cheating
by dianne hayter

I graduated from high school June 1, 1971. Our commencement program’s cover admonished in big purple letters on goldenrod paper that “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” In many ways it truly was.

Not one to linger and analyze that prophecy, however, I was eager to get into “the real world.” I had been packed and good-to-go since New Year’s. I launched from home the day after graduation to begin my college education at Presbyterian College in Clinton, South Carolina. Adulthood, here I come!

Freshman year was resplendent with juicy, never-to-be-repeatd dynamics. There was the roommate situation. In 1971 in a parochial school in the Deep South, my dormitory was all women. Men were not allowed to live in the same building, much less step foot in a bedroom. No one lived off campus.

I was 500 miles from home. What was I to do wtih myself on weekends since I wouldn’t be going home except during semester breaks?
The academics were strenuous. I was a stand-out student in high school. “A’s” came easily. But at Presbyterian College the academic bar for excellence was higher. I HAD to study just to earn a “B” and sometimes a “C.”

And then there was the dating. Oh my! Being on a campus where the male to female ratio was six to one was -- to put it mildly -- distracting.

Presbyterian College believed in rules. Each woman in my dormitory was required to have written permission from her parent(s) as to her curfew. There were five options a parent could select, everything from in by 10 p.m. on weeknights and midnight on weekends to the maximum leniency of blanket permission. These comings/goings were overseen by our stern iron-will dormitory “Mother,” Mrs. Beech.

My parents authorized blanket permission. I came and went as I chose. Wanting very much to succeed, however, I was usually the first one in at 10 on a weeknight and in by midnight on the weekend. Besides, non-coed dormitory life was fun. I liked being there and hanging wih the girls.

Presbyterian College had an Honor Code. Somewhere in the process of indoctrination and/or orientation I signed my compliance with that Code. I don’t remember the exact wording, but the bottomline was clear: Don’t steal. Don’t lie. Don’t cheat. If you are caught doing so, immediate explusion will occur. I took it to heart.

My freshman English teacher, Mr. King, was a gray-haired distinguished-looking gentleman with a rather exotic (British?) accent. He wore turtleneck sweaters underneath tweedy jackets with suede patches on the elbows. His classes were grueling. Our nightly reading assignmetns were anywhere from 100-200 pages. We were frequently tested with pop-quizzes. Earning a “B” in Mr. King’s class was as good as it got. He dispensed no “A’s” and several students failed.

I liked Mr. King. I liked English. I worked hard for my “B’s” and was proud to earn them.
Midway through fall semester in 1971 I noticed that the young man sitting behind me was cheating on our pop-quizzes. I was appalled. I had never cheated in school and never seen anyone else cheat. I kept it to myself, hoping I was wrong.

The cheating continued. I became exceedingly troubled and felt increasingly obligated to step forward. I had signed an Honor Code to do so. However, the Code also said that expulsion was the swift and final punishment for those caught in such behavior. Was that true or an idle threat? Would this young man be reprimanded and given another chance or be banished and sent on his way?

One day after class, I asked Mr. King for an appointment. Trembling and somber, distraught and burdened, later that day I went to his office and repoted what I knew. He asked if I was certain. Miserably, I replied “yes.” Having compassion for my situation, he thanked me for coming forward, assured me he would handle the situation, and that I would be protected. No one would know I reported the cheating. To my knowledge, no one ever did.

I thought -- having told someone -- I would feel better, but I didn’t. A couple of weeks later, during a pop-quiz, Mr. King caught the young man cheating. He was summarily told to leave the classroom and within 48 hours expelled from Presbyterian College. Mr. King asked to see me in his office.

He reassured me I had done “the right thing.” He told me my action represented enormous courage. He said he knew I felt badly about the outcome for my fellow student, but that the Honor Code was in place to not only protect those who don’t cheat, but those who do. Life, according to Mr. King, does not go well for any length of time for those who cheat. He encouraged me to be of “good cheer.”

I wasn’t exactly of “good cheer,” but my life moved forward. The following year I transferred to the University of Georgia where I would earn not only my undergraduate degree but two master’s degrees. I never encountered another academic cheater.

This spring I had the opportuntiy to visit Clinton, South Carolina, and Presbyterian College. It had been 33 years since the cheating incident. The campus is characteristically beautiful in that Deep South way: palatial red-brick buildings with columns standing proud and strong with many new additions; grounds immaculately caretaken; trees, wizened with longevity, draping and canopying walkways. Nevell Hall, Room 105, the scene of Mr. King’s English 101 class, now had a boisterous dazzling fountain outside its door. On the Sunday of my visit -- with the exception of several joggers -- the campus was deserted. The door to Nevell Hall was unlocked. The door to Room 105 stood open. I entered softly, reverently, with the weighty realization I feel when something significant occurs.

Room 105’s 12-foot ceilings reached to an updated lighting system which I did not activate. Spring sunshine streaming through the windows and bouncing off the green terrazzo floor illuminated the room. The walls were painted a soft pastel salmon color, the shade below the chair rail darker than the one above it. The cream-colored window shades were raised two-thirds of the way up, revealing a view of the fountain. And there was my desk right where it was the last time I sat in it.
Relaxing into my seat, my hands spread wide-apart on the faux wood-grain desk in front of me, I time traveled. There was Mr. King with his exotic (British?) accent. And there I was, young and hard-working, eager to learn, striving to succeed, and a bit sleep-deprived.

I began to cry. I wasn’t crying because of the cheating incident. Somewhere along the way I learned for myself what Mr. King told me: Life does not bode well for cheaters. I felt no remorse for my long-ago choice.

I cried because I was glad. I cried because when faced with making a difficult decision I knew would affect another in a big way, I had taken the risk. I chose not to enable someone endeavoring to take the easy way out while the rest of us toiled and sacrificed. Life had tossed me a challenge and I didn’t duck and run.

I got up to leave Room 105, Nevell Hall, Presbyterian College, Clinton, South Carolina. By the doorway on a stand was a roll of toilet tissue. I tore off a piece and used it to wipe my tears and blow my nose, discarding my tissue into the nearby waste basket. As I moved to leave, to the left of the doorway, hanging on a double-sided sticky strip at eye level and printed on purple paper was the “Presbyterian College Honor Code.” I stood and starred at it. I read and re-read it.

“On my honor I will abstain from all deceit. I will neither give nor receive unacknowledged aid in my academic work, nor will I permit such action by any member of this community.

I will respect the persons and property of the community, and will not condone discourteous or dishonest treatment of these by my peers. In my every act, I will seek to maintain a high standard of honesty and truthfulness for myself and for the College.”

Underneath the treatise was a listing of the 2003-2004 Honor Council Leadership officers with their office location, telephone number, and email address. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I hadn’t realized I had been holding it.

At 50, I’ve been to—and lived in —a great many places far and long from Clinton, South Carolina. I’ve had the privilege of working with some of the finest people of mine and other generations and, at times, some of the most despicable. In hindsight, I’m hard-pressed to say from which group I’ve learned the most.

I’m grateful that on a spring day in 2004 I had a prompting to appear somewhere I had not been in many years. I’m grateful that my intuition placed me where I needed to be in order to receive confirming information. I’m grateful I could go where I was sent. I’m grateful to be reminded of who -- what -- I am. And I’m grateful for the firm and sure presence of enduring truths:

Don’t steal.

Don’t lie.

Don’t cheat.

Dianne Hayter moved in the last year from the Washington, D.C. area to Asheville. She bought a house in the spring and planted a new yard. She is busy getting used to the home she shares with her dog Skylar and geriatric cats, Malcolm and Miep.