I’m reading a book right now that’s titled, ‘Tis. It’s written by an Irish author named Frank McCourt. I’m not sure why I’m finding myself reading so many books authored by the Irish as of late, but interestingly, I am. First it was Maeve Binchy’s Quentins and then it was Sharon Owens’ The Tavern on Maple Street and now it’s ‘Tis. Funny how that happens. I think it’s because I’ve been visiting the free book giveaway in Farmington at the end of each month. A non-profit in town offers hundreds of books at no cost to the public and I end up taking a few home each time. Books with interesting titles that just happen to be of the Irish persuasion, not that the Irish need to be persuaded one way or the other.
‘Tis is an autobiography of Frank McCourt’s life. It’s an entertaining read because the author has a very dry humor about himself. As a matter of fact, and as the impetus for this post, while I was reading a few evenings ago, I let out what can only be described as an audible chuckle. On page 156, Frank discusses part of his experience while attending NYU, or otherwise known as New York University in Manhattan.
“Everyone talks and no one listens and I can see why. I’d like to be an ordinary student talking and complaining but I wouldn’t be able to listen to people talking about something called the grade average. They talk about the average because that’s what gets you into good graduate schools and that’s what parents fret over.“
“When they’re not talking about their averages the students argue about the meaning of everything, life, the existence of God, the terrible state of the world, and you never know when someone is going to drop in the one word that gives everyone the deep serious look, existentialism. They might talk about how they want to be doctors and lawyers till one throws up his hands and declares everything is meaningless, that the only person in the world who makes any sense is Albert Camus who says your most important act every day is deciding not to commit suicide.”
Since I’ve never heard of Albert Camus, I looked him up. Apparently, he was…a journalist, editor and editorialist, playwright and director, novelist and author of short stories, political essayist and activist – and, although he more than once denied it, a philosopher…(he) was preoccupied with immediate and personal experience, and brooded over such questions as the meaning of life in the face of death. Although he forcefully separated himself from existentialism, Camus posed one of the twentieth century’s best-known existentialist questions.
I found the whole “college students discussing existentialism” thing funny because I actually had the very conversation myself. After I transferred to Binghamton University in 1996, I met a fella who invited me to his apartment. Upon drinking a few beers, we began the discussion of “what it all means.” At the time, I thought the fact that I was discussing something so revolutionary was altering me to the core (I was still very naïve). Today, I realize I was simply being transformed into a snot-nosed college kid. One who eventually ended up having a strong distain for the fella whose apartment I was in. We played tennis later on during our friendship and his mouth made me want to punch him in it. A story for another time. Let’s just say his commentary during our game was unwelcomed and let’s also just say that I beat him at tennis that day.
“Some of the students’ mothers are teachers and they don’t get paid shit, man, shit. You break your ass for a bunch of kids who don’t appreciate you and what do you get? Bubkes, that’s what you get.“
“I know from the way they say it that bubkes isn’t good and that’s another word I have to look up along with existentialism. It gives me a dark feeling, sitting there in the cafeteria listening to all of the bright talk around me knowing I’ll never catch up with the other students.”
Welcome to my life. I’ve had the same feeling, academically speaking, pretty much forever, no matter how much I read, write, or study.
I’m not sure why I recalled the following memory while reading page 156, but I did. Perhaps it was because the author was discussing his college experience and I reminisced on part of mine. Whatever the case, what came to mind was one of the darker scenarios I found myself part of and to this day, I have yet to determine who was to blame. I’ll tell you the story below and you can let me know who the bad-guy was.
The Paper – I Cheated (I Think)
During my final semester at Westchester Community College, I enrolled in an international business course. The course was a requirement for my associates degree in business administration. Overall, the course was a good one. One that I transferred to Binghamton University so I could more easily and quickly complete a bachelors degree in, again, business administration.
During the international business course at Westchester, I, as well as every other student, was asked to write a paper on a particular trade zone. It could be any zone I wished, as long as it wasn’t local. It had to be one that was used for global trade. After receiving the assignment, I mentioned it to my friend who had, the previous semester, taken the same exact course and who was charged with the same exact assignment. He said, “Hey man, I just wrote that paper. I used The Pacific Rim Region book by Charles Dangler. You want it?” I was shocked. What luck. I replied, “Of course I want it.” So he handed me the paper a few days later. He earned an A on it. After all, my friend was especially intelligent.
I had no intention of copying my friend’s paper exactly and in its entirety. After all, that would look suspicious to the professor and the last thing I wanted was to get caught cheating so close to graduation. What I had planned on doing was reading through my friend’s paper and rearranging a few words and paragraphs and basically rewriting it in my own unique language, which I began doing.
It wasn’t until the third paragraph and me comparing my friend’s paper with the book that I realized that my friend had simply taken, verbatim, each chapter’s first paragraph and copied it to his paper. So basically, the paper consisted of a collection of first paragraphs, and that’s it. Not one word was changed – it was straight from the book to the paper – and the paper received an A from the professor.
Upon this revelation, I told myself that if I simply did the same exact thing my friend did, I wouldn’t be cheating. Plagiarizing from the book, yes, but at least I wouldn’t be cheating off another student. I’d have recourse if questioned. No one would ever know my friend had given me his paper. So that’s what I did. I not only copied my friend’s paper, sort of, but I also copied the book. Word for word from both, sort of. And I received an A on the paper, which earned me an A in the class.
So I ask you. Who’s at fault? Me, for copying both my friend’s paper as well as the book? My friend, for giving me his paper to copy? Or the professor, who had obviously read neither paper?
