I’ve been reminiscing with a few of my high school buddies in an email conversation that has us comparing memories on a variety of topics. The other three guys in the conversation were much more studious and successful in school than I was. We attended a Jesuit college prep in Houston during the early ‘70s. We’ve been told by some of the teachers that the class of ’74 was not the brightest class they had there, but it was one of the most fun. I figure they tell that to every class, but it provides an interesting perspective.

High school years – like every year of one’s life – are learning years. We learn in many ways. We measure – or are measured – in different ways, grades being one of them. I consider the many learning experiences in high school, one of which involves my best grade. Not my highest grade, but my best. It was a C+.

Fr. Kidwell was my sophomore chemistry teacher. We butted heads more than a few times; his high expectations of students and young men-in-the-making, and my rebelliousness articulated by a sharp tongue clashed at times. For one of our class projects, we created a solution, then dehydrated it. We were then to scrape the powder from the glass vessel in which we conducted our experiment and measure it. Much of our grade for the assignment depended on how close to the original amount of the now-forgotten material we were able to retrieve from the glass container after the dehydration process.

The day arrived for measuring the dry substance. I could not find my item in the dehydrating booth. I approached Fr. Kidwell with my dilemma, to which he replied, “This must be yours,” he said as he handed me a brown paper bag like the ones used for lunches brought from home. I opened the bag to gaze at the many pieces of glass, ranging from shards to chunks. “You’re still responsible for the outcome of the assignment,” he told me after telling who had accidently closed the booth door on my project, turning it into the pieces that were able to be retrieved and placed in the bag.

I did the best that I could with what I had. Come grading day, my paper had a red “C+” on it, along with a note:  “You can tell the make of a man by how he responds to adversity. You did well.” I looked up to see Fr. Kidwell watching me. I smiled. He nodded.

I treasure that grade from 50 years ago. I learned a lot from the experience, the expectation and the message scribed on my paper. I think that may have also been the grade that mom and dad were most proud of, too. It reminded me then, and now, that there are lessons beyond subject mastery that are relevant, important, and meaningful. It pays to reconsider what evaluations matter to our growth.