This is my formal petition to ban improper use of the word “midterm”.

A midterm exam, as the name implies, is supposed to take place in the middle of the term. A final exam, naturally, belongs at the end. Finals are predictable, scheduled by the university well in advance. I know exactly when to block out my calendar with “probably not sleeping this day” and prepare accordingly.

Today marks the 18th day of classes and only the eighth day of my Tuesday/Thursday course—seventh, if you subtract the obligatory first day of “Here is the syllabus and how to access Courseworks, even though most of you are juniors and should already know how to do this.”

Seven classes in, and I’m about to take my first “midterm.” The exam covers exactly two chapters of the textbook—one of which is just review. An exam worth 20% of the final grade is based on a single week’s worth of new material.

Last spring, I had a “midterm” scheduled for the very last week of class. Not quite a final, not quite a review, just an oddly placed exam covering everything from the semester—basically pregaming my brain for finals season.

And then there are classes with three midterms. Three. Each one insists on being the “middle,” while stretching the concept of “middle” so far it starts to snap. By the time you hit the third midterm, the course is nearly over, the actual midpoint is a distant memory, and the word (and world) itself feels meaningless.

Professors argue that multiple midterms reduce stress by spreading out the weight. In theory, sure. In practice, it feels like living in a constant state of exam prep, sprinting from one checkpoint to the next with no real finish line until finals swoop in to claim whatever scraps of energy and dignity remain. Weeks upon weeks are spent in Butler, staying so late that the cleaning staff begins sweeping around your pile of Joe’s coffee cups—gentle proof that you have been there too long.

At this point, “midterm” isn’t about timing at all. It’s about ritual. It’s the academic checkpoint that reminds you no matter how faithfully you’ve done the readings, participated in class, or cried over problem sets, your understanding will ultimately be measured by a 75-minute test in a crowded lecture hall—probably at a left-handed desk, because you were only five minutes early.

So yes, I’ll take the “midterm” tomorrow. I’ll memorize the formulas, review all 500 slides, dig through my brain for that one point the professor swore we didn’t actually need to know, and hope the practice problems are a faithful predictor of the real thing. But the bigger question remains: if everything is a midterm, when do we ever actually get to the middle?

Image via Bwog Archives