Passing the problem

By Herman M. Lagon

School gates are suddenly alive again. The first days of school are filled with small moments that matter. Parents take photos beside freshly ironed uniforms. A student gathers the courage to speak. A teacher memorizes unfamiliar names. And somewhere between those moments, another year of learning begins. Hope arrives every June dressed in school uniforms.

This year, however, the conversations are different. Alongside discussions about the new three-term calendar, ARAL interventions, and literacy recovery programs is another headline-grabbing reform: DepEd’s decision to raise the raw score required to obtain a passing grade of 75. Beginning School Year 2026–2027, a learner will generally need a raw score of around 70 to 72.99 to reach the passing mark of 75, replacing the old transmutation system where raw scores as low as 60 could still become 75 after conversion. The reform follows findings from EDCOM 2, which argued that the old system often masked serious learning deficiencies and contributed to what it described as a nationwide proficiency crisis. The commission’s January 2026 report revealed that as many as 88% of learners were not grade-level ready in literacy and numeracy at the beginning of the school year, a figure difficult to ignore even for the most optimistic policymaker (EDCOM 2, 2026).

The reform deserves credit. A more honest grading system is welcome. But if the conversation stops there, we may end up fixing the thermometer while the fever continues. The transmutation table was never the entire problem. It was merely one of its most visible symptoms. The deeper issue is cultural, institutional, and painfully familiar to many teachers. For years, educators have worked inside a system where recording failure often creates more complications than recording success. A class with many failing students triggers questions, explanations, interventions, reports, meetings, home visits, and sometimes conflict. A class where everybody passes looks cleaner. The numbers behave. The reports look good. The pressure quietly teaches everyone what outcomes are preferred, even when nobody says so directly.

Education Secretary Sonny Angara himself acknowledged something close to this reality when he observed that although there was never an official mass-promotion policy, the way incentives operated often produced similar outcomes. That distinction matters. Policies do not always need to be written to be felt. Anyone who has spent enough time in schools understands how culture can become more powerful than memoranda. A teacher learns quickly which decisions generate paperwork and which decisions generate praise. Eventually, systems produce predictable behaviors. Changing the transmutation table may alter the mathematics. It does not automatically alter the incentives.

I saw this firsthand during my years in a school that used a grading philosophy many outsiders found shocking. In all subjects, the passing mark was effectively 50% plus one. On paper, that sounds dangerously lenient. Critics would probably faint upon hearing it. Yet the reality was exactly the opposite. The summative assessments were demanding, but formative assessments are equally endemic. Performance tasks required authentic thinking. Projects were rigorously scrutinized, yet they remained integrative, reflective, socially responsive, and rooted in creative thinking. Writing had to demonstrate understanding. Students were expected to defend ideas, solve problems, and meet clearly defined outcomes. The standard was never compromised. If interventions failed despite the combined efforts of teachers, counselors, parents, administrators, and the learner himself, consequences followed. Retention was possible. Transfer was possible. Expulsion happens, if needed. The message was simple: support would be abundant, but standards would remain standards.

Ironically, graduates from that environment sometimes appeared less impressive on paper than peers from schools where honors seemed to multiply every year. Their averages were often lower. Their report cards looked less glamorous. Yet when college entrance examinations, scholarship screenings, interviews, debates, laboratory work, leadership demands, and independent research arrived, many of them flourished. Admissions officers occasionally noticed the pattern. The grades looked ordinary. The skills were not. The difference was that their marks reflected actual mastery rather than carefully managed appearances. Learning outcomes drove grading, not the other way around.

That distinction matters more today because inflated grades can survive even without transmutation. Removing one mechanism does not eliminate the pressures that created it. A teacher who feels compelled to avoid failures can simply find alternative pathways. Quizzes become easier. Performance tasks become overly generous. Participation points multiply. Remedial activities become grade-recovery exercises rather than genuine interventions. Doctored grades happen. The numbers change. The behavior remains. A learner who once benefited from grade transmutation may now benefit from grade inflation. The matrix changes. The culture stays intact. That possibility deserves serious attention because educational systems are remarkably skilled at adapting to new rules without changing old habits.

Meanwhile, many teachers continue carrying burdens that have little to do with teaching. Reports, documentation, monitoring forms, compliance requirements, inventories, validation activities, narrative reports, and administrative tasks consume hours that might otherwise be spent working directly with struggling learners. Several reactions to the grading reform captured this frustration perfectly. Retired educators pointed out that improving teacher-student engagement would probably accomplish more than adjusting grading formulas. They are probably right. Changing the passing score is easy. Giving teachers the time and space to help struggling learners is harder—and far more important.

That is because the crisis goes beyond grading. EDCOM 2 and other research point to deeper realities—poverty, undernutrition, crowded classrooms, and inadequate support systems. A child struggling with hunger will not learn better simply because the grading scale became stricter. A learner reading three grade levels behind will still struggle. A classroom designed for 35 students but holding 60 will still struggle. Raising the passing raw score may improve measurement. It does not automatically improve learning. The danger lies in confusing diagnosis with cure.

The rise of AI further complicates the conversation. Projects and presentations remain useful, but they now come with a question teachers increasingly ask: Was this the student’s work, or the algorithm’s? A learner may submit an impressive project while struggling to explain its contents. This is why assessment quality matters more than ever. The real question is not whether a student completed a task. It is whether the student can independently demonstrate understanding when the technology is no longer doing the thinking.

Perhaps that is why the most important question in education remains stubbornly simple. Not “Did the learner pass?” Not “How many honors did the school produce?” Not even “What was the average grade?” The question is: What can the learner actually do? Can the child read with understanding? Can the student solve unfamiliar problems? Can the graduate write clearly, think critically, communicate effectively, and learn independently? Can the learner also act ethically, discern wisely, and contribute responsibly to society? These are the outcomes that matter long after report cards are forgotten. Grades should reflect learning. Learning should never be adjusted merely to protect grades.

A stricter grading table means little if the old habits remain. If we still push students forward without them mastering essential skills, we are merely changing the packaging. The real test is whether we choose learning over optics. Otherwise, mass promotion may disappear from policy discussions while quietly remaining alive in practice—sitting in classrooms, collecting report cards, and advancing one grade level at a time.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.