Preface

In Tom Clancy's "A Clear and Present Danger," a contemptuous White House aide shouts at Jack Ryan, "You're such a Boy Scout!" It was a criticism, of course. Ryan, appointed as Acting CIA Deputy Director of Intelligence, insists on doing what's right, despite the pervasive corruption all around (and especially above) him. But doing the right thing is a cake walk for Ryan. He is, after all, a fictional character. Out here in the real world, it's a jungle, man.

So, maybe I am a Boy Scout

Doing the right thing. Isn't that the definition of "integrity?"

Well, I don't always get it right, but I do try. If that makes me a Boy Scout, so be it. It ought to count for something, right? Temptations? Sure, they're plenty. More than once, I've found myself thinking, "Is it really wrong for me to do this or that?" Or I might argue, "My situation is different."

Mostly, I just try to be a good person; a good example to my children and others who might need a little direction.

Doing the right thing works, most of the time

One day in high school, I was on my way to class — journalism, my favorite subject. I was eager to take advantage of the last few minutes before the bell so I could review my notes before a big exam.

On my way in, however, a kid in my class grabbed my arm and said, "Hey, here are the answers to the test," then just as quickly, he shoved a sheet of paper in my hand and turned to walk back into the room.

"But ...," I protested, turning to follow him, evidence in hand.

That's when I bumped into her. Mrs. Greer. My teacher!

She didn't say a word. She simply glared at me, then the sheet of paper in my hand. She turned and asked everyone to take their seats and clear their desks. Once all the students settled in, she distributed the exam — one student at a time. She walked down my aisle first, placing a test on the desk of the kid who sat in front of me, then on my desk, and so on. Certain she could feel the heat from my embarrassed cheeks, I instinctively placed my palms against them as a shield.

"She thinks I'm cheating," I worried. My thoughts were racing, my heart pounding. "She thinks I actually planned to get those answers." In my brain, I was screaming at myself so loudly, I was subconsciously aware that Mrs. Greer was talking, giving instructions.

"... guilty of academic cheating," I heard her say, "should place their unfinished exams on my desk and report to the principal's office to face the consequences of his and/or her decision." She returned to her desk, again walking by me, only this time much more briskly.

I heard a defeated sigh, followed by the sound of the legs of a chair scraping loudly against the tiled floor. Just behind me, someone bustled about angrily. It was the kid who'd given me the unsolicited answer sheet. He collected his backpack and books, walked toward Mrs. Greer's desk, slammed his test on her desk and walked out.

"Anyone else?" she demanded, scanning the room. She did not look at me.

The fire in my cheeks spread throughout my body.

"What should I do?" I silently pleaded with my God for answers. "Do what's right, do what's right, do what's right," I heard myself think.

I picked up my belongings, along with the test, and walked toward my teacher. Hot tears started welling in my eyes, and I fought hard to keep them from spilling over the brim. I'd done nothing wrong, I knew, but I would have to prove to her that I'd earned every point in her grade book on my own. The few feet from my desk to hers made up one of the longest journeys of my life. As I approached Mrs. Greer's desk, I felt my classmates' stares, I saw their gaping jaws. But Mrs. Greer's bright blue eyes shimmered behind her gold wire-framed glasses. Suddenly, she wasn't angry at all. No, her expression was gentle and kind.

I handed her my test, along with the now-crumpled cheat sheet. Glancing over each piece of paper, Mrs. Greer's frizzy blondish-brown hair swayed back and forth, like the leaves of a tree on a windy day.

"But you haven't answered a single question," she said, pretending to be puzzled.

"I know," I said. "I can't take that test knowing you think I cheated."

She looked me dead straight in the eyes, handed me a tissue without looking, and said, "Young lady, I know good and well that you didn't cheat. Other students had already warned me that he made photocopies of the answers and was passing them out. More importantly, I know that you have integrity — as a journalist and as an individual. I heard and saw what happened, and I know you had no idea what was going on. So, do you still want to walk out that door?"

The journey back to my desk — all eight steps of it — was uneventful, except for the wave of relief that engulfed me.

As expected, I did exceptionally well on my exam, but suddenly, it didn't seem nearly as important to me as it had an hour earlier. "You have integrity," Mrs. Greer had said. It was a definitive moment for me, one that would forever shape my character and, to a great extent, who I am today.

No integrity in plagiarism

My daughter, Jennifer, is 18 — a senior in high school. Recently, her principal called to inform me that he'd suspended her for plagiarism.

"Plagiarism?" I repeated, dumbfounded.

"Oh, yes. Yesterday a classmate forgot to do her homework and asked Jenny to see hers. Apparently, the classmate copied Jenny's work, word for word. The next day, the teacher discovered the two identical papers, put two and two together, and turned them in." Then he added, rather defensively, "We've already spoken to Jenny about it, and she's admitted everything. I really have no other choice."

"Hmm," I responded. "Well, I agree — it's best that she learn this lesson early on. I'd rather have it happen today in high school than in the future in college or as a professional. I wholeheartedly support your decision to suspend her, and I'll be sure to talk to her about the seriousness of the offense when she gets home from school today."

There was a long, silent pause on the other end. "Th-thank you," the principal said. "Thank you very much. Why, I can't tell you how much we appreciate your, your ... support. That's certainly not the kind of reaction we typically get from parents, under the circumstances."

"It's a good lesson," I said. I smiled as I hung up the phone — not because I was planning to beat her ass when she returned from school. The whole affair reminded me of that fateful day in Mrs. Greer's journalism class.

The dictionary defines "plagiarism" as the unauthorized use or close imitation of the language and thoughts of another author and the representation of them as one's own original work.

Which is a good point, because Jenny didn't plagiarize. But facilitating plagiarism is at least as bad as, if not worse than, committing it. And I wanted her to learn to be accountable for her actions and choices.

Plagiarism, anyone?

"Did you talk to my principal?" Jenny asked me later.

"I did," I replied.

"Oh, OK," she said, looking down at her feet.

"Anything you'd like to add?" I asked.

"No, I just wanted to make sure you knew about it, I guess," she said, still enamored by her sneakers.

"He told you about the seriousness of plagiarism ... why it's important that you not plagiarize, right?" I asked.

"Yes," she whispered.

"And ...?"

"And he said I could get in a lot of trouble, like getting kicked out of college or fined lots of money and stuff," she said more loudly, finally making eye contact.

"And ...?" I insisted.

"And ... so, I won't do it again," she promised, averting her eyes once again.

"So, why'd you do it in the first place?" I asked.

"I dunno. I guess because she asked him — the teacher — like, a bunch of times, to help her with the assignment and he wouldn't. She has a hard time, and he just doesn't teach. He kept telling her to figure it out, and said, 'Look on the computer and read the instructions.' She told him she already did, and she still couldn't figure it out, and he ignored her. So when she asked to see how I did my work yesterday, I was in the middle of trying to finish another assignment before the bell rang, and I just wanted to hurry and get it done. So instead of showing her how to do it, I just handed her my assignment. I didn't know she was going to copy it. I was just trying to help," she explained.

"Hmm," I responded.

"Hmm, what?" she said, spying the smile on my face; preparing for the inevitable "You're grounded until I say you're not grounded anymore!"

But I surprised her: "I was just thinking how nice it was of you to want to help your friend out," I started. "Granted, it wasn't smart to give her your homework, but I'm proud of you for your compassion. I'm glad you did what you thought was right, especially when others fail to. And I'm glad you're not lying about what you did."

"OK," Jenny said, a bit embarrassed. She was still looking down at her feet.

"OK, then," I agreed.

In retrospect, I really don't know whether I did right by her with that conversation, but I know I did my best. I know a lot of professors in my college who tell students what to do, but don't teach them how to do it. I also know that Jenny did what she thought was right, if only because her teacher didn't do what he should have. She had no malicious intent. She had no intention of breaking rules. She reacted to assist someone in need. More importantly, she did what she thought was right.

To that, I can only say, "That's my girl."

The plagiarist? I understand she was never disciplined.


"Integrity is one of several paths. It distinguishes itself from the others because it is the right path and the only one upon which you will never get lost." — M. H. McKee