Plagiarism

In May of 1964, I was looking forward to the beginning of summer vacation and the end to 2 years of history of western civilization lectures.  The freshmen that I had entered Occidental with were now sophomores and had reached the last page of the syllabus for this mandatory 30-unit course.  Today's lecture was to cover 20^th century art.  I was going to attend the class since I liked art and the lecture would likely be accompanied by lots of slides.  I hadn't made it to a great many of the lectures since the midterm incident of my freshman year. 

Since the course amounted to half of one's total units, I had begun the freshman year intent on doing my best.  I had been accepted into a small and highly respected private college that was beyond my family's financial means.  My dad had taken a second job so that I could attend "the Harvard of the west", to quote one of Occidental's more ludicrous claims.  A federal funding requirement was responsible for my being part of the freshman class.  Occidental had to take a handful of local neighborhood public high school students to qualify for funds.  Unlike the typical Occidental freshman, I had nothing of distinction in the way of grades or accomplishments.  I did not have a stellar GPA or college board score; nor was I student body president; nor was I published, nor had I gone to a private college preparatory school, nor had I spent the summer in Europe, and nor was I a member of the national high school championship debate team.  I found myself in a situation that would qualify as the lowest level of Maslow's hierarchy.  I needed to figure out how to survive.

My study strategy for the history of civilization course was to maintain the big picture and utilize rote memorization for details.  I should do well on tests if I had command of the major themes of western civilization, and could recall specific examples from memory.  I started a daily regimen the evening after the first history of civilization class I attended.  I would use 3 X 5 cards to record themes and trends.  On the back side of each card I would write down key words to represent people, places, characteristics and events that corresponded to the theme.  I had always had a good memory and it was easy for me to commit both sides of the card to memory each night.  Once I had memorized the day's card, I would proceed to quiz myself not only on that day's card, but all of the cards that I had produced up until that point.  This of course meant that each additional day would require a little more time to complete the exercise.  Approaching the midterm of the first quarter semester, I was putting in a 2-3 hours per night on history of civilization alone.  This was a radical departure from high school where homework was rare, but if it were assigned, I would finish it in study hall.

The day of the midterm, I settled into my Thorne Hall seat with everyone else to take the midterm exam.  I had my number 2 pencil, my test booklet and my answer sheet.  The midterm was to cover up to about 450 AD.  This period had spawned democracy, inquiry into truth and beauty, government administration, martial organization, engineering, law, and the brotherhood of humanity.

Question no. 1.  What was the color of Achilles' horse?

(a)  Black

(b)  White

(c)  Dapple  

(d)  Gray

(e)  None of the above

At first, I took this to be a sample question.  A device often used by  test booklet instructions to display how an answer sheet should have one, and only one, of the 5 bubbles blackened in with a number 2 pencil.  However, there were no instructions and I began to realize that this was an actual test question.

I was stupefied and outraged at the same time.  Is this something known to all Harvard graduates?  My dad took a second job so I could gain this type of insight and wisdom?  What's next – did Socrates wear boxers or briefs?

It took me a while to settle down.  When I had, I struggled with "dapple".  I assumed this was a typographical error and spent a substantial amount of time trying to decipher what had been the intended text that had been mangled, since it might just as well be the correct answer.

After what must have been 20 minutes I moved on to the next question.  I would return to the first question frequently during the test thinking the answer was probably right in front of me, and if I looked at it long enough, or often enough, I would eventually figure it out.  I never did answer the first question, but I devoted a good two thirds of my allotted time to it.  After I turned in my test, I discontinued my daily memorization sessions and stopped attending history of civilization lectures. 

The 20^th century art lecture was to be presented by Professor Constance Perkins.  She was about twenty minutes into abstract expressionism when I had reached my limit.  A pretentious wind bag, she would expound at length on other-worldly concepts she would attribute to perhaps a painting that was a solid white rectangle, or another, that looked as though it had been underneath a mud wrestling exhibition.  Not only would she make these claims, she would emphasize that they were unassailable.

It may have been the only time I ever stood up and said something in front of 300 people.

I said, "Don't get me wrong, I like a lot of the paintings that you've shown.  But it troubles me that no standards exist for something involving so much money and acclaim".

She answered, "That is where you are mistaken.  Standards do exist".

I said, "What about the Swedish artist who turned out to be a chimpanzee?"

She took her best expert-in-the-field stance and answered, "Well I would know if a painting was done by a chimpanzee".

In February of 1964, I had read where 4 paintings by the artist Pierre Brassau had been exhibited along with other artists at the Christina Gallery in Goteberg, Sweden.  Rolf Anderberg, an art critic for the Goteberg Posten, praised the work above all others in the show.  It was later revealed that Pierre Brassau was actually Peter, a 4-year-old, West African chimpanzee.

I returned to classes after the summer only to discover that one of my classes was an art appreciation class taught by Professor Perkins.  I had recently declared myself to be an art major and would be required to complete a minimum of one art history or art appreciation course.  She was the only faculty member assigned to these courses, so there was no way out.  The course was relatively easy, or it at least appeared that way at the onset.  A large part of your grade was based on weekly critiques of exhibits at local galleries.  In 1964, all of the galleries were on La Cienega Blvd and they would stay open late one night a week.  All I had to do was cruise the galleries, find one worth writing about, and turn in a review before the end of the week. 

Perkins never gave me any grade other than a D for any of the reviews I submitted.  It mattered not whether my review was positive, neutral or negative.  She disagreed with my point of view and graded me down accordingly.  This of course was not about the gallery exhibit but rather the chimpanzee question.  She knew it and I knew it.

We came to the final week were a gallery review was required.  It occurred to me that if I copied a review that she had written, she would be unable to disagree.  I found a review of hers written about an artist named Julian Ritter that had been published in the Los Angeles Times.  The guy's work was mostly clown portraits and unclad women as found on the covers of romantic novels.  She hadn't gone out on a limb on this one, she flat dismissed him.  I carefully handwrote a word-for-word copy of her review, put my name on it and turned it in.  The following class session she asked me to stay after class had finished.

When we were alone, she began, "I don't believe this is your work.  Did you write this?"

Things were starting out like a Harold Pinter play.  I said, "Of course not.  I mean, yes, I did write it, it is my handwriting, but the words are a review you wrote".

She continued, "Since it is not your work, I have to give you an F on this paper".

I said, "Well you always give me an F on these anyway.  So I thought I'd turn in something that you would at least agree with".

She continued, "This is plagiarism, and as such, I am required to bring this to the attention of the honor court".

This caught me off guard but I simply said, "Well do what you have to", and left her sitting there.

Classes were over and the campus was into finals week when I was summoned to appear before the honor court.  I could have cared less about the honor court.  The important thing was that I was done with Perkins and would never have to deal with her again.  She had given me a final grade of D in the course, which meant I wouldn't have to retake it.

I showed up on time for the honor court session.  The furniture was arranged to represent a mock trial.  Members of the honor court sat in a U-shaped formation surrounding a single chair in the center, where I was asked to sit.  Perkins was not there and this caught me off guard as well.  I was looking forward to Professor Perkins relating her version of events and the honor court having great difficulty in suppressing their laughter. 

When the proceedings began, a member of the honor court went over the protocol.  I was instructed that during the interrogation portion, I should avoid attempts to explain anything in an expository manner.  I was to restrict myself to direct responses to questions from the honor court.  There would be an opportunity later to present anything that I felt was pertinent.

Vance Peterson, President of the honor court, asked, "Is this the work you turned in for the weekly gallery review assignment?"

I said, "Yes".

Vance asked, "Is this your original work?"

I said, "No, I took it directly from a Times article".

Vance asked, "You copied it?"

I said, "Word for word.  It was intentional.  If it wasn't an exact copy, it would have missed the whole point".

I could easily see from the expressions on the faces of the honor court members, that this was not the typical response to a charge of plagiarism.

Vance spat out disgustedly, "Why would you do that." as though I had mutilated a defenseless creature.  It was a plain statement, not even a rhetorical question.  There was no request for, nor let alone, any interest in a response from me.  The way he said it made me feel sorry for him.  Vance and the rest of them were repulsed by my behavior.  None of them had even the slightest clue.  

Vance was anxious to wrap things up.  He said, "Well since this is your first infraction, any penalty imposed by the court would be limited to the gallery review assignment.  You were given an F on the assignment by Professor Perkins which is the maximum penalty we would enforce for a first infraction anyway.  So I will close today's session unless you want to add something".

I had two choices – either I begin with, "It all started with this chimpanzee in Sweden……"; or, I just say, "no thanks".

I took the latter.