Plagiarism

I’m between chemo treatments now, enjoying about three weeks without injections. Later this month, it’s cat-scan time, then a visit to the oncologist. Then the doc and I will decide what, if anything, we can do. I think there’s only one more chemo method we can attempt, something oral, but we’ll see.

I am alone a lot these days. Oh, Lynne and I are in the apartment but a distance apart that is much too long and arduous to be easily overcome.

Perhaps because of loneliness, I have found it a bit easier now to write every day. That makes me happy. I believe I’ve always been cheered by writing, grateful that I have had both the ability and opportunities to make my way as an author.

In an old shoe box in my closet, I have the very first thing I ever wrote. It was a little story about St. Patrick and Ireland. I guess I knew I really wanted to write books, because I’d taken two sheets of typing paper and folded them in half, then stapled them to fashion a tiny book ofeight pages, each filled with words and iterrible llustrations done in crayon.

My mom saved that creative work, giving it to me along with a bunch of old souvenirs – photos and grade cards from school and old news clippings and a dried flower from someplace long forgotten. I was, according to the date my mother had written on the first page, five years old when I’d written about St. Patrick.

I was thinking about that piece of work yesterday and suddenly, without warning, I remembered some other writing I managed to scribble out 45 years ago, or so.

What I remembered was winning the first writing contest I ever entered, a contest held when I was in the fifth grade at Our Lady of Peace, or maybe the sixth. If my memory is correct, every Catholic student in whatever grade I was in was given the chance to write 100 words or so about something Catholic and then – to win a prize – submit the writing to some priest or maybe a bishop or even a cardinal.

That judge, poor fellow, would read all the words of all the students and name two winners. One of the winners would be a girl, the other would be a boy.

I didn’t write a word until the night before the work was to be turned in. I had no idea what to write until I picked up a tiny volume written by some priest somewhere to explain different Catholic terms to little boys, like me. Flipping the little book open, I found myself looking at a page about prayer. Specifically, about how to pray.

I don’t know who the author was and have no recollection of the words. I do remember reading each sentence and then rewriting it in little boy terms. I even remember making a couple of mistakes on purpose. I remember hoping I would not get caught.

Ha!

Not only did I not get caught, I won the contest. Some girl from a school in the north side of town, won the female division.

As I recall, both writings – mine and the girl’s – were printed in the city’s Catholic newspaper or perhaps the parish bulletin. I was, I guess, supposed to feel proud. Instead, I was terrified. I just knew someone would recognize the words and shame me. I kept waiting for the telephone to ring or for a posse of monsignors to show up at the front door.

Instead, all I got was a note that I’d won a ticket to see The Song of Bernadette movie in one of the downtown movie houses. I wouldn’t be alone, of course. I’d be accompanied by the little girl who had won the female contest and by two nuns, one from my school and one from hers.

I don’t remember enjoying the movie even though we sat in the balcony. The only thing I remember about the little girl are the truths that she was terribly obese and disgustingly holy. As I recall, she sat with her hands together and her head slightly bowed from the film's opening until its ending.

I firmly remember that we couldn’t get popcorn or candy. I remember I had to sit next to a nun who prayed her rosary without a pause. I remember some other kids looking at me and the girl and the nuns and laughing. I couldn’t wait to get home.

I don’t believe I’ve ever knowingly plagiarized since those days. The reward for stealing those words was, to my mind, a simply horrible punishment.

I don’t even enjoy the memories at all.