Cheating, Lying, and Love

Recently it became apparent that the majority of the students in one of my classes had cheated on a homework assignment. I could not figure out how they had done so, and I had absolutely no hard proof. I did, however, have some pretty telling circumstantial evidence and a desire to make them suffer for their dishonesty.

So I wrote a pop quiz full of questions that had a striking resemblance to the ones on their homework assignment. It didn’t surprise me at all that the average grade was less than five out of 15 points. It did, however, surprise me when it became clear that one of my nicest, sweetest, and most A-worthy students had cheated on it.

And this time, I had proof.

See, I had given out two versions of the quiz, and the questions were not of the true/false, A/B/C/D variety; they were full chemical reactions, similar in structure but differing completely in elements. So, when this student had the semi-correct answers to the version A quiz on her version B quiz, I knew it was no coincidence. She had definitely cheated, and that meant that, no matter how much I like her, I was going to have to confront her.

I dreaded doing so, but I knew I had to – not just because of the school’s policies but also because, regardless of how nice and sweet she is most of the time, she had made a mistake this time. And she was going to have to face the consequences.

So I called her into my room just before school began one quiet morning last week. As calmly and softly as I could, I said, “I need to talk to you about that pop quiz. Your answers don’t seem to make a whole lot of sense.” And I showed her the two versions of the quiz next to each other. I didn’t need to say anything more. Her eyes filled with tears, as she choked out a quiet “I’m sorry. I was so nervous.” Nervous enough not to even realize that her answers made no sense as compared to her questions, I guess.

But regardless of her error in judgment, I hated watching her suffer right there in front of me. So I said a few calming things and let her know that I still think very highly of her and only wanted to be sure she had learned this valuable lesson. She assured me that she had, that she would never do it again, and then she left. Feeling awful, I’m sure, but not nearly as awful as me.

I tried to go back to my work, knowing that I had done the right thing, despite how hard it was, and reminding myself that my job is not just to educate these students in science but also in character, integrity, and truth. And then I got this email:

“Dear Mrs. Eames, I wanted to say that I am really, really sorry and I promise it will never happen again. There are no excuses for my actions. I apologize from the bottom of my heart.”

Her words broke my heart in two. Her obvious pain shattered those two pieces into about a million. Clearly, she had learned her lesson, and I’d been the one to teach it to her. Know that I am in a situation to make this kind of impact made me feel very proud. But knowing that one of my babies was hurting like that (despite the fact that she’d brought in on herself) just made me want to soothe and comfort her.

I’d been so mad at my kids for the majority of that week, and I’d even had moments when I’d wondered if I was truly cut out to take on the challenging responsibilities that go along with teaching them. The experience with this student reminded me of just how much I love my kids, and it solidified for me the notion that it is my love for them that is the most important thing.

Every single one of my kids will go through some kind of pain, and I will have to witness it at times. At other times, I will have to punish them for the pain they inflict on others. I (and they) will hate every painful moment. But I will also love my kids through them. And if they get nothing from me other than a small sense of that love, then I believe I will have done my job.