(2008) Down Where My Love Lives (21 page)

Silence.

"What's your title?"

Deathly silence.

"Okay, you think, and I'll go on to Alan."

Alan was always early to class. Always did his homework. Never caused a problem. Asked some pretty good questions and never talked out of turn. Even raised his hand. He braided his hair into about ten braids and wanted to go to work with his brother when he got out of school. I liked him. He looked like he came up tough but also looked like he came up honest.

Alan's paper was the only one of the four that struck me as slightly different. There was no way he had written itthe language was too clean-but I did believe that he had typed it.

"Alan, tell me about your paper."

He launched into some of the specifics of his paper, relaying to me the highlights. Three minutes later, he finished speaking and rested his hands on the tabletop. His eyes told me he wasn't guilty, but they didn't necessarily say he was innocent either.

"Okay, what does this word mean?" It was a scientific term, and I can't begin to remember how to spell it. I had no idea what it meant. Neither did he.

"Okay, how did you organize your ideas?"

Silence.

"Okay, where did you get this information?"

"In a book."

"Well, you don't cite it, so how am I to know where it comes from? It's obvious that you've done some good research here. Your language is clean, but I just don't know where you got your ideas."

Alan must have had a poor grammar-school experience, because his written use of the English language was horrendous. Judging by his prior two essays, I know there was no way on God's green earth that he had written a single word of this, other than his name.

When I first read his paper, I saw quickly that he had given me what he thought I wanted. What he didn't realize, what none of them realized, was that I would work with each person from his starting point, not mine. They didn't know that. And they sure didn't want to believe it. Maybe that was my fault. Maybe that was the reason the five of us weren't down in the department chair's office right then.

"Okay, what does this sentence mean?" I read the sentence and then looked at him.

"Well, it mean dat de thing dey talkie' 'bout der is only foun' in space, and when it mix wit d'other elemen's, then it have dis effect." Alan was no dummy. He had a good head on his shoulders, and he knew his topic. He understood what was said; he just could never say it the way it was written.

"Then why not tell me like that rather than the way it is written here?"

Alan's eyes got real big, and he pointed at the paper. "Dat sours bettuh. And you'da graded me lowuh lik' you dun on de utter papuhs."

"Well, if that's the case, then who said it? I don't know, because you don't give anyone credit for saying it."

"I say it."

"Well, the way you just explained it and the way you wrote it here are two very different things."

Alan was quiet, and his forehead wrinkled.

"Okay, you hold on to that, and I'll go on to Russell."

At this point in the year, Russell had become my favorite. I know I'm not supposed to have favorites, or at least I shouldn't admit it. But Russell was a leader. Had it written all over his body. He was soft-spoken, kind, funny, curious, he cared about my class, and until now, I think he liked me.

"Russell, tell me about your essay." By this time, Russell knew the drill.

"Well, it's 'bout television and its impac' on kids."

"Great, tell me more."

Russell thought, and then he said, "Well, my sistuh helped me do som' research."

"That's fine. I told you to get help if you needed it. Now tell me more about your paper."

Silence. Eugene and Marvin had had just about enough of this, and their attitudes were feeding off each other. Eugene piped in, "I wrote my paper a long time ago, but I wrote it."

"Okay, while Russell is thinking, we'll start over. Eugene, tell me about your paper." I went through the whole thing again. And yes, I was more worried and more scared. I was losing, or at least getting nowhere, which was losing. I was also getting somewhat mad.

Finally I put the papers down. "Guys, does anyone in this room have anything he wants to tell me? Anything at all?"

The silence was thick. I started over.

"Eugene. Tell me about these two poems. What kind of analysis do you perform?"

Silence. But their nonverbal communication spoke volumes, and a consensus was beginning to develop. I could tell they had realized that if they all ganged up on me, they'd have a better chance of getting out of this than if they just covered themselves.

Eugene sneered at me. "Professuh Styles, it's been a while, so I can't remember it right now, but I wrote my paper." He pointed his finger in my face. "I wrote my paper." He laughed uncomfortably, sat back, and slouched as if he had had the last word.

I turned again to Marvin. "Marvin, let's talk about your paper. Where'd you get your ideas?"

Marvin slumped, threw his head in a show of disgust, grunted again, and looked out the window.

"Alan, can you give me a good reason why the language and organization in this paper are so different from your first two papers?"

Silence.

"Russell?"

I put the papers down on my desk, and their eyes followed. I looked out the window, then at them, and I asked one more time, "Does anyone in this room have anything at all he wants to tell me?"

They knew. I knew that they knew. And they knew that I knew that they knew.

Stalemate.

I looked at each one, not knowing what to say. Finally I picked up the papers and said, "Guys, you know what I call this." No one allowed his eyes to meet mine.

"You know what the university calls this."

Still quiet.

"Eugene, what do you call this?"

Eugene sat up. "Professuh Styles, I don't know, but I wro' my paper. I need this class to graduate. And I know I wro' my paper." Eugene was reaching. He wanted to deal.

I looked at Marvin. "Marvin, what do you call this?"

"I wro' my papuh."

"Alan, how about you?"

"I ... I typed my paper."

Then I turned to Russell. "Russell, what do you call this?"

No movement. No talking. No breathing. They had consensus, and I had nothing. They could win, and they knew it or at least thought it possible. If everyone kept quiet, they had me.

I put the papers back down on my desk, looked back at Russell, wondered if I should play the only card I had. Very quietly I said, "Russell ... what would your dad call this?"

Russell shook his head, closed his eyes, and said, "Aw, man, why'd you have to go there?" He wiped his big hand over his face, closed his eyes again, and looked down in his lap. His massive shoulders slumped, he took a deep breath, his chest expanded and contracted, and he looked me straight in the eye. "He'd call it cheating."

Checkmate.

Marvin and Eugene deflated like balloons. Alan sat quietly.

I nodded. "Thank you. That's what I call it too."

I sat on my desk, my legs dangling off, and they sat slumped in their chairs, looking at me. Long seconds ticked slowly by.

I turned back to Russell. "You need to know before I go any farther that you just showed more honesty and more integrity than I've seen in a long time. I have no respect for what you gave me, but for what you just said, well . . . I thank you."

I slowly turned to Alan. "Alan, what do you call this?"

He sighed, raised his eyebrows, and said in a meek, honest, willing voice, "Cheating."

I turned to Marvin, who had slumped farther in his chair. He could not believe that Russell had just given in. "Marvin?"

"Cheating." His eyes never touched mine.

"Eugene," I said as I turned.

"Cheating." Eugene tossed his head in disbelief. But behind that, his eyes showed relief. He was ready to pay the piper, but I knew he'd still accept a deal.

Going into this, I knew that to have any recourse at all, I had to have a confession. Full and clear. The problem with the game I had just played was that I had no idea what to do with the pieces. School policy is immediate expulsion.

Immediate expulsion. I tossed the idea around in my head. It's not that I thought the policy wasn't fair or just, but it seemed complicated that an adjunct professor should have that much control over one person's future. On the other hand, the only reason I had such control is that the four of them had given it to me. If I did what I was supposed to do, Marvin and Russell would lose their athletic scholarships, Alan would never be the first in his family to get a college degree, and Eugene would always be one class away from graduating.

At that moment, part of me wished I had just given them grades and turned the things back. The other part of me believed that the best I could do for them was march them down to the chair's office. But if I just washed my hands of them, what did that further? Hate? Maybe.

So I turned to them and said, "I'm just curious. If you guys were me, what would you do?"

The deal maker spoke first, before anyone else screwed it up. "I'd just let us rewrite it. I mean, you know." Eugene raised his hands, palms up, and his eyes got real wide.

"Yeah," Marvin chimed in.

"I can do that." I nodded. "Sure. But that sort of washes over the real issue here, which is respect." I waved the papers in front of them. "What you guys gave me disrespected me. You thought you could slip it by me. You also thought you could be lazy and get away with doing nothing. That's dissin' me. And I'm not willing to wash over that. So you're not gonna just `rewrite it.-

Marvin, Marvin, seeing his chance, spoke up with his best display of attitude yet. "Well ... you always make us feel like we can't write for you. You make us feel like what we write ain't good 'nuff."

Before "huff" had rolled off his lips, I jerked my head at him and said, "Marvin, don't bring that victim-mentality stuff into my classroom. I've stayed after class, I've helped you rewrite essays, and I've come in here every day and taught you with respect. I'd be willing to stack my class up against any other class you've got. I treat you the way I'd want to be treated, and you know that. So I don't want to hear any lip about how I've made you feel like you can't write for me. You got lazy. That's all there is to it."

"Well, you made fun of me," Marvin said.

"Made fun of you? When?"

"The day I walked in wearing sweatpants, and you made fun of me."

"What'd I say?" I had no idea.

"I don't know. You said that I looked like I just got out of bed or something."

Then I remembered. He was right. I had said it. Although he had looked like he had just gotten out of bed.

I thought for a second. "Marvin, you're right. I did say it, and if it hurt your feelings, I'm sorry, but my insensitivity does not justify this." I held up his paper. "Marvin, I've seen you play football. You take your licks and walk like a man on that field. So start walking like a man in my classroom."

I turned back to Eugene. "I can't just `let you rewrite it."'

Eugene knew I was right. He had a good sense of right and wrong. All of them did.

Marvin found his attitude again. "Then you already made up yo' min', haven't ya?"

"No, I haven't. I have no idea what I intend to do."

"You aw'ready decided."

I'm no Freud, but clearly Marvin needed someone to believe in him, and he was testing me.

"Guys, before I go any further, you all need to know what I think about you. Win, lose, or draw, you need to know what I think."

I looked at Eugene. "Eugene, you're smart, people look up to you, they listen to you, and they respect what you have to say. I like having you in my class. You ask good questions."

I turned to Marvin. "Marvin, you've got a great sense of humor. You make me laugh, you're easy to be around, and I enjoy listening to you. I also enjoy watching you play football. You've got real God-given talent. You might even have what it takes. "

"Alan, you're always on time, you ask good questions, and you contribute to my class as much as anyone. That's worth a lot. On top of that, folks around here say you can build or fix pretty much anything, and you've already built four cars from the ground up. That's a gift too."

Then I turned to Russell. "Russell, people like you, they look up to you, they listen to you, and they will follow you because you're a born leader. I have a lot of respect for you, not for what you gave me, but what you told me. And you don't need me to tell you this, but any idiot can see that if you stay healthy, your football career will continue long after college."

I waved my hand across all of them. "You guys need to know this. It makes me sick that you'd hand me these papers, expect to slip one past me, and then still expect me to treat you with respect." I got quiet.

After a long moment of silence, I said, "Here's the deal. I really don't know what I'm going to do at this point, but you've got a choice. You can walk down the hall, tell my boss, Mr. Winter, that your professor has wrongly accused you of plagiarism, and bring him to class on Thursday. Or you can write an apology stating that you plagiarized, cheated, and disrespected me and that you're sorry. You've got two ways to get back into my class: bring Mr. Winter or bring a written apology. That's all."

I got up off the desk, turned my back, and put my things together. They slithered off their seats and tiptoed out, never saying a word.

I drove home, my head pounding, wondering what I could have done differently. Was I too easy on them? Too tough? What will they remember from today?

At nine-thirty the phone rang. To be honest, I was expecting that. I also needed it. "Hello?"

"Yeah ... uh ... Professuh Styles, this is Russell."

"Hello, Russell."

"Uh ... Professuh ... I just wanted to call an' tell you that I'm sorry for what I did. I disrespected you, and I'm real sorry." He took a deep breath. "I just wanted to tell you that. "

I don't know why, but at that moment I thought of Charlie Bucket returning the Everlasting Gobstopper that he stole from Willy Wonka. As he laid it on the desk, Wonka's hand slipped up, covered it, and he said, "So shines a good deed in a weary world." I've always liked that.