Make Your Home Among Strangers (13 page)

—Lizet, the woman said, almost interrupting him. This case is unusual for a variety of reasons. On paper it seemed pretty clear-cut, but the facts that surfaced during the hearing itself brought with them new considerations.

I kept slowly nodding during all of this, throughout each sentence.

—So please don't be alarmed by what we're about to say, she said.

Like telling Omar to calm himself down, this too had the opposite effect.

—What Dean Geller is saying is that we have indeed found the claim of egregious plagiarism justified, the oldest man rushed forward, leaning up in his chair with his words. However, he said, while the penalty of that charge is normally quite severe, it's absolutely clear to us, based on your testimony and on your initial response to the charge when your professor confronted you, that this penalty should be mitigated, and that's our recommendation.

When no one spoke, I said, Okay.

Under the table, I shifted my weight to my right leg, ready to run out the door. I wasn't sure what they were telling me. I was waiting for the word
expelled
.

The woman—Dean Geller—spoke again.

—Lizet, this means you aren't being asked to leave Rawlings.

As soon as she said this, my spine touched the back of the chair for the first time since sitting down. The tension in my body shifted to this new spot.

—I'm not?

—No, she said. She looked around at the others, as if daring them to jump in. We're recommending that you be placed on a kind of probation. We think that makes the most sense based on the answers you gave at your hearing.

I kept nodding. At the hearing, they'd all asked me questions, saying
Go on
when my answers were short—for some reason, I thought they'd want short answers: Yes miss, No sir. Go on, they kept saying. Go on, it's OK, we're asking for a reason.

The balding man pushed closer to the table, his hands coming alive as he started to speak, so much so that I remembered—I didn't during the hearing, where he'd been fairly reserved—that his great-grandmother was Cuban; he'd said so after scanning my file as I sat across from him during orientation, the one time we'd met before all this and where we'd discussed my fall schedule. I'd almost asked if that was why he'd been assigned to me, but I didn't have to: the answer was yes—he told me so himself. This accident of heritage had trumped the fact that I'd applied to Rawlings as a biology major and he was a classics professor.

—In particular, he said, we were deeply concerned by what we learned about your high school. No counselor we spoke to there was able to provide us with a copy of a code of academic integrity. One went so far as to say that none existed.

The oldest man made a kind of snort—his version of a laugh. They'd called Hialeah Lakes: I tried to tamp down the shame I felt at someone there possibly knowing about this with the fact that there were almost a dozen counselors—most lasting a year or two before transferring somewhere better—and so maybe whoever they'd spoken to was new and hadn't thought to connect the call to me. I had some sense that I could trust a place like Rawlings to respect my privacy while conducting their investigation—that they took their own rules as seriously as they took their honor code—but did they realize that even if they never uttered my name, just saying
Rawlings
to anyone at Hialeah Lakes led to no one but me? I looked up from my hands and caught Dean Geller glaring at the old man. I squeezed my palms together tighter when she turned back to me, to keep from showing any sign that I'd noticed.

—So our decision to place you on probation is based on things like that, she said, which taken all together means that we think your old school didn't foster something that we're calling a culture of success. And that isn't your fault, but I wanted – we wanted to give you a chance to ask what this means, or anything else you want to ask. We want you to feel empowered by this information, not afraid of it.

I hadn't said anything yet, but I was confused that they were talking about home instead of what I'd done. I stuttered a little, saying, I'm not sure –

The old man leaned sideways in his chair as if his back hurt and half barked, What she's trying to say is we believe you sincerely didn't know better. You haven't been given, at any point in your academic career prior to coming here, the
tools
to know better. So yes, you are guilty, but you are also blameless, and so that requires a more nuanced penalty.

I didn't remember saying at my hearing that I
didn't know better
. I didn't remember saying anything about tools at all. They'd asked me questions about my high school, about my teachers there, information I thought they already had on a sheet in front of them provided by the admissions office. They'd asked irrelevant questions about my parents and why they didn't go to college, why they hadn't finished high school (They were with child, I'd said, wincing inside at how my attempt at formality—
knocked up
and even
pregnant
had seemed too casual in my head—came out sounding overly biblical). They'd even asked about any siblings I might have, what they were doing with their lives (You mean my sister? I'd said). We'd gotten off track from my offense so fast that I'd thought I was doomed, and now it was happening again.

Dean Geller leaned my way, and this movement silenced the old man. She stuck her arm out across the table, although from where she sat there was no way she could reach me.

—Lizet, we feel strongly that, having admitted you, it is our responsibility to help you succeed. And we see no better place for you to do that –

—Remaining at Rawlings, the old man interrupted again, is the fastest way we can see you overcoming these deficiencies.

The balding man and Dean Geller shifted in their chairs, and Dean Geller fixed her eyes on the old man until he met her glare. She seemed embarrassed for me, but I felt humiliated enough on my own, though I didn't really understand why. When whatever passed between them was over, Dean Geller leaned to her left and produced some papers from somewhere beside her near the floor, then placed them on the table. She slid them my way, said they stated the terms of my probation.

I fanned them out: four sheets of that same beautiful onionskin paper, three of them covered with lines and lines of what looked like a list of instructions. The last page had just a couple sentences near the middle, and then five signatures stacked near the bottom left. Another signature—belonging to the school's president—was next to these, alone in the middle. On the right was a blank line, my full name typed in all caps beneath it.

—It's a kind of contract, she said.

They each went around the table and said something about this probation, about how my offense had actually provided an opportunity for them to address other serious concerns about my performance so far at Rawlings.
Your performance
, they kept saying, and so I pictured Leidy in her camera-ready outfit working her way into the frame, my mom's face on the TV before I'd turned it off and run down the street, and I nodded at the things they told me: some conditions about my fall grades, how they would factor into what happened next; something about possibly being placed in remedial classes in the spring; an
unfortunate and unforeseen complication
those remedial classes would pose on my credit hours that would impact a grant in my financial aid package, causing it to be replaced by an unsubsidized loan (this portion sounding so complicated and terrifying that I must've looked physically sick, because the woman interrupted the person covering it and asked me if I was all right, if perhaps I had a question). When I asked what the difference between a subsidized and an unsubsidized loan was, they all looked at each other, something seemingly reassuring them as they met each other's faces. Dean Geller answered and then said she'd have my financial aid officer contact me soon. The old man ended discussion on this point by saying there were plenty of deserving students in line for this money, and if anything, the committee felt that this complication would motivate me to reach out to the academic resources available on campus over the next three weeks.

—The letter makes all this very clear, Dean Geller eventually said. We'd like you to read over it. Your signature indicates you understand the committee's decision and that you accept the terms of your probation.

—Okay, I said. I sign it here then?

—On the line above your name, she said.

That seemed obvious; I'd meant
here
as in,
in that room
, right at that moment. Instead of clearing this up, I asked for a pen, slid the top three pages to the side, and on the fourth signed my name. When I looked up, the same grim faces watched each other, again sharing some secret. Then I realized my mistake: they'd expected me to read it through first. I'd signed something without reading it, made a commitment without knowing what was expected of me—something else Rawlings would have to teach me not to do.

I slid the pen away, and the man who'd attempted to explain the financial aid problem asked me, Do you have any questions?

I had so many, but most were not about the hearing's results. I wanted to ask: Where was everybody
before
that day? Why did it take this plagiarism hearing to get someone to notice that I was in major trouble in a whole other subject? If things were as bad as this letter indicated, why hadn't I seen my advisor since orientation? When he'd asked me what classes I planned on taking and I told him—bio, chem, calc, using those shortened versions in the hopes of sounding ready for it—why did he only say, Sounds hard for a first semester. You sure? Of course I was sure: I took six classes senior year of high school, all of them honors or AP, and I'd been an extracurricular junkie, so it made perfect sense to me that I could downgrade from six to four core classes—classes that
didn't even meet every day
!
—
and be fine. The Office of Diversity's mandatory meeting had warned us against that exact sentiment (it was, I think, number three on the list of “The Five Biggest Mistakes You Can Make Right Away,” a handout I left on the floor of that auditorium). Yes, I was sure, and he signed some paper—without really reading it!—saying I was good to go. Why had I found the handout insulting? Why did I feel like I'd tricked Rawlings into letting me in at all? How could I make that feeling go away?

—Can I – Is the meeting over? I said.

—This meeting? Yes, I believe so, Dean Geller said. She turned to the old man, deferring to him voluntarily for the first time all afternoon. Dean Tompkins?

—We've concluded the proceedings, yes. You are free to go, Lizet. We wish you the best of luck, young lady.

I pushed back from the table and couldn't help but think of my sister, the sound of her name the last word in the room.
Like they even know anything
, she would tell me now.
Don't listen to those people, what do they know about anything?
She'd managed to get herself on TV just as she'd planned, hadn't she? Couldn't that count as a culture of success? I gathered the four sheets in my hands, tapping them against the table into a stack as I stood.

—Oh, no Lizet, sorry for not making that clear, the old man—Dean Tompkins—said as he raised his hand to his glasses. The signed copy is for the college's records. Please leave that here. The secretary will have a copy for you as you leave.

—As I leave? I said.

—Linda, Dean Geller snapped at him. The assistant's name is Linda.

—Linda, yes. She's just outside, he said. She'll escort you out.

I left the papers there and dragged myself from the room, still half convinced that whatever I'd just signed actually gave my spot in the class of 2003 to the next person in line for it; hadn't one of them said something to that effect? Linda—I was glad to know her name—was there again, though this time I didn't rush by her. She clicked the door shut behind me, her hand back between my shoulder blades and pushing me forward, right up to her desk. An envelope with my name on it sat just on the desk's edge.

I asked her if it was a copy of what I'd just signed, and she said yes.

—Did you see it, like I mean, read it? Because I don't know –do they mean I can stay for just my freshman year, or for longer? For all four years?

She looked back at the door as if it should've already answered my question. The chunk of color sitting on her mouth had faded to the faint stain of fruit punch, and it showed off the saddest smile. She reached for the envelope and handed it to me.

—Oh, sweetheart, she said. Her hand went to her chest, genuinely sorry for something. You poor dear, she said. You're staying for good, sweetheart. You came through it OK and you can stay as long as it's worth it for you.

—Really? You read this whole thing and that's what it means?

She made to speak but just opened her mouth, then closed it. She must've thought I was an idiot, to have just sat through that whole meeting but still need to ask her this. She put her hands on my shoulders and almost whispered, I'm the one who types these up, and I promise you, you came through this fine. It's complicated, but you'll figure it out on your own time. You're a very smart person. They wouldn't let you stay if that weren't true. OK?

I made the mistake of hugging her—standing on my toes to throw my arms around her neck as I crumpled my copy of the letter against her back. She didn't seem to mind the hug. She even did her best to hug me back.

*   *   *

I read over the letter several times during the rest of my shift at the library's entrance desk, distracted only by the scuffs of people's boots as they whooshed in or out of the building. Again, Linda was right: it made more sense once I was out of that room, away from that table that predated Miami's founding. I could concentrate better in the library—a fact about myself I should've recognized earlier in the semester. The letter detailed a series of
if this, then that
scenarios: If I failed chemistry—likely, since I'd failed the midterm after freezing up and not finishing most of it—my spring probation would involve a limit on the classes I could take and I'd be forced into a noncredit remedial course that didn't count toward my eventual graduation. If I earned lower than a C-minus in any of my courses in addition to failing chemistry, there'd be more remedial courses—which meant I'd dip below the necessary credit hours to officially count as full-time and, as a result, a six-thousand-dollar grant in my aid package given to high-achieving minority first-generation college students (a crammed line in my bursar bill that read “Rawlings Minority Student Success Initiative: Fulfilling the Family Dream Scholarship”) would be revoked and replaced with an unsubsidized loan come the following year. Considering I already had five thousand a year in all kinds of loans, this was very bad news, and it also made me understand Linda's comment about Rawlings being worth it. If I somehow passed all four of my classes with a C-minus or better, I'd be allowed to continue working toward a biology major and wouldn't have to take anything with the word
remedial
in the course title. Most importantly, my financial aid wouldn't change. But this seemed the least likely outcome: along with the failing chem grade, I had a D in biology and a C-minus in calculus. On their own, these two classes weren't super hard, but taking them both the same term as chemistry made each worse. And because I'd failed the paper that I plagiarized (something the letter made clear but that I hadn't left the meeting understanding), and because it counted for thirty percent of my grade, I was hovering at a D in my writing seminar. I had an A in my required PE—swimming, which was easy since I'd grown up doing it—but the grades in our PE courses didn't count toward our final GPA. Had I understood that earlier, I would've taken the course pass/fail instead of for a grade: I could've missed a few classes, then, to study for the others without hurting my chances of passing.