Treading Lightly on Sacred Ground

                                                                                   

Respect for Learning

     He sat in front of me with a cocky expression on his face, superior, like what was he doing here in the dean’s office, anyway, and what nerve did I have pulling him out of class in front of the other students.

     I had to consider the “ethnicity card,” how these students, mostly solid middle-class, some from extremely wealthy families, especially some international students, perceived me, not a traditional “White” administrator who earned his position, but a Mexican dean, one of the few Mexicans in the administrative chain. That threw them, especially back in 1990, before the tide had begun to shift and more of us moved into the upper echelon of higher education.

     Sure, I knew when students and colleagues were “testing” me, even in the class when I taught, I understood the game they played to see if I really knew my “stuff,” or if I was just an affirmative action selection, which the media had slandered with negative stereotypes, using the worst examples and splattering them across the front pages. 

     However, by this time, I’d been around long enough. I'd worked at different universities. I had earned a strong reputation, both in teaching and in administration, which is more than I can say for a lot of my colleagues, whom, because of their privileged position in society, never had to prove their worth, which, in many cases, in my estimation, was lacking.

     In fact, what I learned was that in any professional endeavor, the “competent,” those who worked hard, were smart, and knew their jobs, eventually tended to gravitate to each other, and form friendships, respectful of each other’s professionalism and of the institution, the sacred bastion of learning, regardless of whom they were or from where they came.

     So, here I was holding this student’s personal folder in my hands, studying his Admission’s Application. First off, I realized the photo in his file didn’t match the guy “mad dogging” me from the other side of my desk, but photos can be deceptive, like in court, under close scrutiny, a witness's positive identification might fall apart. He looked Southeast Asian, maybe Indonesian or Malaysian.

    What I knew, for sure, was the guy in the chair facing me was no nineteen, like the box marked on his application indicated, more like well-past twenty; though, he had a youngish look about him.

     As dean of Enrollment Services, I’d received a report about one student posing as another, an imposter taking the real kid's classes, for pay. I had to be careful, like I said, tread lightly, avoid letting things “go south,” to get at the truth. The guy wasn't about to admit his misdeed, and I didn’t want to be accused of harassment, or worse, racial discrimination. Anyway, I was in no rush. Should I play Colombo or Elliot Ness, maybe Tom Cruise in that movie with Jach Nicholson, you know it, "You can't handle the truth?

     The way it started was, an hour or so earlier, an assistant had peeked her head into my office and told me a student had become suspicious of these two students running a scam in a history class. It just so happened the class the imposter was currently sitting in was my friend, Harvey’s class, a popular history prof at the community college, where I worked. Coincidentally, Harvey's class was right down the hall, so I asked my assistant to go interrupt Harvey and fetch him. “Tell him it’s an emergency.”

     Unflustered, Harvey came into my office, with his jovial, “Hey, what’s up? You know you got me in the middle of class.”

     I explained the situation and showed Harvey the student’s personal folder. I pointed to the picture and asked, “Harvey, is this the student in your class?"   

     Harvey took one look. “Negative,” he answered, clearly aggravated, hating the idea that someone was pulling something over on him. “That’s not him, not by that name. So, what now?”

     “Send him to my office. Don’t tell him why. Finish your class then come back. Sit there, in the back, where he can feel you breathing down his neck.”

     “Good cop, bad cop?”

     “Naw, just sit and watch, more like an objective observer.”

     So, that’s how it came to be that this young man, visibly irritated, was sitting in front of me.

     I started slowly, playing dumb, interrogating him, asking questions, trying to get him to slip up. He was an international student, according to his file, studying here before transferring to UCLA, to study engineering. Good, fine, let’s get on with it.

     Ten minutes had passed. Harvey returned. He took a seat behind the kid. I asked more questions. The kid had done his homework, memorized dates, classes, grades, all that good stuff, but I could see, finally, my questions were getting to him. His nerves showed, his arrogance slipping, a little more contrite.

     At times, I sat there calmy, in silence, except for the muffled voices outside my office, phones ringing, a fax machine spitting out something. I just let the kid stew. I looked down at the application. I spotted a line, “Parents’ Name.” I got an idea. I bluffed. Though it wasn’t written down, I asked, “So, what’s your mother’s maiden name?”

     He was in trouble. I could see it in his eyes. The superiority was gone. Instead of saying he didn’t know, he cried out, “Okay! It’s not me. I’m not him. I’m taking his classes. He’s paying me $5,000 a class.”

     “How long have you been doing this? Are you a student here?”

     “Since last semester, not every class, just the ones he doesn't want to bother with. No, no, I did go here, but I transferred. I’m a grad student at UCLA. I needed the money. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was just helping a friend.”

     “Is he really a friend?”

     He knew what I was asking. He looked at me, embarrassed, “No. I met him through another student.”

     Harvey stood up, disgusted, ready to walk out of the office. I motioned for him to sit down. I needed a witness, just in case. Some students are wily. They'll accuse you of all kinds of things, from assault to sexual abuse, or just plain up thuggery. 

    I asked the student for his personal information, like we’d been in a fender bender. I copied down everything he told me. I called in my assistant to bring me his file. After she found it, and I corroborated the details, I told him he could go, but I wanted him to return and bring the other student with him. When he walked out the door, I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again.

      Harvey, known as a campus prankster, stood over six-foot, looked at me, and said, “Very cool, Professor.” He walked out. He always called me “professor” because he said I’d get sick of administration, one day, and come to my senses, and get back to the classroom where I belonged. He was right, but it took a few years.

     A day or two later, my assistant stepped into my office. “They’re here, the two students you wanted to see, the ones scamming Harvey’s class.”

     I called Harvey in his office. He was free. I told him what was up, and he came running to my office. He took a seat at the back, a Cheshire cat grin on his face.

     Long story short, the nineteen-year-old denied everything. Dumb! Dumb! How can you deny what everybody else saw? The other guy, the imposter, spoke up. He told the kid to fess up. We already knew everything. I was confused. The imposter looked at me and said, “The only way I could get him here was to say you needed to see him about an error on his application, or he wouldn’t come. He doesn't know why he's here.”

     The younger kid said, “How…why did…?”

     The imposter turned to the kid and said, desperately, “The dean asked me your mother’s maiden name. I didn't know it.”

     “Nobody does," said the kid. "It’s not even on the application.”

     Silence. The imposter glared at me. I nodded, that kind of “Orale, y que?” nod, like, “Got you, Ay.”

     The younger kid commenced to cry, real tears, but I questioned the emotions, too much experience in my life dealing with liars, friends and cousins hurting for money, making up anything, some real whoppers, to get a few dollars for whatever illicit commodity they needed. I could see it in the kid’s eyes, the high that comes from manipulating others for whatever you want, and nobody can touch you.

     He started by telling me he wasn’t smart enough to earn the A’s his father demanded. I opened the folder and took another look at his transcripts. Sure enough, nothing less than an A. He said he had to work three jobs to pay the imposter to take his classes and to please, please not to tell his father or he'd have to return home and face the old man's wrath, a very abusive person who beats him. If this gets out it will ruin his life.

     Harvey and I listened, the story pouring out of the kid like water rushing from a faucet. Harvey raised an eyebrow, skepticism or empathy. I couldn’t get a good read on him.

     Now the moral dilemma. I could keep quiet about it, forget the whole thing, chalk it up to a stupid-kid’s experience, or do what was required and send the two students through the process, a whole lot of administrative work, tough decisions, and possible headaches. Tread lightly. No, there wasn’t much of a decision. I had to do what was right. I told the kid he’d be hearing from us. For now, I was suspending him. He blurted out, "No. Please." I could tell he was more angry than remorseful.

     Later, the “finger” returned, the first kid who blabbered on about the academic scam. I wanted to talk to him. I filled him in on everything that had happened. He listened. When I finished, he told me he knew the kid. They had both come from the same country. He said the kid was spoiled. His father had so much money, he didn’t even handle his finances. He had a manager. The manager would send the kid thousands of dollars each month, more if he wanted.

     “Three jobs! No way. He’s out at the clubs partying every night, and he sleeps all day, while this other guy is taking his classes. He probably already paid the guy thousands of dollars.”

     “Why did you come in here and report this?" I was curious. 

     “Because it isn’t fair, and we aren't all like him. He makes foreign students look bad.”

     I wrote up all the particulars, explained what had transpired, and emailed it to my boss, the vice-president of Student Affairs, and a copy to UCLA's registrar. It took a while, but someone up the chain of command ordered both students expelled. The community college student’s record was wiped clean, the A's gone, like he’d never enrolled. I heard the UCLA student had been dropped from his Ph. D. science program. Both students were also told their academic records would follow them wherever they tried to enroll. It all sounded kind of harsh. The whole incident ruined their educations.

     I thought about all the kids who worked hard for their grades, studied hours, gave up family time, some who had to work, babysit brothers and sisters, take two, three buses to campus and back home, yet still stay up all night studying. Who was to know then that, years later, a group of movie stars, celebrities, and rich folk would pay a scam artist to get their kids into the best colleges and universities. Man, what money can buy.

     Like Spike Lee said, “Do the right thing,” but then, things don’t always go as planned, you know, about the “best laid plans of mice and men,” all the things that can go wrong, turn around an bite you in the ass. I guess there’s something to be said for treading lightly.