When 5th Grade Math Doesn’t Hold
By Stuart Grauer

My friend Ray recently retired after more than forty years at the General Atomics nuclear fusion facility in Sorrento Valley. Before he left for good, he invited a couple friends inside for a deep, behind-the-scenes meander all through the place where he did his life’s work.

It was astonishing. Cavernous machines. Precision everywhere. Equations made tangible in steel, magnets, and vacuum chambers. This was not theory—it was math and engineering holding the future together by fractions of a millimeter.

But what stayed with me wasn’t the science. It was Ray’s unease.

He admitted quietly, almost apologetically, that he was anxious about retiring. Not because he lacked interests beyond work, and not because he couldn’t imagine life outside the lab. He was anxious because he wasn’t sure the next generation had the mathematical and engineering foundations required to carry this work forward.

“These systems don’t forgive gaps,” he said, “You can’t fake your way through them, and you have to invent and construct a lot of them,” as we wove through the workshop at the back of the facility.

Ray wasn’t lamenting work ethic. He wasn’t making a generational swipe. He was talking about skills—foundational math and literacy skills that once were assumed, but now feel increasingly uneven.

Post-pandemic, the University of California system made permanent its decision to stop using the SAT or ACT in admissions. UC is now fully test-blind; scores are not considered, even if students submit them. So how do they verify skill levels? Nobody knows.

That policy shift was driven by equity concerns, and those concerns are real. The SAT and ACT became over-relied upon, used with far too much confidence and far too little discretion. A single Saturday morning came to stand in for a decade of a student’s life. Access to preparation, coaching, family income, and test familiarity distorted the signal.

But here’s a harder truth: we didn’t just recalibrate how we used those measures. We threw the baby out with the bathwater. We threw out any reasonable measurement.

Math and literacy are not optional capacities. They are not school fundamental purposes, but neither are they cultural niceties. They are the languages through which complex systems, science, engineering, and medicine actually function. There is no workaround for not being able to reason quantitatively or read closely when the stakes are real, even if AI can do it for you if you have a Wi-Fi signal.

And there’s no reason not to know how our kids are doing in those areas.

Recently, UC San Diego stunned us by disclosing that roughly one in eight incoming students placed into remedial math—some below middle-school level—despite having passed high-school math courses and earned solid GPAs. Faculty were surprised. Students were stunned. The system seemed caught off guard.

How ethical is it to admit engineering students with 5th grade math skills into a UC?

This is not an argument for returning to blunt instruments or resurrecting test-score worship. It is an argument for intellectual honesty. Standardized tests failed us not because measurement itself is unjust, but because we relied on those tools improperly. We mistook a couple of test scores for destiny and for whole-school purposes. We overvalued them and overgeneralized their meaning. Then, when the misuse became obvious, we abandoned the measurements altogether.

The better path was always the harder one: using multiple, valid measures, each held lightly, none holding absolute power. SAT/ACT weren’t bad tests, they were good tests we used poorly, injudiciously. We never needed to abandon the SAT or ACT—we needed to balance them better.

Academic readiness should include clear evidence of math and literacy competence. At the same time, it should be complemented (never replaced) by reliable and valid indicators of character: perseverance, curiosity, discipline, ethical reasoning, collaboration, and resilience. These qualities matter enormously in science, leadership, and life, and we can simply choose to measure them along with math and literacy scores. Ray would be the first to tell you that fusion work demands all of them.

Small schools understand this instinctively. When you know students well, you don’t confuse confidence or basic intelligence with competence. You don’t confuse test scores with character. You look for patterns of effort over time. You see how students respond when the work gets hard. You notice whether they persist, whether they revise, whether they ask better questions. And you measure that along with the math scores.

Equity and great learning are not served by lowering the clarity of expectations. They are served by expanding the truth of the whole picture.

Nuclear fusion is some people’s reasonable hope for the future of energy. Ray walked away from a machine that may one day change the world—possibly even pull our climate out of chaos. He didn’t walk away easily. He left wondering whether we are being as careful with human preparation as we are with nuclear precision.

That question still drones on.  It deserves more than silence or single-number answers.

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