Modelling a piece on plagiarism: the irony, oh the irony.

When Satnam and I were in high school, on weekdays after class we would get together at one of our houses, spread our books across the dining room table and do our homework.  We would snack on somosas or muffins depending on whose mother’s kitchen we were blanketing with our large biology, math and physics textbooks.

“You boys must have hollow legs,” my mother would say, using the familiar euphemism to describe our teenage-mutant-ninja-boy hunger.

Satnam’s mother, who had come to Canada from India when she was 20 and spoke English only as a second language, would say things like, “Ooh.  You boys eat so much.  You very hungry.  Eat more, more.”

I had to learn how to say “enough” in Punjabi (“bus“), though I seldom used it, so hollow were my legs.

It was not only our hunger for food that was insatiable, but also our hunger for knowledge.  We would get into a rhythm of reading and writing and discussing and eating and just continue on like that for hours.  We were like sponges soaking up the print off the pages of our books.  We were like amoeba, covering things and sucking them into ourselves through the process of phagocytises.

We learned from each other too, not just from our books.  He would edit my papers and I would edit his.  When I didn’t understand a math problem, he explained it and when he couldn’t remember the different cellular devices, I taught him my acronym.  We were a homework machine, a learning team.

In grade 12 Satnam was elected valedictorian and as part of his responsibilities he had to write a speech.  I remember reading that speech before he read it in front of our classmates and their families on a small stage in the middle of the local rink.  I remember telling him how much I liked it.

*******

Earlier this year I did a story on a popular country music group that was passing through town for the last time.  It was to be my first piece published in the university newspaper.  The editor told me to feel free to have some fun with it, so I did.  I wrote in the first person, as I do almost every time I am given the choice, and poked fun at the crowd of urban cowboys that had gathered to watch the show.

I was excited when I saw it in the flesh, my very first piece, with my name right below the headline.  I’ll admit it, I was proud.  So, I emailed the pdf off to my close friends and family.

A couple of days later I got this email from Satnam:

“Good stuff buddy.  I recognize a few sentences.  Keep it up!”

But what was he talking about?  And then I saw it.

Just like that my pride turned to embarrassment.  There it was, probably the best line in Satnam’s speech right in the middle of my story.  I thought to myself, “How the hell did that get there?”   I was truly surprised– not like the time I snuck a peak at my neighbours physics test and got a note from the teacher asking me why I had answered question number 18 in question 15’s spot (oops– lesson learned).

I wrote Satnam back thanking him for the praise, but skirting the suggested plagiarism issue.  But it did get me thinking.  Was I guilty of plagiarism?  I hadn’t intended to use Satnam’s words, but I did.  They just spilled out of my head the morning after the concert.  I didn’t question where they had come from because they fit so well.  I just spat them out.

Reading David Carpenter’s “Hoovering to Byzantium,” helped me wrap my head around my unintentional copying.  Carpenter suggests that writers are like Hoover vacuum cleaners in that they don’t discriminate against what they suck up.  Just as a vacuum inhales small objects without stopping to check where they‘re dust bunnies or toys, so does a writer collect his material in an indiscriminate manner.  Kind of like an amoeba, just oozing along until it happens upon some lumpy object and then enveloping it.  Kind of like a sponge soaking up any kind of liquid.  Kind of like a couple of hungry teenage boys after school, blindly stuffing their faces with literally anything mom puts in front of them while their eyes move from side to side down the pages of a textbook.

So, if it’s not too late, I’d like to attribute that line to my friend Satnam.  He said it so well and he said it first.

The difference between freedom and licence

If you have a dog, but not a dog licence, is the dog free? “Yip.” You see that, I just took poetic licence with the dog’s “yip” and made it sound like he said yes. Dogs have the right to free speech as well I think, as long as the dog is licenced.
What about a guide dog? They surely aren’t free. Guide dogs are like weight lifters in China, they’re born into it or selected at a very young age. They’re ever asked if they want to wear a body halter and be someone else’s eyes for the rest of their lives. But the blind person has a licence for the dog though, so…
“Sir, I’m dreadfully sorry, but your hound will have to wait outside.”
“Actually, I’m blind. Here is my licence that proclaims that my ‘hound’ may shit on any restaurant floor I choose, thank you very much.”
“Sir, you’ve just given me your drivers licence.”
“Oh. Pardon me. Ha ha. I always get those two confused.”

Interview with a politician

It’s just the Prof, Kerry, me and this local politician (who we’ll call Campbell) in the room.  We are doing an exercise on interviewing.  We all started in the hallway. Kerry went first.  Prof timed her for five minutes then he called me in .  I also got five minutes to interview the NDP representative.  I told him to be as long-winded as he could– I hadn’t done much research.   He told me to be careful what I wished for.  We were rushed and I didn’t even have time to stage my pierogi jokes.

Mimi and then Richard.  Richard says, “I’m going to be straight up with you.  I’ve got some hard hitting questions on the proroguement of parliament..”  Campbell, like the politician he is, deflects the “hard hitting questions” and gives Richard the same answers he gave me.

The term ’alligator smile’ comes to mind– an image created by some ex journalism student (we read some old work out in class last week).

Richard reads a quote in an attempt to steer |Campbell in a different directions.  Campbell parries and continues bashing the current government.

Now I’m wishing I had stayed in the hall.  Ashley is up next (number 11 I think), and I am getting tired of these same responses.  He keeps saying, “giant reset button.”

I really wish I would’ve cut him off to make my pierogi jokes.  The five minutes went too fast.  Too fast to be funny.  No time to be charming.  Campbell had enough time to be charming though.  Politicians are good at being charming in a five minute time limit.

Politicians’ Four Step Interviewing Process

Step 1:  Deflect  –  Don’t actually answer the question, just answer a question.  No one will notice.

Step 2: Bash the opposition  –  Make sure they know who the bad guy is and why they are the bad guy.  Keywords: Shameless, avoiding accountability

Step 3:  Charm  –  Make them smile.  No one cares about the issues when there is such pleasant conversation to be had.

Step 4: Alligator Smile  –  If the words fail (or often even if they work), flash the teeth.  Not too much fang though, you don’t want to frighten any small children, but just let them know that they are there and they are sharp.

Jogger

Jogger

 

Laces, braces, shoes, shorts, shirt.                    (hydrate)

Jogging,

To clear my thoughts.

Cool leafy air fills my nostrils

And makes space in my mind

For thought.                                                          (stretch)

My old shoes,                                                       (through puddle)

Old wet shoes,

Are well formed to my feet,

But bite into them,

Blistering with every step.

A new pair would be costly

And also rub the wrong spots.

A dilemma.                                                           (shoelace)

But with the girls

There is no true dilemma.

Between a pillow

And a soft spot.                                                   (cramp)

They are both so precious.

My knee is nagging

But it must be strengthened.

Besides,

The pavement ends soon.                                  (other shoelace)

The large ties

And loose pebbles                                               (crosswalk)

Of the railroad track                                           (school bus!)

Will relieve my joints.                                         (near miss)

The pain is minimal really.

I am weak and self-piteous.                              (slacken pace)

There are those

Who really suffer

And don’t have the choice               

To push on.                                                           (stumble)

But I should be grateful

For all my fortunes                                              (accelerate)

Lovers included.

My feet embrace the gravel                              (music up)

Between the railroad tracks                              

And  I let go.                                                        

I do have a choice

To do the right thing.                                           (head down)

To go forward,                                                    

Fast                                                                        (sprint)

The ground is a grey blur                                    (whistle?)

And my body pulses                                           (train)

But I am sweating it out                                    (Train!)

And I think

I’ll be alright                                                         (Train.)

City-hicks

I noticed right away that I was wearing the wrong type of pants.  Everyone else’s were tight, but not tight like Ronnie Dunn’s, skinny and black revealing legs so thin only a rock star could pull them off, but wrangler tight, like “hey cowboy look at my thighs” or “hey cowgirl look at my snuff tin.”

I wasn’t even wearing my cowboy hat, the only piece of cowboy apparel I own.  Kix Brooks wore his, a black five gallon hat which he threw into the crowd at the end of the show.

Overall, I felt under dressed.  I wasn’t wearing a Brooks and Dunn t-shirt because I don’t own one.  Truth be told, I am not even really a fan.  My girlfriend bought me a ticket and as it was our one year dating anniversary, I felt obliged to accompany her and her genuine rancher friends.

It’s not that I don’t have any ranching blood in me.  I did grow up on a small cattle ranch.  I even had a pony, but ever since I came to ‘the big city,’ I’ve almost completely abandoned my cowboy routes, trading in my boots for sneakers and my coveralls for hoodies.  The city has sort of sucked the country out of me.

I was feeling out of place, standing in front of my designated seat, in The Interior Saving Centre last Saturday night.  Despite Brooks’ several attempts to whip the crowd into a dancing frenzy, I was reluctant to groove along to the live music, an inhibition clearly not shared by everyone in attendance.

As if the wide hat and fringy vest gave him some license, a fan in front of me was letting it all out, singing loudly during the chorus and howling enthusiastically throughout the rest.  He was in his element and having a blast.

I felt little in common with the cow-folk surrounding me, that is, until I saw a burly bearded man reach into his coveralls, pull out his cell phone and take a picture of the performing duo.  The two things didn’t seem to fit.  Cowboys don’t use cell phones, do they?

I realized these weren’t your regular country bumpkins.  These were Kamloops’ finest, a special breed of cowboy, a hybrid.  Like the performing duo, who mixed screaming electric guitar and flashy back-up singers with banjo and blues riffs, these cowboys were comfortable roping a run-away steer and sending text messages.  We weren’t so different after all.

By the fourth song, my foot was tapping along with the music.   By the fifth, I had shed my sweater to reveal a westernish button up shirt.  When the band finally got to My Maria, I had my hands in the air and even let slip a “yee-ha” or two.  I realized I too am an urban cowboy, though my dressing habits may suggest otherwise.  I was among my people.

Brooks and Dunn made the concert, one of the stops on their Cowboy Town farewell tour, an opportunity for those Toyota driving cowboys who live in this fine city to get together before heading over to Cactus Jacks for a flavored martini and some two stepping—a dance easily performed in sneakers.

Surf Camp

“Surf Camp”

I thought it would be easy.

“I’ll probably just be able to get up and go,” I had told all my friends back in Canada.  “It’ll be just like snowboarding or longboarding”.

I imagined myself, nicely bronzed, charging down the face of a massive wave while H lay sunbathing on the beach, content watching her talented boyfriend play effortlessly in the surf.  Not quite.

I protect my head as I somersault through the water, bringing my arms up around my ears, like a rugby player at the bottom of a ruc, only there are no cleats here, just a sandy bottom, somewhere down there, and a nine foot board with three sharp fins.  I stop spinning and uncurl myself, trying to determine which way is up.  Just as the first images of my lifeless body at the bottom of the ocean enter my head, my feet touch sand and I push myself upward.  As I break the surface, my mouth agape in anticipation of some much needed air, the next wave crashes down upon my head filling my mouth with its frothy saltiness.  I am pushed a few meters beach-ward beneath the surface, my leash tugging at my ankle like a hyper dog.  I find my feet once more and stand up.  The water is only waist deep now.

I reach down, take hold of the leash, and pull my board toward me.  My chest hurts, like heartburn, from all the saltwater I’ve swallowed.  I blow my nose one nostril at a time in an attempt to purge myself of this obnoxious saltiness.  I’ve had enough of this. 

As I drag my board toward the safety of dry land, I take stock: I’m exhausted and half drown, my eyes are stinging and bloodshot, my skin is a patchwork of bright reds and pinks from the hot Australian sun and the sandpaper like surface of the board, and I think I’ve pulled my groin.  The bruises and scratches on my knees, however, don’t compare to those on my ego.

I stumble to the beach and collapse on all fours.  I feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway when he is washed up on that deserted island, only I won’t be nominated for any academy awards for my performance.

I hear some cheering and whistling behind me and turn to see what it is about.  H has caught a wave and is cruising, crouched low, with one arm outstretched and pointing forward, and the other arm bent up behind her head in true surfer fashion.  The wave crashes behind her and propels her another few meters in its milky wake before she hops off, landing solidly on her feet and performing an exuberant fist pump.

“Good on ya Heather,” congratulates Jimmy, the broad shouldered, ex-cosmopolitan magazine centerfold surf instructor in his Kiwi accent. 

He gives her a high five.  I grind my teeth and realize I have quite a bit of sand in my mouth.

Spitting, I stand up, unhook my leash, and start up the beach to where some of the other not so able wannabe surfers are sunbathing.

“Hey Coleman,” comes a voice from beside me.

I turn and see Joel, the other instructor jogging toward me.  He is also a Kiwi, but is not as chiseled and manly as the playboy Jimmy.  I like Joel.

“That was a rough one eh bro,” he says, slapping me on the shoulder, leaving a white hand print on my red skin. “Nice tan! Listen, you’re just choosing the wrong waves bro.  You’re trying to catch them as they are pitching over and it’s too steep.  That’s why you keep nose picking”.

Nose picking is when the front of the board digs into the water instead of gliding over it, stopping the board but not the rider, and is about as embarrassing as getting caught actually picking your nose.

“Thanks Joel.  I’ll work on that”.  I turn around and continue heading toward the beached chubby girls and other quitters.

“Don’t give up bro!” shouts Joel. I don’t look back.

“I need a break,” I say.

I crawl into the ‘shadie,’ (a tarp propped up with a surfboard) lie down in the sand and close my eyes. 

I rub my swollen groin.  I had compared surfing to snowboarding, assuming the board skills would be transferable.  H said it would be more like riding a horse because there is something beneath you that you don’t have complete control over.  

“The snow can’t jump to the side suddenly like a wave or a horse,” she had said.  She had it right.

A familiar voice calls me from outside the shadie. 

“Coleman! Did you see that?”

H is standing in the sun stooped over peering in at me. 

“Ya baby,” I say with forced enthusiasm, “way to go”.

She picks up on my tone, of course, and asks what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” I start, “it’s just…”

She’s got her hands on her knees, which are scraped and red, and wet tousled hair.  Her skin is sunburned and rashy, like mine, and her eyes are red.  The sun has produced loads of freckles on her chest, shoulders, and face.  A thin line of dark freckles above her lip almost give the appearance of a moustache.  She is wearing a huge grin and looks beautiful.

“Come on,” she pleads, seeing me soften, and reaches and grabs my hand. 

I follow her down to the water, grab my board, and we paddle out together.  We struggle through a few waves and manage to get out the back.  Jimmy and Joel are there, along with a handful of the keener students, sitting up, straddling their boards.  I sit up, using my legs in the water to balance.  We are well behind the break point of the waves and are rolling up and down smoothly on the swell. 

I look around.  The beach is ours, the sun is hot, the water is cool, and everyone is quiet.

“It’s fucking sick out here aint it bro,” whispers Joel, leaning toward me. I nod.

Jimmy paddles over effortlessly, his massive arms working like oars, and offers a hand in the air.  I slap it and he winks at me.

“Oh shit,” someone cries, “look at this one!”

A large mutant wave is forming behind us and Joel, apparently having had his eye on it, has already started paddling.

“Quit looking at it and paddle bro,” shouts Jimmy, looking over his shoulder as he whisks off after his countryman.

I turn my board, kicking by legs like an egg beater and start paddling frantically.  I feel the wave lift the back of my board and I take three more strong strokes. 

We had practiced this part on land several times, all lined up in a semi circle facing the instructors.  Three strong strokes, then push up your chest.  The waist follows and then you’re two quick steps away from ‘hanging ten’.

Three strokes.  One, Two, Three.  I can feel the wave speeding me along.  I push my chest, and then ass, into the air, bring my left foot forward and onto the middle of the board and then…

I bring my arms up around my head and assume the fetal position, like a rugby player at the bottom of the ruc, only this time I’m smiling.

CM

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