Plagiarism and Punishment (or Lack Thereof)

From a lesson on Short Stories, Rhetorical Techniques, and the Personal Essay:

¢  The goal of the personal essay is to “[offer] personal experiences, not disciplinary expertise” (Good 5).

¢  The essayist has a conversation with their reader, or with his or her self.

¢  The essayist confronts and struggles with their thoughts.

(Works Cited: Good, Graham. “The essay as genre”. The Observing Self: Rediscovering the Essay. London: Routledge, 1988. 1-23.)

            The points above appear in a slide show that I prepared for my Grade 12 English class. After copying down this brief description of the personal essay, my students were given one to read called My Mother’s Blue Bowl, by Alice Walker. Walker’s essay was talks about her perception of her mother, and the blue bowl becomes a metaphor for a mother’s love and hard work. The students were asked to pick an item of some significance from their own life, and write a personal essay in a style similar to that of Walker’s essay. I was not sure what to expect from the students since they are so young (the oldest is 19), but I was hoping that they would have some interesting stories to tell. Overall, I was not disappointed. The response to the assignment was mostly positive, and in most of the essays that were handed in, the students shared some touching personal experiences.

            Nearly all of my students came to Canada on their own from China to complete high school here and hopefully get into a North American University. When I was not much older than them I moved away from home for university, but I was only five hours away and my best friend form high school was one of my roommates. My students have had a completely different set of life experiences, and this came across in their essays.

One student talked about her feelings of sadness and isolation because she had to live in a small flat with her father while her mother worked in a different city. She reflected on how the neighbourhood children used to tell her that she was abandoned because she was no good, but one day her mother surprised her with a visit, and the student’s hope was then restored when her mother gave her the equivalent of ten days worth of allowance money. The money had long since been spent, but the student wrote that she had never forgotten the sentiment.

Another student talked about how his mother always used to knit him a sweater for Chinese New Year with sleeves that were just a little bit long because he hated wearing mittens. As he grew older, the student wanted to wear brand-name clothing instead of the hand-knitted sweaters, and his mother stopped knitting for him until he was preparing to leave for Canada. He scoffed at her attempt to give him a sweater, but she put it in his suitcase anyway. After the student arrived in Canada, he was searching for something to keep him warm in the chilly Canadian autumn, and he found the sweater and tearfully thought of his mother.

Another student talked about a watch that was given to him by a childhood friend, and another talked about her relationship with her father. Although each essay contained some minor mechanical errors, I could tell that the students had taken the assignment seriously, and I wrote comments thanking each student for sharing their stories. I was elated that my students had worked so hard, and I was gushing on the phone to my best friend about how wonderful the work was. I shared some excerpts and summaries with her, and then I picked up an essay with absolutely no grammatical errors. Compared to the other pieces of writing that I had received from this same student, this assignment was outstanding – a little too outstanding. I told my friend that I had to let her go because something was up with this essay.

After a brief Google search, I discovered that the essay was copied verbatim from a website that was mostly in Mandarin, except for the essay. In the ten seconds that it took to find the essay I managed to work myself into a rage. I know that plagiarism happens, and although this was my first experience dealing with the problem as a teacher, it would certainly not be my last, but the essay didn’t even fulfill the requirements of the assignment! It was more of an article than a personal essay, and there was no use of metaphor, or any of the other rhetorical techniques that we had spent the past few classes covering. I was insulted and outraged. My other students had been wonderfully honest and their writing was genuinely moving, and then there was this student who not only copied someone else's work, but didn't even think to make sure that the copied work met the requirements of the assignment! I printed the website and stapled it to the essay, on which I had written a big 0 with my trusty red marking pen. I also scrawled PLAGIARISM IS NOT ACCEPTABLE in larger-than-necessary letters beside the gigantic zero. In my rage, I posted one of my most widely “liked” and commented-on Facebook statuses: Rebecca took 10 seconds to find the personal essay that my student plagiarized. Just because it is on a website that is not entirely in English doesn't mean that I will not find it. Zero for you, student. ZERO!

When I got to the school that evening I asked the principal and vice-principal about the school’s plagiarism policy and showed them the essay with the print-out of the website attached. The principal shook his head and commented on the student’s complete lack of effort. Then I was told that the student was “at [my] mercy”. This was a pivotal moment for me as a teacher. I could, as my Facebook status said, give the student a big fat zero, or I could show mercy. I was not used to being in such a position of power, and at once my mind was filled with clichés about the symbiosis of power and responsibility.

In teachers college, one of my courses focused on the concept of restorative justice. The idea of restorative justice is to look beyond an offending action and a pre-decided consequence, and to look at what happened, who was harmed, and how the situations and relationships can be repaired. Based on this concept, I decided to give the student a chance to explain his actions, and we could work together to decide what the consequences should be. I decided to apply some of principles associated with this technique.

I approached the student with the print-out of the website and asked if it looked familiar. He said that it did not and seemed confused as to why I would be showing him the document.

He asked, “Miss, what is this?”

“This,” I replied, “Is the website from which your entire personal essay was copied.”

The student looked panicked. His cheeks reddened and his eyes became teary. He explained that he had written an essay but gave it to his friend to read. The friend said that the student’s work was no good and offered to help. The student didn’t know that his friend copied the essay. I updated my Facebook status to include the student’s explanation. My friend Mr. R's comment summed it up the best: “So he let his friend "help" him by re-writing it for him, and then submitted it as his own work? Double plagiarism!”

I explained to the student that even if he gets a friend to help, the work that he hands in should still be his own. I explained the seriousness of the offense and what the consequences could be, seeing as the essay was a culminating task and the midterm grades would soon be submitted. The student apologized and said that he understood the seriousness of the situation. I asked him what he thought the consequences should be, and the conclusion was that he could have one week to work on a personal essay that fits the requirements of the assignment. The students are given not only a very specific explanation of the task they are to complete, but also a clear and detailed rubric outlining the expectations.

When the student submitted the essay one week later, it still did not meet all of the requirements outlined in the rubric, and was graded accordingly. The student expressed his disappointment and tried to argue with me, saying that his essay was a personal essay. He even used his class notes and a handout from the class to defend his point. I heard him out, but in the end it was explained repeatedly that his essay did not fit the description of the task, nor did it fulfill the requirements outlined on the rubric. He argued and complained to his friends to the point where I felt compelled to remind him that he was very lucky that he was even allowed to hand in anything, and he can either accept the mark that he earned, or he can take the original grade of zero. He chose to stick with the mark that he earned; I decided that there would no longer be any room for negotiation in cases such as his.

The next essay assignment that I handed out included clear instructions that all rough work is to be handed in and the following:

You make get a friend/tutor/someone to help you with the editing process, but MAKE SURE THAT THE WORK YOU HAND IN IS YOUR OWN. Any papers that are plagiarized, in full or in part, will receive a non-negotiable grade of ZERO, and no make-up assignment will be given.

The Readiness Is All

            Last summer one of my friends – one of my former high school teachers – started a franchise of a tutoring company. I was looking for education-related work experience. She signed me on, and by October when I knew I would be leaving my job at the daycare, I had my first client.

So far all of my clients have been grade twelve students. Each of them has had unique needs, and interestingly enough, all of the things that I learned in teachers college about different learning styles can be put into practice in a one-on-one situation. But finding out how a student learns is just the first step to helping them reach their academic goals. One thing that I have noticed is that many students need a little bit of help getting organized.

Although I would never do this in a formal academic piece of writing, here I am going to make a sweeping generalization: student success can be greatly improved for some students if they learn how to organize their lives. There is a reason why schools provide students with agendas, and that is because as life gets busier, they need to get organized. This is one of those “implicit curriculum” things that I learned about in teachers college.

Sometimes I feel like a hypocrite when I chastise my students for being disorganized or losing track of due dates. The only assignments I have ever handed in on time, I think, were my major research projects for my B.A and M.A, and everything in teachers college. It took me until my eighth year of university to get organized. I don’t want my students to finally get a handle on things when they are in their mid-twenties; it would be so much more beneficial for them to develop these skills now.

At the moment I am writing from my very own classroom, in which I teach Grade Twelve English. My students are writing a quiz on Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Some scholars argue that Hamlet’s problem was that he procrastinated and over-thought his actions. Granted, the consequences of Hamlet’s actions would have been far greater than losing 2% a day on a late assignment, but the fact that procrastination (coupled with a desire for revenge) was turned into a tragic flaw really says something. “The readiness is all”, says Hamlet in the final scene of the play. Again, I realize the gravity of Hamlet’s words within their own context, but there is a lesson to be extrapolated here.

Being organized, using an agenda/day-planner has proved invaluable in the past few months. Between volunteer work, tutoring sessions, and teaching a class, my agenda and my wall calendar are the best tools that I have. This is a concept that I am trying – relentlessly trying – to get my students to understand. That way I can avoid conversations like the one I had earlier today:

Student: "Miss do we have a quiz today?"
Me: "Yes."
Student: "But I didn't know!"
Me: "I reminded you last class, I wrote it on the board, and it has been posted on the website since just after March break."
Student: "Awww. Is it hard?"
Me: "If you didn't study or do your homework, yes. Yes it is."

Life is a lot harder if you’re unprepared. Just ask Hamlet.

My Education in Early Childhood Education

          When I first moved home after teachers college my first concern was finding a job. It didn’t even have to be a teaching job, just something that would allow me to make the payments on my close-to-the-limit credit cards and my cell phone bill. Prospects for a part-time job were looking even worse than those for school board employment. In theory, work experience and education are supposed to be assets when applying for a job. In reality, it seems that retail jobs go to the candidate with the lowest expectations for pay, rather than those with experience. If you’re minimally proficient in English, and willing to work for minimum wage you’re more likely to get a job than someone who has more than a decade of part-time retail experience and small collection of post-secondary degrees.

            My savings were dwindling and it was getting perilously close to my payment due dates. That was when a got a message from a long-time friend saying that the daycare at which she worked needed someone to help a few days a week. I thought that it might be fun, so I said I would come in. The summer went pretty well, and it was fun working with three friends that I have known for years. By September I was offered a full-time position at the daycare, which I accepted, but by the end of September I wanted out. It was nice getting a steady paycheck, but I knew that I’m not cut out to work with little children. By November, I had resigned.

I have a deep admiration for Early Childhood Educators. They have a genuine love for each child that they work with, and ECEs play such an important role in the lives of the children they teach and care for. Every activity is an opportunity for discovery, and every day presents a unique set of challenges. Daycares are dynamic environments with children at different stages of development. Some of them are just learning to talk, while others are developing complex social relationships. They are constantly learning what they can do, what they should do, and how to relate to the world around them. The children learn so much and change so quickly, and ECEs are there every step of the way, providing loving guidance, wisdom, and discipline. It was a privilege to work with some amazing women, and with some truly amazing children.

Career Versus Vocation

Religion Class, High School. Brampton, Ontario. c 1999.

            “The difference,” said my teacher, “is that a career is just a job. Yes, there are opportunities for advancement, and yes, you do make money, but when we say ‘career’, that implies that it is not a calling.”

            She glanced around the classroom in that way that teachers do, checking for snoozing students or notes being passed. Then she continued, “A vocation, however, well, that’s a calling. A calling. Do you know what I mean when I say that?”

            A hand went up and the teacher gave an encouraging nod. One of my peers related it back to the lesson about prophets and how they are bestowed with a divine mission and the teacher’s eyes lit up enthusiastically. It was the Yes! You get it! moment that teachers have when the concepts are understood and the students demonstrate their understanding of the concept. She continued with the lesson.

            Career versus vocation… divine mission… calling…. I contemplated the terms, wondering when this divine mission is bestowed upon regular individuals. From my seat in that grade ten classroom, the eventuality of someday having a career – never mind a calling – seemed so far away. I thought that I wanted to go into medicine, and was quite interested in forensics, but there was still so much to learn, to see, and to do before then.

Teachers College, University of Ottawa. Ottawa, Ontario. 2010.

            Teachers college is rather tedious. There is a distinct gap between theory and practice that, when discussed within the confines of a faculty of education, is referred to as “the challenge of the practice”. Even more frustrating than that is the process of reflection. It’s as if the faculties sit around brainstorming how many different ways they can ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up? Why?”     
            It came as no surprise when at the beginning of a course, I was asked (yet again) to compose a short narrative explain how I got to this point in my life.

            The professor explained, “I would like you to tell me your life story in about two or three pages. Talk about your experiences with education and what has led you to want to become a teacher.”

My colleagues and I exchanged exasperated glances. Another reflection. As I sat down to write the story of my life thus far, I began to think about what I learned in grade ten Religion Class. Career versus vocation… divine mission… calling…. I contemplated the terms, wondering when my mission was bestowed upon me. I wrote:

My Life of Learning (So Far)

            I was excited about my very first day of school, not pre-school with the witch-like woman that wore dark purple lipstick and made me cry, but real school, where my brother went to learn how to read, and write, and count. In a meeting with my kindergarten teacher, I had to make the first big decision of my educational career – whether I wanted to be called “Becky” or “Rebecca”. I chose “Rebecca” because it felt like more of a big-girl name than “Becky”. I remember the sense of independence that I felt when my teacher asked me which name I prefer. That decision may seem like something small, but at that moment I came to expect big tings from school. It was a place where I could be empowered. I was on the brink of something huge.

            School was everything that I expected it to be. I was in a junior kindergarten class of ten students, and we all generally got along. I say, “generally,” because my first experience of being identified by race was at the art table in that kindergarten classroom. The librarian's daughter made a comment about my skin colour being different from hers. She said that it was, “like a pig's,” and said some other mean things. I didn't know exactly what to make of the comments at the time, but remember that I felt uneasy. As is the case with most schools in the heart of Toronto, in my class of ten children, there were other races and cultures represented, so I was unsure of why I was being picked on by this girl. I learned that not everyone would be friendly or welcoming for various reasons, and that although we are all people, there are differences that some people do not like.

            I excelled in school and all of my report cards said that I was bright and sociable, and that I get along well with others. My reading and writing skills were good, as were my math skills. I had some difficulty in French class, but by the time I reached grade eight, I had the top mark in my class and I received the French award at graduation. Unfortunately there was no room to continue my study of the language in high school, as it was an elective and I had dedicated myself to sciences and math. I wanted to be a doctor.

            Since childhood, I had been carefully coached by my parents and family that I would go into medicine. I struggled through high school classes, except for English and Religion, and that should have been a warning to me that I was not cut out for a career in medicine. Still, I graduated with less-than-stellar marks, and I was accepted into Laurentian University in Sudbury, Ontario on a conditional offer that I take a reduced course load, and a non-credit course about study skills. Study skills were not my problem. This became glaringly apparent when I excelled in all of the written assignments in that non-credit course, and in the essay requirement in first year biology. That essay was on tree roots, and I earned 100%. It wasn't even an exciting topic, but I learned that I can write very well.

            I continued to struggle in the sciences until the end of the first term of my second year. I knew that I had flunked the term, and that a future in medicine was no longer a viable option for me. I was miserable in the sciences, and I was miserable because I had so much trouble understanding what was going on. I was great with theory, and I soaked that up like a sponge, but when it came to working with numbers, I couldn't put theory into practice. The numbers were a source of agony and anxiety. In short, I learned that I can't do math.

            Over Christmas break of that year, I sank into a deeper depression than the one I was already in. I spent a great deal of time reflecting on where I had been, and where I was going. Where could I go? What could I do? Finally, in the midst of all this confusion, my mother asked me what I like to do, and I reflected on the difference between a job, and a vocation. What did I like? What was I good at? What did I think I was my calling? I learned a lot about myself.

            I loved to read and write, and I was good at it. What could I do with these skills? When I was younger, I expressed an interest in working with children. At one point, I was convinced that I would be a pediatrician. All of my volunteer work up until this point had involved children in some way. So it seemed logical that I could be a teacher. I switched programs and eventually graduated with an honours B.A double-majoring in English Literature and Religious Studies. I loved the combination of the two so much that I went on to complete a Master of Arts in Religion and Culture at Wilfrid Laurier University in Waterloo, Ontario. My area of research was ethics in children's literature, and that was fun for me because I got to read a book series that I love (A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket) and write about that. But the best part of my graduate studies experience was leading tutorials, and being able to teach. I learned what my vocation is.

            During my first year of graduate studies, Christmas break was the complete opposite of the break during my second year of undergrad. I volunteered at my former high school to find out if I really wanted to be a teacher. The teacher that I was working with welcomed me into his classroom and baptized me by fire. He handed me a lesson plan and told me to teach, as he had to complete late warning interviews with students. I was scared, exhilarated, and at home all at once, and I knew that this was where I was supposed to be. It took me a year and a half to complete my graduate studies, and then I worked full-time for a year. It was a customer service position, and I couldn't wait to resign and move to Ottawa to begin my Bachelor of Education. I lived the difference between a job and a vocation.

            My practicum was a wonderful experience. I taught a grade nine applied English class, in which thirteen of the fifteen students were identified in some way, and a chatty grade eleven University-level course of thirty-five students. The associate teacher that I was working with let me know that he was confident in my abilities, and he encouraged me to take risks in teaching and to try out different things in the classroom. The most memorable lessons that I learned from practicum were that the quicker you learn your students names, the easier it is to manage the classroom, and that group work doesn't work with all classes. I learned that I am a teacher.

My room, my parents' house. Brampton, Ontario. Today.

That was written fourteen months ago, while I was comfortably nestled within the confines of the academy. Not long after that, a widely published news piece let us know that there is a huge surplus of teachers in the province; 1000 retirees and 8000 new graduates. The article was mentioned by one of my course instructors with a less-than-encouraging, “Well, I hope you all have a Plan B!”

Plan B? But this is my vocation! My calling! My life’s mission!

In June of that year, after the process of filling out seemingly unending paperwork and online applications for school boards, I was released into the “real world” as one of approximately 8000 other newly certified teachers. That is when this part of my journey began.