the words are blocky, your paragraphs long and tedious? What if math problems come easily to you, but talking in front of others turns you to a stammering fool?
As a graduate student, and now as a nonprofit director and independent scholar, I’m responsible for metrics of success myself. Measurements such as how many students attend certain schools once they’ve finished, how their grades have improved, how many more are participating each year, etc. How do we define intellectual curiosity, and how do we measure it’s impact and success?
How--and more importantly, should--we do this?
We rarely talk in terms of stories or experiences from a narrative perspective when evaluations of programming are explored, and perhaps that is for the best. Stories are, after all, complicated, confusing. Sometimes we can’t fully deride what came out of them, whether or not the narrator is sympathetic, or even telling the truth. Or even human, for that matter.
As a result, it’s hard to listen to a story of a participant and make a subsequent conclusion of their narrative.
It’s one of the hallmarks of the research I conducted at University of Illinois in the College of Education for my doctorate. It is also one of the most challenging aspects of having major depressive disorder (MDD) and nonverbal learning disability (NVLD) of which I have both. In the midst of this alphabet soup of diagnosis, there is myself, an individual who is consistently challenged by social situations.
Please understand, I love people: I’m exhilarated by a long dinner with friends, endless text chains with family, and the consistent love and affection of my husband, whom I’ve just celebrated a decade of being together last month. Even challenging situations at work are chilled with laughs and a good lunch with coworkers.
But missing nonverbal cues sends me reeling into a depressive ball many times, which is compounded by other MDD aspects, such as fatigue, brain fog, and hypotension. This has made the most banal of educational metrics--grades--incredibly puzzling to admissions at universities and frustrating to teachers, who loved reading my essays but were confused by my average performance in school. It must have been so frustrating for them to see an engaged student in science barely scrape passing grades, but they were merely following the given metrics allotted to them.
To this day, I find myself with a parade of thoughts at the end of especially socially wrought days, even though I’m no longer a traditional student. Thoughts such as: Did I read that email right? Was my associate’ stone dismissive on the phone? Is my brother really mad at me over a text I sent earlier this year?
Combing through my memories is exhausting, which triggers my MDD, thus making me incredibly sluggish and not as quick as other students when it comes to memorization and theoretical comprehension. But, as you can imagine, having to hone and practice these skills helped make understanding learning patterns of others easy to pick up, especially when it came to talking about their experiences.
These are the metrics I truly love, even if they are almost impossible at times to measure. Unpacking stories and comprehending the truth beneath them is beautiful to me, because as someone who craves the closeness of their fellow man. Or, even better, using it to illuminate the success of a program participant.
I’m also one of them. As mentioned above, on paper, I’ve never been as impressive as other students, those whose minds easily memorized material and reported it back on tests. I tried and wished for my brain to adjust and turn into that, but it never quite did. Heck, I can even be construed as a failure if I am to be viewed by my numbers, as if I was myself a survey to be regarded and compared with previous performances. My grade point average was decent, as was my standardized tests, to get into a good university. I earned scholarships and fellowships, enough that I have no student loan debt now.
But I spent time on both the Dean’s List and on academic probation during my time in graduate school. Indeed, I went for practicality, rather than brilliance, in both my education and career.
Many times, I’ve felt insecure around other academics, which is silly, as there is genuinely no metric once you’ve finished school. What is brilliance, in the face of student loan debt, or unemployment? What is the worth of a great performance when there is no one to see it, to measure it?
There is no metric to fully comprehend frustration, no litmus test to engage the fact that I’ve often wished I could just yank my brain out and beat it until it starts working at the same pace as everyone else.
And that’s where I wish my narrative would be unpacked by other researchers. That I was able to work with my disabilities to obtain this. But I know it’s not easy to listen to that.
Because humans, we love numbers. And our society loves metrics, the measurement of those numbers.
And a mediocre score is not worth the narrative to explain why.
Dr Vogt Veggeberg writes from her hometown of Chicago, where she lives with her husband, daughter, and assortment of pets. A graduate of University of Oregon and University of Illinois at Chicago, she currently works as a nonprofit director and writer. Her work can be found at https://linktr.ee/krisveevee
*Audio Narration Coming Soon
Cover Photo: Marina Muun