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Monday, 2:30 p.m. I walk into my school's vice-principal's office, hand her the 5th grade class register, and with a smile and over-dramatic timing, declare, "Never again in my life will I write another grade in this country."

It's been over a year since I've written about The Catalog, the pale blue grade book for each class that must contain a detailed listing of every lesson taught in every subject and every grade given to every student. The Catalog, which was mysteriously renamed The Register this year in a change that only I seem to have noticed, must be written in with a particular pen and must be constantly updated with handwritten entries. Failure to constantly update The Catalog, I have discovered, is the fastest way to alienate your coworkers and get everyone at the school ticked off at you.

But it doesn't matter any more. On Monday, I finished writing all of my grades—I needed to write them for about 140 students in two subjects in eight classes for a total of 12 sections to complete. That included pulling some of my failing informatica students out of their classes to complete an assignment so that they'd have a passing grade. There were also several students who were in The Catalog that I didn't even know, but their homeroom teachers begged me to give them a passing grade. I protested for a minute or two with both of the teachers who asked me, but I caved in. After all, what do I care if a kid with a tough situation at home gets a 4 or a 5 in my class?

I could complain more about The Catalog. I could praise the American system, in which teachers provide progress reports to the school, students and parents every six weeks and don't need to detail every lesson that they teach and every grade they give. But what's the point? Instead, I can stay positive, because never again will I have to write another grade in those stupid blue books.