Plagiarism Denials and Disclaimers: Dumb and Dumberer

When last we talked about the increasing instances of plagiarism, I promised more lessons learned from experiences with the practice. It is important to remember this particular example comes from a high school student who was still developing his writing skills, his self-confidence and his personal moral code. Given his age at the time, his situation, and his handling of the situation, it is easy to forgive him the error of his ways.

Adults, however, particularly thought leaders and politicians, must be held to a higher standard than adolescents, especially when these "pillars of society" exhibit such devious, dishonest, and dim-witted actions as public plagiarism and undeniable denial.

They would be far better off following the example of Dave. (I've changed his name.)

Dave was a likable freshman. Great smile. Engaging. Energetic. 

Also overwhelmed by high school life, as well as his changing body and emotions. 

Academic life plagued Dave. He tried to pay attention during class and to understand. Somehow, however, the point of the lessons always eluded him. Not that he wanted them to. Unfortunately, they skated around his cranium once or twice and then slid out whatever orifice was handy before he could catch them.

And Dave was not alone in his English classroom. Therefore, when the subject turned to Romeo and Juliet, there were certain to be problems. To Dave and his friends' credit, conflicts were few. 

Reluctantly, though respectfully, they muddled through the problematic Shakespearean language, the coma-inducing audio recordings, and the trauma of seeing Olivia Hussy and Leonardo DiCaprio play the main roles. 

Nobody rebelled. 

Nobody vandalized the books. 

Nobody died.

Then we got to the required department-wide paper.

To be honest, as well-intentioned as our instructions were, they set up problems from the beginning. Just what the students were to do was unclear even to us teachers. The assignment was purposely ambiguous to allow the writer to say whatever they wanted in response to the play. Exactly what they were to say was unimportant because the overall purpose was to teach process, organization, and citation.

Some students, however, don't handle freedom well. Doing their own thing is frightening since many are unaware they even have a thing to do.

That sounds dirty. Sorry. Try this:

Few of them know they have any personal abilities.

Yeah. That's it.

With that fear in mind—well, that and the fact that I really liked the Smartboard—I decided to guide the class through the writing process via examples displayed from my computer.

Fancy graphics. Animations. Self-deprecating humor. They all worked. For awhile. 

I had them through the initial steps—brainstorming, thesis composition,  and organization. Even Dave came up with viable ideas.

Then came the rough draft.

With the need to actually commit thoughts to words came an epidemic of brain constipation.  Bodies squirmed. Breaths shortened. Noses twitched. Something had to be done.

Since mental Ex-Lax had yet to be invented and would be surely banned from public school use, I asked if a Smartboard example might help them get started. The class assured me it would. 

Not thinking that such dedicated students could possibly be trying to get out of a day's work on their project, I got up early the next morning and threw together a 5-paragraph  piece of garbage that was purposely bad. At least that's what I told myself and the students.

The point, I told them, was to simply get words on paper and fix it all later. The rough draft is by nature bad.

"You mean it's okay to suck?" asked an impudent blonde-haired girl with a big mouth barely-opened in order to hide her braces.

"At this point, yes. Just write what you think.  You can fix it later."

That was enough for most people. They were off and writing.

Dave was not most people. He still had trouble transferring whatever was in his brain to the keyboard. What came out was a conglomeration of unrelated nouns, verbs, and adjectives interspersed with commas, semi-colons, periods, and self-invented marks that resembled a pimple on the beak of a penguin. 

But through pursed lips and gritted teeth, clumsy thumbs and an overused delete button, he finished his rough draft. "That's good," I thought.

Then came revision. The class loved tearing apart my rough draft. "I was right, Mr. F. That really sucks," Blondie laughed.  Together, the class and I shredded my early-morning musings while laughing and exchanging good-hearted barbs.

"Thanks," I said after we finished. "Now let's fix it." So we did. The longer we worked together, the less garbage-y my pile of garbage became.

Lights flashed on the faces across the room. As a clean, expressive final draft emerged, one could see ideas bubbling within every student in the room.

Every student except Dave. He could have as easily been solving the meaning of life as revising his paper.

"You okay, Dave?" I asked after class.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I was just thinkin'."

"Do you need some help?"

"Oh, no. I got this. I'm fine."

"You sure you can finish this over the weekend and turn it in Monday?"

"Yep. Yep. I'll be done."

And he was. 

When the final bell rang Monday morning, there was Dave's freshly-printed final paper, his massacred rough draft, his "kinda" outline, thesis ideas, brainstorming lists ... everything I required him to submit.

When I started correcting his project, there was one minor problem. His final paper and his rough draft bore little resemblance to each other. In addition, the final seemed  more than a little familiar.

There was a reason for that. Even though the heading bore his name, IT WAS MY PAPER! The one I had displayed on the Smarboard. The one we had revised as a class.

Dave had faithfully applied the class's revisions , retyped them and submitted the paper as his own.

After a few exasperated moments fuming about this betrayal of my trust, mentally composing a nasty letter to his parents, and contemplating chewing his arm off, I took a walk up and down the stairs to clear my mind. 

I sat down, looked at the paper again and remembered the Dave I knew. A moment of clarity struck me.

I knew why Dave had plagiarized. He had no idea what he wanted to say. The time constraints had overwhelmed him. He needed assistance and was too embarrassed to ask. When I talked to him the next day, I realized that given his difficulties, his confession, and his desire to correct the situation, anger was not the correct response. 

Instead of me ranting at him and making  his life more of hell, we talked. Rather than punishment, we worked together to produce an original paper, one that he could be proud of, one that was his. We learned a lot about and from each other from that incident.

Dave's example teaches all of us three important lessons. First, when help is available, take it. Second, true confession is always preferable to false denial. Third, and most importantly, when you screw up, FIX IT! People will still like you. What's more, they will respect you. More than they will if you hide behind dippy disclaimers.

Thought leaders and politicians, learn from Dave. I did.