What Students Learn From Blue-Book Exams - The Atlantic

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Across the faded blue covers of the exam books in my attic, I can trace the arc of my academic career. I can still see the grades I received on tests in “The Meaning of Abstraction in Modern Art” (A) and in Neurobiology (B–). Just the sight of the booklets is enough for me to feel the pressure to perform, to sculpt the contents of a semester’s worth of knowledge into some fresh shape. But by the time I became a college professor myself, in 2013, the blue book had begun to disappear. Why struggle to discern student penmanship, or risk misplacing a final exam in the trunk of one’s Subaru (to cite a completely hypothetical example), when tests, like everything else, can be administered on a laptop?<br>Explore the September 2026 Issue<br>Check out more from this issue and find your next story to read.

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The coronavirus made every aspect of education virtual, but even after it abated, in-person final exams remained out of favor for many classes. Part of the reason was simply administrative—the challenge of finding faculty or graduate students to watch over the test-takers. But there was also a shift in how teachers appraised student learning. The blue book meant timed essays and handwritten work, modes of assessment that felt regressive, cruel. It recalled an age of higher education—punitive and bleak, the domain of Dickens’s stern Mr. Gradgrind—that the modern university was eager to outgrow. Not entirely, of course; some faculty still lugged boxes of blue books home in the snow and scribbled grades in red on the covers. But alternatives to the in-person exam proliferated: the capstone project, the take-home essay, the portfolio of selected work from the semester.<br>The blue book seemed destined to become a relic, as obsolete as cursive. But it had one virtue that hasn’t been easy to replicate: Cheating on a blue-book exam is difficult. When faculty moved away from in-person pen-and-paper exams, they assumed that cheating would be kept in check by honor codes, or by “locked” browsers, which would prevent students from accessing sites that would jog their memory or simply give them the answers. But these measures were never wholly effective. In a survey of undergraduates published in 2020, 62 percent admitted to cheating in some manner.<br>The advent of AI has only exacerbated the problem. In a matter of seconds, students can create an entire essay with the help of a chatbot. If they’re savvy, they can spend a bit more time to make it sound authentically human enough to evade detection by their professor. As my colleague Rose Horowitch has reported, such cheating has become so prevalent that Princeton recently gave up on its venerable honor code. For 133 years, students had signed a pledge not to cheat, and professors had trusted them to do the right thing. In May, in the face of rampant AI-enabled cheating, the university’s faculty voted to begin proctoring exams for the first time since the Gilded Age.<br>Rose Horowitch: How AI killed a 133-year-old Princeton tradition<br>Universities find themselves in a surprising position. The only reliable way to evaluate what students have learned may be to bring back pen and paper. Faculty are reverting to in-person, handwritten assignments and timed essays—anything that keeps assessments offline. The unlikely hero of the day is the blue book, sales of which are up by as much as 80 percent for some universities since 2023.<br>Yet the blue book is more than a last redoubt against cheating. Despite its antiquated appearance, the blue book encourages experimentation, even virtuosity. It deserves to live on not because of what it rejects but because of what it makes possible: thinking on the page, a hallmark of the humanities that is indispensable to their value—and essential to the kinds of human beings that a liberal-arts institution hopes to send out into the world.<br>The blue book hasn’t changed much for a hundred years or more, with its sky-blue tint and pale-red margin lines, its two neat staples and wide-open spacing, and its austere list of requirements on the cover (NAME, SUBJECT, CLASS, SECTION). The precise history of the blue book is lost to time. One origin story pinpoints its emergence in the 1920s at Butler University; the pamphlet is said to have borrowed its distinctive hue from the university’s colors. Harvard lore suggests that the blue book is older still: By one account, a classics instructor, Evangelinus Apostolides Sophocles, burned a stack of blue-book exams to protest the university’s move from oral to written examinations in 1857.<br>I realize that by advocating for the blue book in 2026, I might be engaging in the same opposition to progress as old Professor Sophocles. But to me, the blue book represents a timeless human activity—namely, trusting your mind to discover unknown capabilities.<br>Walt Hunter: Stop meeting students where they are<br>I think of my college-age self, looking...