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This essay appeared in the Washington Post on September 3, 2004.

LAWRENCE M. HINMAN HOW TO FIGHT COLLEGE CHEATING

Recent studies have shown that a steadily growing number of students cheat or plagiarize in college— and the data from high schools suggest that this number will continue to rise. A study by Don McCabe of Rutgers University showed that 74 percent of high school students admitted to one or more instances of serious cheating on tests. Even more disturbing is the way that many students define cheating and plagiarism. For example, they believe that cutting and pasting a few sentences from various Web sources without attribution is not plagiarism. 1

Before the Web, students certainly plagiarized—but they had to plan ahead to do so. Fraternities and sororities often had files of term papers, and some high-tech term-paper firms could fax papers to students. Overall, however, plagiarism required forethought. 2

Online term-paper sites changed all that. Overnight, students could order a term paper, print it out, and have it ready for class in the morning—and still get a good night’s sleep. All they needed was a charge card and an Internet connection. 3

One response to the increase in cheating has been to fight technology with more technology. Plagiarism-checking sites provide a service to screen student papers. They offer a color-coded report on papers and the original sources from which the students might have copied. Colleges qualify for volume discounts, which encourages professors to submit whole classes’ worth of papers—the academic equivalent of mandatory urine testing for athletes. 4

The technological battle between term-paper mills and anti-plagiarism services will undoubtedly continue to escalate, with each side constructing more elaborate countermeasures to outwit the other. The cost of both plagiarism and its detection will also undoubtedly continue to spiral. 5

“The cost of both plagiarism and its detection will also undoubtedly continue to spiral.”

But there is another way. Our first and most important line of defense against academic dishonesty is simply good teaching. Cheating and plagiarism often arise in a vacuum created by routine, lack of interest, and overwork. Professors who give the same assignment every semester, fail to guide students in the development of their projects, and have little interest in what the students have to say contribute to the academic environment in which much cheating and plagiarism occurs. 6

Consider, by way of contrast, professors who know their students and who give assignments that require regular, continuing interaction with them about their projects—and who require students to produce work that is a

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meaningful development of their own interests. These professors create an environment in which cheating and plagiarism are far less likely to occur. In this context, any plagiarism would usually be immediately evident to the professor, who would see it as inconsistent with the rest of the student’s work. A strong, meaningful curriculum taught by committed professors is the first and most important defense against academic dishonesty. 7

The second remedy is to encourage the development of integrity in our students. A sense of responsibility about one’s intellectual development would preclude cheating and plagiarizing as inconsistent with one’s identity. It is precisely this sense of individual integrity that schools with honor codes seek to promote. 8

Third, we must encourage our students to perceive the dishonesty of their classmates as something that causes harm to the many students who play by the rules. The argument that cheaters hurt only themselves is false. Cheaters do hurt other people, and they do so to help themselves. Students cheat because it works. They get better grades and more advantages with less effort. Honest students lose grades, scholarships, recommendations, and admission to advanced programs. Honest students must create enough peer pressure to dissuade potential cheaters. Ultimately, students must be willing to step forward and confront those who engage in academic dishonesty. 9

Addressing these issues is not a luxury that can be postponed until a more convenient time. It is a short step from dishonesty in schools and colleges to dishonesty in business. It is doubtful that students who fail to develop habits of integrity and honesty while still in an academic setting are likely to do so once they are out in the “real” world. Nor is it likely that adults will stand up against the dishonesty of others, particularly fellow workers and superiors, if they do not develop the habit of doing so while still in school. 10

AT ISSUE: SOURCES FOR UNDERSTANDING PLAGIARISM 1. In the first five paragraphs of this essay, Hinman provides background on how plagiarism by

students has been changed by the Internet. Summarize the plagiarism situation before and after the development of the Internet.

2. The essay’s thesis is stated in paragraph 6. Restate this thesis in your own words. 3. Does Hinman view plagiarism-detection sites as a solution to the problem of college cheating?

What are the limitations of such sites? 4. According to Hinman, what steps can “committed professors” (para. 7) take to eliminate academic

dishonesty? 5. In paragraphs 8 and 9, Hinman suggests two additional solutions to the problem of plagiarism.

What solutions does he propose? Given what you know about college students, do you think Hinman’s suggestions are realistic? Explain.

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Hinman does not address arguments that challenge his recommendations. What opposing arguments might he have presented? How would you refute these opposing arguments?

7. This essay was published more than ten years ago. Do you think Hinman’s observations and recommendations are still valid? Why or why not?

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UWP: Ortiz&Spencer: All About Skin page 30

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one line short

Fa i r n e s s

Chi nelo Ok pa ranta

We gather out side the class room, in the break between morn ing and after noon lec tures, all of us girls not blessed with skin the color of ripe paw paw. We stand there, on the con crete steps, chew ing ground nuts and meat pies, all of us with the same dark skin, match ing, like the uni forms we wear. All of us, ex cept On ye chi of course, be cause her skin has now turned color, and we are eager to know how. It is the rea son she stands with us, though she no longer be longs. She is now one of the oth ers, one of the girls with fair skin.

Clara looks at On ye chi, her eyes nar row, a sus pi cious look. Boma chuck les in dis be lief. She claps her hands; her eyes widen. She ex claims, “Chi m O! My God! How fast the mir a cle!” On ye chi shakes her head, tells us that it was no mir a cle at all. It is then that she tells us of the bleach. Boma chuck les again. I think of Eno, of re turn ing home and tell ing her what On ye chi has said. I lis ten and nod, try ing to catch every bit of the for mula. Clara says, “I don’t be lieve it.” On ye chi kisses the palm of her right hand and raises it high to ward the sky, a swear to God, be cause she in sists that she is not tell ing a lie. Our skin is the color not of ripe paw paw peels but of its seeds. We are thirsty for fair ness. But even with her swear ing, we are un con vinced, a lit tle too dis be liev ing of what On ye chi has said.

Hours later, I sit on a stool out side, in the back yard of our house. I sit under the mango tree, across from the hi bis cus bush. Ekaite is at the far end of the back yard where the clothes lines hang. She col lects Papa’s shirts from the line, a row of them, which wave in the breeze like mis- sha pen flags. Even in the near dark ness, I can see the yel low ness of

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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Ekaite’s skin. A nat u ral yel low, not like Onyechi’s or some of the other girls. Not like Mama’s.

Eno sits with me, and at first we trace the liz ards with our eyes. We watch as they race up and down the gate. We watch as they scurry over the gravel, over the patches of grass. When we are tired of watch ing, we dig the earth deep, seven pairs of holes in the ground, and one large one on each end of the seven pairs. We take turns toss ing our peb bles into the holes. We re move the peb bles, also tak ing turns. We cap ture more and more of them until one of us wins. The game be gins again.

The sounds of car en gines mix with the sounds of the crick ets. It is late eve ning, and the sky is gray. Car head lights sneak through the spaces between the metal rods of the gate. The gray be comes a lit tle less gray, a lit tle like day. Still, mos qui toes swirl around, and I slap them, and I slap my self, and Eno stops with the game, un ties one of the two wrap pers from around her waist, hands it to me.

At the clothes line, Ekaite is slap ping too. She is slap ping even more than Eno and I. Her skirt only comes down to her knees; she is not wear ing a wrap per with which she can cover her legs.

I say, “They bite us all the same.” Eno says, “No, they bite Ekaite more. Even the mos qui toes pre fer

fair skin.” The words come out like a mut ter. Her tone is some thing between anger and de jec tion. I im a gine the flesh of a ripe paw paw. It is not quite the shade of Ekaite’s skin, but it, too, is fair. I throw Eno’s wrap per over my legs.

Em ma nuel walks by, car ry ing a bucket. Water trick les down the side. A chew ing stick hangs from the side of his mouth. His lips curve into a crooked smile. He stops by Ekaite, maybe they share a joke, be- cause then comes the crack ing of his laugh ter, and then hers, surg ing, ris ing, then ta per ing into the night sounds, at the very mo ment when it seems that they might be come in suf fer able. I look at Eno. Eno frowns.

Em ma nuel pours the water out of the bucket, at the cor ner of the com pound where the sand dips into the earth like a sewer. The scent of chlo rine bil lows in the air, and I think of On ye chi and her swear ing. I ex hume the mem ory of the morn ing break, toss it about in my mind, like a peb ble in the air, as if to get a feel for its tex ture, its po ten tial, its ca pac ity for suc cess. And then I tell it to Eno.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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n

When the sky grows black, I hand Eno back her wrap per, and we enter the house. We go to gether to the bath room. First we pour the bleach into the bucket. Only a quar ter of the way full. Then we watch the water bub ble out of the fau cet. We in hale and ex hale deeply, and the sound of our breath ing is weirdly louder than the sound of the run ning water. We ca ress the buck ets with our eyes as if we are ca ress ing our very hearts. The bucket fills. We turn the fau cet off and gaze into the tub. We are still gaz ing when Ekaite calls Eno. Her voice booms down the cor ri dor, and Eno runs off, be cause she knows well that she should not be in the bath room with me. Be cause Eno knows that she must in stead use the housegirls’ bath room, out side in the housegirls’ quar ters in the far cor ner of the back yard. But mostly, when Ekaite calls, Eno runs off, be cause din ner will be served in just an hour, and Eno will have to help in the prep ar a tion of it.

At the din ing table, Papa sits at the head, Mama by his side. The scent of egusi soup en ters through the kitchen. Mama picks up her spoon, looks into it, un screws the tiny can is ter, still with the spoon in her hand. It is lav en der, the can is ter, and the lip stick in it is a rich color, red like the hi bis cus flower; and it rises from the con tainer, slowly, stead ily, like a liz ard cau tiously peek ing out of a hole. Over head the ceil ing fan rat tles and buzzes. The air con di tioner hums, like soft snor ing. In the kitchen we hear the clang-clanging of Ekaite’s and Eno’s food prep ar a tion: of the pes tle hit ting the mor tar, yam being pounded for the soup. Off and on, there is the sound of the run ning fau cet. We lis ten to the clink of sil ver ware on glass. I im a gine the plates and uten sils being set out on the gran ite counter top, and then I hear a sound like the shut ting of the fridge, that shiny, stain less steel door all the way from Amer ica. And I won der if Ekaite ever takes the time to look at her re flec- tion in the door. And if she does, does she see her self in that super ior way in which I im a gine all fair peo ple see them selves?

A bowl of vel vet tam a rinds sits at the cen ter of the table, a glass bowl in the shape of a dis sected apple, its short glass stem lead ing to a small glass leaf. Mama got it on one of her busi ness trips over seas. She re turned from that trip with other things too—silk blouses from Macy’s, some Chanel, bebe, Coach, some Nike wear. The eve ning she

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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re turned, she tossed all the items in piles on her side of the bed. She tossed her self con tent edly, too, on the bed, on a small area on Papa’s side, the only re main ing space. She held up some of the over seas items for me to see. One blouse she lifted up closer to me, held it to my chest. It was the yel low of a ripe pine ap ple. “Will lighten you up,” she said. She tossed it to me. I didn’t reach for it in time. It dropped to the floor.

The first mag a zine ar rived two weeks later, Cos mo pol i tan, pale faces and pink lips dec o rat ing the cover, women with hair the color of fresh corn. Per fect arches above their eyes.

Next was Glam our, then Elle. And every eve ning fol low ing that, Mama would sit on the par lor sofa for hours, flip ping through the pages of the mag a zines, her eyes mov ing rap idly over and over the same pages, as if she were stud y ing hard for the JAMB, as if there were some fash ion equiv a lent to those uni ver sity exams.

n

I stare at the dis sected apple, at the vel vet tam a rinds in it. I im a gine pick ing one of the tam a rinds up, a small one, some thing smaller than those old kobo coins, smaller than the ti ni est one of them. Ekaite shuf fles into the din ing room, Eno close be hind. They find them selves some space between me and the empty chair next to me. Ekaite sets the first tray down, three bowls of pounded yam.

She lifts the first bowl out of the tray. She sets it on the place mat in front of Mama. Mama smiles at her, thanks her. Then, “Osiso, osiso,” Mama says. “Quick, quick, bring the soup!” Ekaite hur ries back to where Eno is stand ing, takes out a bowl of soup from Eno’s tray, sets it in front of Mama. Mama says, “Good girl. Very good girl.” The skin around Mama’s eyes wrin kles from her deep en ing smile. Ekaite nods and does not smile back. Eno, by my side, is more than un smil ing, and I can hardly blame her. But then I re mem ber the bucket in the bath room, and I feel hope bil low ing in me. Hope ris ing: the prom ise of re lief.

It is Eno who serves Papa and me our food. She puts our dishes of pounded yam and soup on our place mats, still un smil ing. Papa thanks her, but it is a thank you that lacks all the fawn ing that Mama’s for Ekaite had. He thanks her in his quiet, aloof way, as if his mind is in his of fice, or some where far from home.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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one line long

Mama waves Eno away. I watch her hand wav ing, the gold rings on her fin gers, the brace let that dan gles from her wrist. I take in the yel low- ness of her hand. I think of the bucket in the bath room, and I feel that hope again in me.

n

“Uzoa maka,” Mama says, when Eno and Ekaite have dis ap peared into the kitchen. “You are look ing very tat tered today.”

Papa squints at her. I don’t re spond. “It’s no way to present your self at the din ner table,” she says. The

words tum ble out of her mouth, one con nected to the other, and I im a gine rolls of her pounded yam all lined up on her plate, no space between them. Like her words, I think, that American way, one word tum bling into the next with no space between.

Papa looks at me for a mo ment, tak ing me in as if for the first time in a long time. “How was school today?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say. Mama says, “A good week so far. A good month even. Im a gine, an

en tire month and no strike! Sur pris ing, with the way those lec tur ers are al ways on strike.”

“No, no strike so far,” I say. “In any case,” Mama says, “not to worry.” She pauses. “Ar range-

ments are al ready being made.” Papa shakes his head slightly, barely per cept ibly, but we both see,

Mama and I. “She needs a good ed u ca tion,” Mama says to him, as if to coun ter

the shak ing of his head. She turns to me. “You need a good ed u ca tion,” she says. It is not a new idea, this one of a good ed u ca tion, but she has that se ri ous look on her face, as if she is weigh ing it with that thought- ful ness that ac com pa nies new ideas. “That is what Amer ica will give you,” she says. “A solid ed u ca tion. And no strikes. Im a gine, with a de gree from Amer ica, you can land a job with a big com pany here, or maybe even re main in Amer ica. Land of op por tu nities.” She smiles at me. Her smile is wide.

Papa stuffs a roll of soup-covered pounded yam into his mouth. He keeps his eyes on me. Mama turns back to her food. She rolls her pounded yam, dips it into the bowl of soup, swal lows. For a while, no one speaks.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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one line long

“In the mean time, you can’t walk around look ing tat tered the way you do, shirt un tucked, hair un brushed. As for your face, you’d do well to dab some pow der on. It will help brighten you up.”

Papa clears his throat. Mama turns to look at him. His eyes nar row at her. She starts to speak, but her words trail into a mur mur and then into noth ing at all.

There is an other si lence. This time it is Mama who clears her throat. Then she turns to me. She says, “Even Ekaite presents her self bet ter than you do. The bot tom line is that you could learn a lit tle some thing from her. House girl or not.”

I roll my eyes and feel the heat ris ing in my cheeks. “Very well-mannered, that one. Takes care of her self. Beau ti ful all

around.” It is not the first time she is say ing this. I roll my eyes like I al ways do. “Eno is pretty too,” I coun ter. It is the

first time that I am coun ter ing Mama on Ekaite. I only in tend to mut ter it, but it comes out louder than a mut ter. I look up to find Mama glar ing at me. I catch Papa’s eyes on me, a lit tle sharper than be fore.

“Eno is pretty, too,” Mama re peats, sing-songy, mock ingly. “Fool ish Eno. Dummy Eno.” She has to say “dummy” twice, be cause the first time it comes out too Ni ger ian, with the ac cent on the last syl lable in- stead of on the first. She tells me that Eno is no com par i son to Ekaite. Not just where beauty is con cerned. What a good house girl Ekaite is, she says. She adds, an un nec es sary re min der, that when Ekaite was around Eno’s age, which is to say four teen, the same age as me, Ekaite al ready knew how to make egusi and okra soup. And what tasty soups Ekaite made as early as four teen! Even Ekaite’s beans and yams, Mama con tin ues, were the beans and yams of an ex pert, at four teen. “The girl knows how to cook,” she con cludes. “Just a good girl all around.” She pauses. “Eno is no com par i son. No com par i son at all.”

Papa clears his throat. “They’re both good girls,” he says. He nods at me, smiles, a weak smile. In that brief mo ment I won der what he knows. Whether he knows, like I do, that it’s only bias, the way Mama feels about Ekaite. Whether he knows, like I do, that the rea son for the bias is that Ekaite’s face re minds her of the faces she sees on her mag a zines from abroad. Be cause, of course, Ekaite’s com plex ion is light and her nose is not as wide and her lips not as thick as mine or Eno’s. I look at him and I won der if he knows, like I do, that Mama doesn’t go as far as say ing these last bits be cause, of course, she’d feel a lit tle shame in say ing it.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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He dips his pounded yam into his soup. Mama does the same. I don’t touch my food. In stead, I stare at the vel vet tam a rinds, and

I re mem ber the first time she came back with boxes of those creams. Es o ter ica, Mo vate, Skin Suc cess, Ambi. It was around the time the tele vi sion com mer cials started ad ver tis ing them—the fade creams. And we’d go to the Every day Em por ium, and there’d be stacks of them at the en trance, neat pyr a mids of creams. It was around the time that the first set of girls in school started to grow lighter. Mama’s friends, the darker ones, started to grow lighter, too. Mama did not at first grow light with them. She was cau tious. She’d only grow light if she had the best qual ity of creams, not just the brands they sold at the Every day Em por ium. She wanted first-rate, the kinds she knew Amer- ica would have. And so she made the trip and re turned with boxes of creams.

Mo vate worked im me di ately for her. In just a few weeks, her skin had turned that shade of yel low. It worked for her knuck les, for her knees. Yel low all around, uni form yel low, al most as bright as Ekaite’s paw paw skin.

She in sisted I use them too. With Mo vate, patches formed all over my skin, dark and light patches, like shad ows on a wall. She in sisted I stop. Peo ple would know, she said. Those dark knuck les and knee caps and eye lids. Peo ple would surely know. We tried Es o ter ica next. A six- month reg i men. Three times a day. No prog ress at all. Skin Suc cess was no suc cess. Same with Ambi. “Not to worry,” Mama said. “They’re al- ways com ing up with new prod ucts in Amer ica. Soon enough we’ll find some thing that works.”

We must have been on Ambi the day Ekaite walked in on us—into my bed room, not think ing that I was there. I should have been at school. She was car ry ing a pile of my clothes, washed and dried and folded for me.

Ekaite looked at the con tain ers of creams on my bed. Mama chuck led un com fort ably. “Oya ga­wa,” she said. Well, go

ahead. Ekaite walked to my dresser. The draw ers slid open and closed.

Empty-handed now, she walked back to ward the door. Mama chuck led again and said, “Uzoa maka here will soon be fair

like you.”

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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Ekaite nod ded. “Yes, Ma.” There was a con fused look on her face, as if she were won der ing at the state ment.

Mama cleared her throat. “Fair like me, too.” Ekaite nod ded again. Then she turned to Mama. “Odi kwa mma otu

odi.” She’s fine the way she is. Mama shook her head. “Oya ga­wa! Osiso, osiso.” The door clicked closed.

n

I tell Mama that I’m not feel ing well. An upset stom ach. I ex cuse my self from the table be fore Mama has a chance to re spond.

I carry my dishes into the kitchen, where Eno is wait ing for me. Ekaite sits on a stool close to the floor. I feel her eyes on me and on Eno.

In side the bath room, the air is humid and smells clean, pur ified, a chem i cal kind of fresh ness. There is no lock on the door, but we make sure to close it be hind us.

Eno holds the towel and stands back, but I call her to me, be cause I am again find ing my self skep ti cal of the water and of the bleach. In my imag i na tion, I see Clara’s sus pi cious eyes, and I hear Boma’s dis be liev ing laugh. Fear catches me, and I think per haps we should not bother, per haps we should just pour every thing out. But then I hear Mama’s voice, say ing, “Fool ish Eno. Dummy Eno.” I take the towel from Eno. “You should go first,” I say. It is a de ceit ful rea son that I give, but it is also true: “Be cause you’re not sup posed to be here. That way you’ll be al ready done by the time any one comes to chase you out.”

Eno nods. She con cedes straight away. She gets on her knees, bends her body over the wall of the bath tub

so that her upper half hangs hor i zon tally above the tub, so that her face is just above the bucket.

“We’ll do only the face today,” I say. “Dip it in until you feel some- thing like a tin gle.” She dips her face into the water. She stays that way for some time, hold ing her breath. Even if I’m not the one with my face sub merged, it is hard for me to breathe. So much an tic i pa tion.

Eno lifts up her face. “My back is start ing to ache, and I don’t feel any thing.”

“You have to do it for longer,” I say. “Stand up, stretch your back. But you have to try to stay longer.”

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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C h i n e l o O k p a ra n ta38

UWP: Ortiz&Spencer: All About Skin page 38

one line long

Eno stands up. She lifts her hands above her head in a stretch. She gets back down on her knees, places her face into the bucket again.

“Only get up when you feel the tin gling,” I say. Time passes. “Do you feel it yet?” The back of Eno’s head moves from side to side, a shake with her

face still in the water. More time passes. “Not yet?” The back of Eno’s head moves again from side to side. “Okay. Come up.” She lifts her face from the water first. She stands up. The color of her

skin seems softer to the eyes, just a lit tle lighter than be fore. I smile at her. “It’s work ing,” I say. “But we need to go full force.”

“Okay,” she says. “Good.” She watches as I pour the liq uid from the bucket into the tub. We both watch as the water drains; we lis ten as it gur gles down the pipe. I take the bucket out of the tub, place it in a cor ner of the bath room by the sink. The bath bowl is sit ting in the sink. I pick it up, hold it above the tub, pour the bleach straight into it. I get down on my knees, call Eno to my side, tell her to place her face into the bowl. She does.

Only a lit tle time passes, and then she screams, and her scream bil lows in the bath room, fills up every tiny bit of the room, and I am dizzy with claus tro pho bia. Then there is the thud and splash of the bowl in the tub, then there is the thud of the door slam ming into the wall. Ekaite rushes to ward us, sees that it is Eno who is in pain. She reaches her hands out to Eno, holds Eno’s face in her palms. Eno screams, twists her face. Her cheeks con tort as if she is suck ing in air. She screams and screams. I feel the pain in my own face. Ekaite looks as if she feels it too, and for a mo ment I think I see tears form ing in her eyes. Papa looms in the door way, then en ters the bath room. He looks fiercely at me. He asks, “What did you do to her? What did you do?” In the door way, I see Mama just watch ing, her eyes flick ing this way and that.

“What did you do?” Papa asks again. I turn to him, plead ing, want ing des per ately to make my case, but I don’t find the words. I turn to Mama. I beg her to ex plain. She looks blankly at me, a lit tle con fu sion in her eyes. I stand in the mid dle of them, fro zen with some thing like fear, some thing not quite guilt.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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Fa i r n e s s

39

UWP: Ortiz&Spencer: All About Skin page 39

By then, even Em ma nuel has made his way into the house, aban- don ing his post at the gate. He stands just be hind Mama, and his peer ing eyes seem to ask me that same ques tion: What did you do?

My legs feel weak. I turn to Eno, I smile at her. I think of Mama with her yel low skin, with her creams. “Don’t worry,” I say. “We’ll find some thing that works.” Eno screams.

They leave the bath room quickly then, all of them, Ekaite and Papa lead ing Eno. The door crashes closed be hind them, their voices be- com ing in creas ingly dis tant, still fren zied. I blink my eyes as if to blink my self awake.

n

Days later, when the scabs start to form, I im a gine peel ing them off like the hard shell of the vel vet tam a rind. Eno’s flesh under neath the scabs is a pinkish-yellow like the tam a rind pulp, only a lit tle like a ripe paw paw peel. And even if I know that this scabby fair ness of hers is borne of in jury, a tem po rary fair ness of skin less flesh, patchy, and ugly in its patchi ness, I think how close she has come to hav ing skin like Onyechi’s, and I feel some thing like envy in me, be cause what she has wound up with is fair ness after all, fair ness, if only for a while.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 14 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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My roots lie in the village of Sibizane, three hours drive from Durban, South

Africa. My grandmother and my mother struggled to raise us with the ability to

face a world that they knew was tough. For them, life was to get married if you

were a young woman, and to work in the mines or cities or stay home and look

after a healthy herd of cattle if you were a young man. Work, livestock, and

marriage were the sources of pride or failure among the residents of Sibizane.

This was the society I stepped into in my teenage years.

One afternoon when I was sixteen, I went to the Umzimkhulu River to fetch

water as usual. I met two young women of my age group. Zenzile asked me,

“Sibongile, who is your boyfriend?”

“I don’t have one,” I answered.

They both shouted at me “You are lying!”

“It’s true!” I protested.

Khethiwe then accused me, “I suspect when my boyfriend comes to you

asking you to call me for him, you first give him a bite [have thigh sex with

him]. If you don’t stop this habit of yours, we will fight you.”

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I was shocked. I did not want a boyfriend because I knew my uncle would

beat me to death. Also, I wanted to be a nun.

When we were collecting firewood and the weather was hot, we normally walked bare-breasted. On one of these days, two young women, Ntombi and

Nomusa, confronted me.

“Why are your breasts so straight?” Nomusa asked.

“That is just the way they are,” I answered.

“You mean to tell us that you have not slept with a man since your first

period?” Ntombi asked. (Sleeping with a man meant thigh sex. Sexual inter-

course is not sanctioned for young women before marriage.)

“Of course I have not slept with a man,” I answered. I did not know what

the breasts had to do with sleeping with a man. They squeezed my breasts and

both confirmed that they were hard, so it meant no man had slept on them.

They looked at me with eyes of disapproval.

That painful experience left me feeling confused and ashamed of myself.

It taught me that to be a woman of my age and accepted in my community,

I needed to have a boyfriend; otherwise I was in trouble with my peers, and

perhaps with my parents too.

I was afraid of being rejected. So I started to think whom I would choose of all the young men who were proposing love to me. I was afraid of any young man

who was much bigger than me in case I would not be able to defend myself if

he wanted to have sex with me. I decided to get involved with Vusi, who was five

years older than me. Now was the time to practice all the things the iqhikiza

(the older girl who is the advisor to girls in the village) had taught me about

relationships. It was the time to learn to love and why to love.

Control was awakened in me at this stage. The iqhikiza had taught me the

rules of being with a man. “When you sleep with him, you always sleep on your

left arm. That is to make sure that you will be able to defend yourself easily if

necessary, using your right arm, which is powerful. Put his penis between your

knees and the middle part of your thighs, not more than that because you can

get pregnant. Wipe yourself downwards to avoid pregnancy.”

The first day I had thigh sex with him, I forgot all those rules. I slept on the

wrong side. That was bad because he could have interpreted that as a sign that I

had previously had intercourse and it was difficult to change the habit. But

luckily Vusi told me I was on the wrong side. I felt very embarrassed. But there

were many other things about boy-girl relationships that I learned from him. I

was eighteen years old. The nine years I spent in that relationship were full of

moments of learning, awakening, questioning, and action. The learning stage

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was when I learned to deal with peer pressure and community expectations. At

that time I did what my community expected me to do.

Vusi had other girlfriends. That was allowed in the community. It was accept- able for the girls who were sharing the same man to be friends since it mini-

mized conflicts. It was the man’s pride to have many girls and maintain them as

virgins. But for a woman to be found with more than one boyfriend was taboo.

She was insulted and called isifebe (loose woman). If the two young men dis-

covered that they were sharing the same girl, they would take her to the Um-

zimkhulu River in the middle of the night to wash her private parts as a way of

removing ubufebe (promiscuity). They would insult her for hours while she

was washing, saying, “Tonight you are going to take your ubufebe out. You are

a dog. You are a pig and a bitch. Your vagina is insatiable.” If the girl could not

use up the bar of soap in the freezing water (it was sometimes minus four or

five degrees Celsius), they would beat her.

I learned to like some of Vusi’s other girlfriends because they were good, but I hated others because their values did not match mine. I accepted the other girl-

friends for some time. but then began to question why I was tolerating the situ-

ation. It was 1996 and I had started to work for the Women’s Leadership and

Training Programme as a center worker in Centocow. I was beginning to realize

that there was more to my life than being a housewife whose purpose was to

serve her in-laws. Those were significant times, when I followed my feelings

and wisdom. I realized that I had been pleasing my boyfriend so that he could

have a high status in the community.

In 1997 I ended the relationship. I told my grandmother and my brothers

and sisters. It was a great moment to be on my own. I was free from pleasing him

or from having to live up to the expectations of other people and my peers. My

eyes had been opened to other possibilities and new ways of enjoying myself.

Unfortunately that freedom did not last even a month. One afternoon we were on our way back home from a traditional ceremony. I met a young woman

friend who asked to accompany me on my way home. My home is next to many

dongas (dry gulleys) and I was using a path to avoid meeting Vusi. Suddenly

Vusi appeared between two dongas with a friend. They told me that one of my

friends had told them that I was accusing them of a number of things. I was

very angry. They told me to go with them back to the road so that we could

meet the friend and solve the problem. I agreed, but when I asked where he was,

a car drove up and they forced me into the car. I cried a lot. I cried about many

Wo m a n We e p N o M o r e 45

Co py ri gh t @ 20 10 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

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things—the people I was going to meet that evening and my feeling of power-

lessness. I did not want to leave my home. I cried because I was going to miss

my freedom and space. I thought it was the end.

I arrived at his home and some herbs were put onto hot coals, and I was forced to inhale the smoke. Vusi told me he was not going to make me lose my vir-

ginity because he had abducted me to pay lobola (dowry) to my family. And I

should stop thinking that I was free to get involved with other young men. The

following day I was told to write the letter that the negotiators were going to

take to my home.

My first letter was written like this: “My grandmother and uncle, I am here

at Vusi’s home and I want to come back home. It was not my will to be here.

Your daughter, Sibongile.”

They told me that they could not take that letter home because they were

going to be beaten up. They tore up that letter. I was confused about what to

write next, but the second letter was written like this: “My grandmother and my

uncle, I am here at Vusi’s home and I want these people to come and negotiate

lobola with you.”

That was not true in some ways, but when I talked to Vusi, he told me that he

was willing to stop being involved with other girls. He promised to be faithful

and to respect me, and I thought that he was serious. They went to my grand-

mother and uncle and returned with the news that they had been accepted at

home. I was very sad to hear that. I had hoped my relatives would request that I

come back and tell them in front of the negotiators if it was really my will to get

married to Vusi. They knew that young women were often forced to write those

letters. I felt very powerless. I was left with no option but to accept Vusi’s apolo-

gies and my parents’ decision to accept the money from the negotiators.

On my second day in Vusi’s home, my grandmother came. I heard her talking outside. “Where is Sibongile? I want my child. Even if you are paying lobola,

I want her home today.” She kicked open the door where I was and said, “Si-

bongile, stand up. Let’s go home.”

I was very happy. My power came flowing back and I stood up and followed

her. Other women from Vusi’s family told her that they were going to accom-

pany me home. That evening I slept at home. It was a relief. At least I was still

going to attend workshops and continue with my work, and I was hoping to

learn to love Vusi again. I had the space to think and adjust.

But Vusi did not keep his promises. Things went from bad to worse. He con- tinued to have girlfriends all over, including some of the group members I

46 P a r t Tw o . S p e a k i n g O u t

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was working with. I felt that he was not respecting me. By the end of 1998 I

knew that I was not going to stay with him. But I was afraid of what people

were going to say if I broke off the relationship. I tried to talk to my mother

about it.

“Ma, what will happen say if I decide not to marry Vusi?”

“That will be very bad. People will think you are crazy. After all who is going

to pay back the lobola?”

One of my relatives told me, “To get married is a sign of good luck these

days. People will think you are mad if you do not get married.”

I knew that I was on my own and that my family could not understand my

feelings of dislike for Vusi. In October 1999 I attended a Grail formation work-

shop where I realized that I had to face up to the situation and act. (The Grail is

an international women’s organization founded in 1921 that I still belong to

today).

In December I went to a week-long training class of health workers in Pieter- maritzburg. When it was time to go home, I told my colleagues that I was going

to visit some people and was not going back home with them. I went to stay

with a friend in Durban, and then in January 2000 I went to Kleinmond, where

I lived with a Grail member for six months.

That was a very difficult time for my grandmother, my mother, my brothers

and sisters, and some friends. Vusi harassed them so they would tell him where

I was. Of course it was fortunate that they all had no idea where I was. I did not

tell anyone. I was on my own in that decision and I could not trust any person

in Sibizane. My grandmother got very sick for the first time, and I was worried

that she was going to die. A close friend, Gugu, was insulted and accused of

knowing where I was.

Later that year, in September 2000, I decided to come back to my home dis-

trict. I began working for the Women’s Leadership and Training Programme at

Reichenau. I was not able to visit my home because I was scared of being ab-

ducted again. In July 2001 my uncle, Vusi, and two of his cousins came to my

work place to take me home. I agreed to meet them with Sister Virginia Didi,

Marilyn Aitken, and Mbali Khathi protecting me.

Vusi and his two cousins said, “Sister-in-law, we are here to take you home.

Whatever the problem is, it needs to be resolved.”

I replied, “I am sorry, but I am not going home with you. I am at work and I

have already told Vusi that I am no longer interested in him and will not marry

him. I am sorry that he has brought you here. He knows that I do not love him

anymore. I am telling you the truth even if he has not told you.”

I told them I was not Vusi’s wife or girlfriend and that they should go to my

home and fetch the gifts and cash they had given my family during the lobola

negotiations. My grandmother had given me the strength to be very firm when

Wo m a n We e p N o M o r e 47

Co py ri gh t @ 20 10 . Un iv er si ty o f Wi sc on si n Pr es s.

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

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she told me, “There is no way we can force you to marry him if you don’t like

him anymore.” She was with my elder sister and my mother when she told

me this. She was very brave to advise against the cultural norm by setting me

free from the bondage of marriages that are the result of abduction and unfair

cultural practices.

In August 2001 I went to a story-telling event at Centocow with other people from Reichenau. I saw Vusi and he asked me to talk to him about how they were

going to get their lobola back. I saw a car parked next to the office where we

were and two men walking toward us. I realized that they were going to try to

abduct me again and I tried to run away. But they caught me and forced me

into the car. I cried and fought off the three men. When some people tried to

intervene, Vusi shouted, “I am going to stab anyone who tries to help her.”

Forty women of all ages stopped and watched the “show.” I bit Vusi’s hand

until he let me go. One of the men said “Let’s leave her, before they call the

police.” They were indecisive, and I managed to escape.

I was so angry that I tore my clothes while I continued to scream hysteri-

cally. When I reached the office nearby, I fell down and cried so loudly that

I could not hear anything. The police came and told me there was no case

because he had not hurt me. I felt powerless again. What kind of system is this

that does not protect women? What kind of system is this that waits until

women are hurt before taking action? Soon after that, I sought a protection

order against Vusi to enable me to visit my home. A woman official of the

Women and Child Protection Unit in the Pietermaritzburg magistrate’s court

told me “There is nothing we can do because he has paid lobola. He is looking

for his wife. You just need to hide from him or go to the tribal authority.” I was

shocked to hear her say that because South Africa has very good laws to protect

women and children.

I was very angry and pursued the matter in other ways. I went to the Hime-

ville magistrate, who listened to me and believed me. He called Vusi and told

him that if he touched me, or people close to me, he would be immediately ar-

rested. He made him sign all the papers. That was the end of the saga in one

way. At least I knew someone was listening to me and that justice had been

done. It was sad that we were not able to talk and resolve our conflict without

including the magistrate, a foreign system for both of us. There could have

been other ways to resolve the conflict, but Vusi had been unwilling to admit

that he was wrong.

Some members of his family accused me of being a rude, cruel woman. They stopped talking to me and spread many stories about me in the

48 P a r t Tw o . S p e a k i n g O u t

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community. Other people blamed the workshops I was attending for making

me “uncontrollable.”

I became a free woman again. I learned to live like a normal human being,

not having to hide and run constantly. I continued with my work on gender,

environment, and leadership training. I travelled to countries in Africa and Eu-

rope, as well as to the United States. In the meeting I attended at Rutgers Uni-

versity in 2002, I learned that women from Pakistan, India, Costa, Rica, Brazil,

Nicaragua, and the United States were all encountering problems of male dom-

ination, as well as cultural or religious oppression. I knew I was not on my own.

I was in the midst of women fighting for their human rights and their dignity

as citizens. I have learned a lot from these experiences, and I am now able to

share the light with other women who are searching for their own ways in dif-

ferent cultures and circles.

Wo m a n We e p N o M o r e 49

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