Rambling about Tricherie

I am once again in the Throes of a Cold, this time with a sore throat throughout Sunday, then intermittent loss of voice on Monday and Tuesday. And my legs are weakish when I go to the bookshop and my head feels disproportionately hot. Yesterday, however, I discovered a miracle cure when I decided to roll around in the chair in the bookshop's office. Whether it is the cooling effect of the wind compounded with the cardiovascular perks of the exertion of pushing one's self around with the feet, or the release of endorphins, or a more complex explanation, it made me feel much better. But I also gargled a little chlorhexamed this morning.

When I came in this morning Mama summarized a TV discussion about our defence minister Guttenberg's (whom I somewhat dislike and therefore pronounce in English so that the name has "gut" at the beginning) plagiarism in university. I haven't read the details, but I have never really bought into the virulent denunciations of plagiarism. It's a ratty thing to do in itself, but I think it's more sad than depraved, because it means that one doesn't have the same pride in one's work and hasn't benefited by the same process of clarifying one's thought and preparations; so in the end it carries with it a hollow benefit. Besides not all essays and theses are written with love for the field, or written on a topic which is genuinely interesting and useful, so morally and spiritually I find them a hollow exercise at the outset. In this particular case one might guess that the denunciating party doth protest too much; certainly I think that neglecting a German citizen in Guantánamo or accidentally dropping a bomb on hundreds of civilians is more shameful.

The closest I came to plagiarism was probably during a group project for English 120(?) when we had to write an annotated bibliography for a poem by John Donne. It was the day of the Bush/Kerry elections when I had to finish it. In between hectically refreshing the election map at nytimes.com I tried to read the books, summarize them in three to fivish sentences, and gauge their usefulness given the subject as we were supposed to. But eventually my mind was overstuffed and I had to go to sleep; so with one of the books I just checked the index to see if the poem is mentioned, summarized the table of contents and propped it at the head of my bed and was trying to read it anyway when I went to sleep for two or three hours. It was quite clear that Kerry had lost by then and after that it was one of the worst days of my life. When the bibliographies were handed back a couple of weeks later the professor or teaching assistant or both first of all made a speech about plagiarism to the class, and I think I felt rather guilty. Then there was a little note on my bibliography in which the TA explained that she had checked the annotated books because the phrasing of my annotations sometimes seemed unlikely, and that I had squeaked by but should be more careful.

There were three cheating incidents in school: when I was in Grade 1 or 2 we had "minute drills," where we each received a piece of paper with math questions on it and we were supposed to solve them as many of them as possible within a minute or two. I disliked the pressure and was afraid of disgracing myself, so I surreptitiously answered a handful of questions beforehand. After a couple of times doing this I realized that it was unnecessary and stopped. And honestly I didn't feel that bad about it, firstly because I was good at math, secondly because I wasn't trying to do better than the others, and thirdly because I wasn't caught.

In Grade 9(?) we watched a film in Social Studies and were asked to answer a worksheet or write something about it. I thought then as now that watching films is really no substitute for substantive learning material, and besides it wasn't a big deal; so I didn't put up much resistance when a clique of classmates sitting around me asked to copy what I'd written. Somewhat to my surprise we were asked to hand our work in. I'd forgotten about it completely, when a couple of weeks or months later the student teacher asked us to step outside the door one by one and inquired whether we had copied things off of each other — said that, in fact, it was evident that this had happened — and asked me specifically whether I'd been put under pressure. I tried to remember but couldn't, and I detest tattle-tales, so I honestly said that I wasn't put under pressure and didn't remember. What did irk me was that I then received a 0 for the assignment. Later someone intermittently tried to copy off of me during the Spanish final exam, but as I said to her it was unlikely that I'd gotten everything right, besides which it would have been difficult for her to see what I'd written because she was across the aisle and my writing is tiny and somewhat indecipherable. I did find that rather obnoxious but maybe she needed the boost to her self-confidence as much as I had in Grade 2, and she was very good at spoken Spanish.

Lastly, and very ignominiously, I went to a provincial-level geography quiz during Grade 8, because I had misunderstood the teacher during the school-level finals and forewent answering a question which I should have answered and would have gotten wrong. I realized that I had misunderstood him when he prompted me to answer the next question. For the rest of the day I was in agonies of conscience, but was far too ashamed to tell the teacher and forfeit, which would now seem the sensible alternative. The third-place winner seemed cleverer than I was; in terms of the score I think I would have had one point less than him. Anyway, for these and many other reasons I am glad to be out of an academic environment.

It must be admitted, though, that this kind of competitiveness and artificial frames which almost coerce one into cheating are present outside of school — the job search, for instance, or work contracts, or writing competitions, and many other things. Competition is fun enough if one can win it fair and square, but otherwise it seems degrading.

What I like about not working is not that it's easier, which it isn't even after I was inoculated against serious depression two years ago, but that it gives me freedom. The material freedom of earning an income might be equivalent, but it likely does not encourage one to think and act independently, nor to strengthen and expand one's inner life. But since I have had that, I think it is worthwhile now not only to gather experiences and earn an income but also to profit by the raised threshold of physical and therefore mental activity. The work at the bookshop is quite invigorating that way already.