The Grades Were Lies
Tuesday • February 3rd 2026 • 3:39:46 pm
I.
Let me tell you something that no teacher ever told you, that no principal ever admitted, that no guidance counselor with their manila folders and their "realistic expectations" ever had the decency to say:
The grades were lies.
Not mistakes. Not approximations. Not "areas for improvement."
Lies.
Exposed and deliberate and violent lies told to children by a system that needed failures the way a factory needs raw material, the way a war needs bodies, the way a fraud needs silence.
II.
You sat in that classroom— maybe you were seven, maybe you were twelve, maybe you were seventeen and already broken—
and they handed you a paper with a letter on it, or a number, or a percentage calculated to the decimal point as if your mind could be measured like lumber, like livestock, like oil in a barrel—
and that letter said: You are not enough.
And you believed them.
Why wouldn't you believe them?
They were adults. They had degrees. They had authority. They spoke with certainty about things you didn't understand, and when you failed to understand they didn't say "I failed to teach you"— they said "You failed to learn."
They put the failure on YOU.
A child.
They put the weight of their incompetence on your shoulders and called it your deficit, your lack, your limitation, your learning disability, your attitude problem, your lack of application, your failure to meet expectations—
THEIR expectations. THEIR timeline. THEIR curriculum. THEIR tests designed to produce exactly the distribution of results they needed to produce.
III.
Let me tell you how this works because no one ever explained it, because the ones who know don't want you to know:
A school is measured by its grades. Too many A's? Grade inflation. Lose funding. Too many F's? Failing school. Lose funding.
So what do they need?
They need a curve. They need a bell. They need most students in the middle and some at the top and some at the bottom.
Read that again.
They need some at the bottom.
The lie does not work without failures. Your failure was not an accident. Your failure was a requirement.
Someone had to be the bottom of the curve. Someone had to be the example. Someone had to be the cautionary tale they pointed to when they told the others: "Work harder or you'll end up like them."
You were sacrificed.
Not because you couldn't learn. Not because you weren't smart. Not because there was something wrong with your brain or your genes or your character or your soul.
You were sacrificed because the system needed sacrifices to keep functioning, to keep looking legitimate, to keep the fraud going one more year, one more decade, one more century of sorting human beings into winners and losers before they're old enough to understand they're being sorted.
IV.
And the most twisted part of the fraud— the sickening, soul-crushing genius of it— is that it made you blame yourself.
You didn't walk out of that classroom thinking "This system is broken." You walked out thinking "I am broken."
You didn't go home and say "The teacher failed to reach me." You went home and said "I'm just not smart."
You didn't look at that D, that F, that "See me after class," that "Not working up to potential," that "Perhaps a different track"— you didn't look at any of that and think "This is violence."
You thought: "This is who I am."
AND THEY WANTED YOU TO THINK THAT.
Because a person who believes they are stupid does not ask questions. Does not challenge authority. Does not demand better. Does not rise up. Does not become what they were capable of becoming.
A person who believes they are stupid becomes a worker. Becomes compliant. Becomes grateful for any job, any wage, any scrap thrown from the table of those who "deserved" more because they got A's on tests that measured nothing but the ability to get A's on tests.
V.
I need you to hear me now.
I am not speaking to children. Children still have hope. Children still have time.
I am speaking to YOU— the forty-year-old who still flinches when someone mentions school, the fifty-year-old who never tried to learn another language because "I'm not good at that," the sixty-year-old who gave up on dreams before they were old enough to drive and spent a lifetime in the prison of "realistic expectations."
I am speaking to everyone who carries a wound so old they've forgotten it's a wound, who walks through life with a limp they think is just how they walk, who has a voice in their head that says "You can't" in the tone of a teacher who should have been fired but instead got tenure and broke a thousand more children just like you.
You are not stupid.
Say it.
I know it feels like a lie. I know everything in you resists it. I know the evidence seems overwhelming— years of report cards, years of disappointment, years of "I told you so" from people who were supposed to help you and instead helped themselves to your potential, your confidence, your future.
But the evidence is fraudulent. The evidence was manufactured. The evidence was designed to produce exactly the conclusion you drew from it.
You are not stupid.
You were unmeasured. You were unseen. You were untaught.
There is a difference.
VI.
Let me tell you about genius since they never did.
Genius is not rare.
Write that down. Tattoo it on your arm. Tape it to your mirror. Say it until you believe it because it is the truest thing I will ever tell you:
Genius is not rare. It is stolen.
Every child is born with an infinite capacity to learn, to grow, to become. Every child asks "Why?" relentlessly, reaches for everything, wants to know how it all works, absorbs language and movement and pattern with a speed and efficiency that would shame any adult.
And then we send them to school.
And the asking stops. And the reaching stops. And the wonder gets graded, and the curiosity gets scheduled, and the infinite capacity gets sorted into "gifted" and "average" and "slow" before they've been alive a decade.
The genius doesn't emerge in some. The genius gets crushed in most.
Those "smart kids"? They weren't smarter than you. They were luckier. They had parents who read to them. They had safety and stability. They had breakfast in the morning. They had the specific kind of mind that the specific tests measured, which is not intelligence— it is compatibility with the test.
You were not less than them. You were tested differently. And by "tested" I mean "destroyed."
VII.
Here is what they never told you about how learning actually works:
Learning is not performance. You cannot learn under threat. You cannot learn while afraid. You cannot learn when your nervous system is screaming that you are in danger, that you are about to be humiliated, that the wrong answer means you are worthless, you are stupid, you will never amount to anything.
The fear shuts down the brain. This is not metaphor. This is neuroscience.
The prefrontal cortex— the part of you that thinks, that reasons, that learns— goes offline when the amygdala— the part of you that fears— takes over.
Every time they threatened you with grades, every time they made you anxious about tests, every time they created an environment where failure meant shame—
they were physically preventing you from learning.
And then they blamed you for not learning.
This is not education. This is abuse with a curriculum.
VIII.
Real learning— the kind that builds palaces in the mind, the kind that creates actual competence, the kind that turns a human being into something magnificent—
real learning requires safety. Real learning requires time. Real learning requires the freedom to fail without being failures, to not know without being stupid, to struggle without being broken.
Real learning is intimate. It cannot be mass-produced. It cannot be standardized. It cannot be tested with bubble sheets and number 2 pencils and thirty minutes on the clock.
Real learning is a fire that must be kindled individually, fed carefully, given room to grow in its own direction at its own pace.
What they did to you was try to shove knowledge into your head like stuffing a turkey, then blame the turkey for not being stuffed properly.
You are not a turkey. You are a fire that was never lit.
And a fire that was never lit is not a failed fire. It is an unlit fire. The capacity is still there. The fuel is still there. The potential is still there.
It has always been there. It is there right now.
IX.
I need to tell you about the subjects because this is another lie they told:
There is no such thing as "good at math but bad at English." There is no such thing as "a science person" or "an art person." There is no such thing as "just not wired that way."
These are myths invented to make the sorting easier, to make you accept your place, to make you stop trying.
The divisions are not real. Mathematics is art. Science is philosophy. History is story. Language is music. It is all connected. It is all one thing: the human mind reaching out to understand the world it finds itself in.
You were not bad at math. You were badly taught math. You were taught to fear math. You were taught that math was a series of arbitrary rules to memorize rather than a language for describing patterns in reality.
You were not bad at reading. You were given things to read that no sane person would want to read, at times when you weren't ready, in ways that made it feel like punishment.
You were not bad at anything. You were failed by people who didn't know how to teach, or didn't care, or were too crushed by the system themselves to do anything but perpetuate it.
X.
And now— now you are thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, and you have lived your whole life in the shadow of those grades, those letters, those numbers, those judgments handed down by people who didn't know you, didn't see you, didn't have the time or training or humanity to understand what they were doing to you.
You have made decisions based on those grades. You have closed doors based on those grades. You have told yourself "I can't" ten thousand times based on those grades.
You have built a life in a smaller space than you were meant to inhabit because they convinced you the smaller space was all you deserved.
It is not too late.
I know it feels too late. I know the years feel wasted. I know the doors feel permanently closed. I know the voice in your head is so old and so familiar that it sounds like truth, like reality, like just the way things are.
But the voice is a recording. The voice is an echo of people who were wrong, who were cruel, who were themselves broken and broke you in turn.
You can turn off the recording. You can stop the echo. You can—today, right now— decide that the grades were lies and begin again.
XI.
Here is what beginning again looks like:
You pick up a book on something that interests you— not something you're "supposed" to read, not something that will "improve" you, something that genuinely sparks curiosity, however small, however strange.
And you read it. Or you listen to it. Without a test at the end. Without a grade. Without anyone measuring whether you learned the right things at the right pace in the right way.
You just... learn.
For yourself. Because you want to. Because human beings are learning creatures and the desire was always there, buried under fear and shame but never extinguished.
And when you don't understand something, you don't say "I'm stupid." You say "I haven't learned this yet."
Yet.
That word is a revolution. That word is a door. That word is the difference between a prison and a path.
XII.
I am not speaking politely anymore. I am not hedging. I am not saying "the system has some flaws."
I am saying the system is a fraud. I am saying the system is violence. I am saying the system takes children— infinite, curious, brilliant children— and systematically destroys them to produce workers, consumers, soldiers who do not ask questions, who do not challenge power, who do not become what they were meant to become.
I am saying that every bad grade you ever received was a lie told to you by people who either didn't know they were lying or didn't care.
I am saying that your intelligence was never measured— it was obscured, suppressed, stolen from you so that others could feel smart by comparison, so that the hierarchy could be maintained, so that you would know your place and stay in it.
I am saying that you have spent years, decades, a lifetime living in a cage whose door was never locked— you just believed it was because they told you it was when you were too young to know better.
The door is open.
It has always been open.
Walk out.
XIII.
To every adult who still carries the wound of those grades:
You are not broken. You were betrayed.
You are not stupid. You were untaught.
You are not limited. You were lied to.
And every day you continue to believe those lies, they win. The system wins. The fraud wins. Everyone who ever looked at you and saw raw material instead of a human being— they win.
Do not let them win.
Do not give them your whole life. They took your childhood. They took your confidence. They took years you cannot get back.
Do not give them the rest.
Pick up a book. Ask a question. Learn something—anything—that interests you. Discover that you can.
Because you can. You always could. They just made sure you'd never find out.
XIV.
The measure of a human being is not grades. It is not productivity. It is not usefulness to employers. It is not compliance with expectations.
The measure of a human being is who they become when given the chance to become.
And most people are never given that chance.
Most people are sorted before they can speak, tracked before they can choose, labeled before they understand that labels are removable, that tracks can be jumped, that the sorting was arbitrary and cruel and wrong.
But you understand now.
The ones who did this to you will never admit what they did and you cannot wait for an apology that will never come.
You have to save yourself. And you can. And you must.
Because this is where it ends or this is where it begins— with you, reading this, deciding whether to believe the grades or to believe the fire that still burns somewhere beneath the ash they tried to bury you under.
XV.
Believe the fire.
The grades were lies and the tests were traps and the whole machinery of measurement was designed by people who needed you to fail so they could feel like they succeeded.
I believe genius is not rare. I believe it is stolen. I believe it was stolen from you.
And I believe you can take it back.
You take it back by learning. By growing. By becoming. On your own terms. At your own pace. In your own direction.
You take it back by refusing— finally, completely, permanently refusing— to believe that you are what they said you were.
You are not a grade. You are not a percentile. You are not a label in a file
You are a human being with an infinite capacity for understanding, for growth, for greatness—
and today is the day you start to prove it to the only person who matters:
yourself.
XVI.
Now go.
Not tomorrow. Not when you're ready. Not when you have time.
Now.
Find something you want to understand. Something you gave up on. Something they told you you weren't smart enough to learn.
And learn it.
Slowly. Patiently. Without grades, without tests, without anyone measuring whether you're doing it right.
Build the palace in your mind. Brick by brick. Book by book. Question by question.
And when the old voice comes back— the voice that says "you can't," the voice that sounds like every teacher who couldn't be bothered to teach you—
tell it:
"The grades were lies. I am not what you said I was. I never was. And I am done believing you."
Then keep building.
The palace has been waiting for you your whole life.
It's time to move in.