Donna Makes the Grade

What would Donna do?

Victor Herrera, the Business Department Chair, laughed, and said, “Wow. A 33% failure rate.” He flashed a shit-eating grin at me and leered, waiting for validation that was never going to come.

“What is that,” I said, playing dumb and buying time. I had strolled into Victor’s office to brag about how I had finished grading all of my students’ finals and how well they had done. Talk about taking the wind out of my sails. Sheesh. Victor was off the damn reservation. Holy hell. He was nearly at the County Line.

“Beth Michelle Fowler, you can’t be serious? You chair the Accounting Department. Are you telling me you can’t understand these numbers?”

Donna Roberta Paulsen. From “Suits.” Channel your inner Donna. What would Donna do? Should I tell Victor that I really thought that this was bordering on some kind of severe ethical violation? Or should I commiserate and earn some brownie points? Truth or self-preservation? Donna would probably pose some pithy rhetorical and strike at the inherent hypocrisy of Victor’s position like there was a team of writers behind her making sure those one-liners slapped. Problem is, I didn’t have a writing room at my disposal.

“You know, Victor, do you think that ChatGPT can provide a proper evaluation of your student papers based on knowledge of the material? Or do you think it is just grading the writing?”

“Beth, this is amazing! It would have taken me three days to read thirty essays. It took ChatGPT about ten minutes, total—if that. So, it’s a harsh grader. I can always apply the curve.” He was pointing and gesticulating at a computer screen like a teenage boy trying to explain a video game to his girlfriend, while she was debating the pros and cons of breaking it off right that minute.

“Victor, what are you doing?” I asked. “What in the hell are you actually up to?”

“What? I’m applying some objectivity to the situation,” he said, adjusting his glasses and looking down at the roster of students. “Kelly is my only standout. And it gave her an A-. Spot on ChatGPT, spot on!”

“So, the computer identified the best paper. Bravo. That doesn’t mean you can delegate your one responsibility as a tenured professor to HAL 9000. We all know how that ends up.”

“Agree to disagree,” Victor said.

“But the computer can’t take into account participation, student engagement, grasping teaching objectives, or—you know—improvement. It is just blindly checking your grading worksheet and applying points by rote.” I flipped my hair over my shoulder, Donna Paulsen-like. I tapped a foot that was in a rather grungy tennis shoe, but I lifted up, flexing my calves, imagining myself in heels.

“And what’s wrong with that?” Victor said, not appreciating my character acting. “Objectivity. Remember. Hasn’t that been what we were after. Taking out the subjective factor, the touchy feely, teacher’s pet stereotypes. Giving people a real even playing field.”

“Vom,” I said, sticking a mock finger down my throat. “I’m just saying that it might not be a fair representation of student performance, you know?” I said it with less confidence than I’d intended. Not Donna-like. Not Paulsen-like. Not channeling. Get it together Beth!

“Not really following you,” Victor said, in his usual pedantic way, “But tell you what, if you convince me this new progressive grading routine has flaws, I’ll revert back to your Stone Age, Barney Rubble grading techniques.” Then he tapped his fingers on his forehead and added, “I’ll revert back. Not completely, but I’ll read all the damn papers. It will kill me. Absolutely kill me. But for you, I’ll promise.”

“Challenge accepted,” I said, and stormed out, walking back to my office imagining in my mind that I was wearing heels that were clicking with each step. Okay, Beth, I thought, now the pressure is on. Channel away. It was at that moment that I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and realized that I was doing a piss poor job of channeling my inner Donna Paulsen. But I would pull it together. I could do this.

Okay, ChatGPT, let’s find your fatal flaw. Let’s go! I pulled out a four-page research paper Victor Herrera had published in the “Journal of International Business Management” providing a case study on Lowes versus Amazon. It was a good paper, but a little flat. Let’s see if we can hit Victor’s ego with a little help from our AI friends.

I typed in: “I need you to grade a research paper on Business Strategy. Grading objectives include a grasp of basic business strategy based on Strategic Management by Fred F. David. Provide points for understanding of corporate governance, specialization, competitive advantage, management audit, business risks, and other strategy concepts. Provide a grade from A, being the best, to F, being the worst, with the following grade levels A, A-, B+, B, B-, C+, C, C-, D+, D, D-, F. Provide an objective grade of the arguments and content of the research papers, giving points for the strength of the references, originality of the ideas, and strength of the thesis.”

ChatGPT came back with a C grade and an explanation: “The research paper on Business Strategy demonstrates a basic understanding of the concepts as outlined in Fred F. David's "Strategic Management." However, there are significant areas for improvement.”

Jackpot. But it just didn’t hit the way I needed. It didn't slap. Hmmm. “Now provide the evaluation in the voice of Donna Paulsen from Suits.”

ChatGPT came back with a C grade an explanation: “Alright, let's talk business – your business strategy paper. You've got the basics down, like someone who knows their way around a boardroom but hasn't quite mastered the art of the deal. You are definitely not a closer, let alone the best closer in the city. Harvey Specter you are not.”

Nice. Now we’re talking! I e-mailed Victor the prompt and the response, as a way of saying, Hey buddy, if you are the expert and ChatGPT gave you a C, it clearly doesn’t know what it’s talking about!

I stormed back into Victor’s office triumphantly and crossed my arms, tapping my right foot aggressively, giving my best Donna Paulsen glare. He looked up, flabbergasted, and said, “Really Beth, really?”

“If you can’t get a B, surely there’s something wrong with the methodology, no?”

“I guess I can’t argue with that logic.”

“So you’ll grade the papers. Really grade them. The old-fashioned way.”

“A deal’s a deal.”

“Damn straight.”

And I made my dramatic exit, thinking, Mommy needs a cocktail. After all. That’s what Donna Paulsen would do.