FEBRUARY 11, 2023 – I have a very good college friend who told me a very funny story the other day. It was a self-deprecating tale he’d recently recounted in a public forum—as part of an address before a gathering of esteemed citizens. Because of his comfort with self-deprecation, my friend wouldn’t be the least bit offended by identification in a post by an obscure blogger. Nonetheless, he will remain anonymous—out of respect for readers who, being less comfortable with self-deprecation, might be vicariously offended by an invasion of his privacy. Accordingly, I shall assign him the alias, Albert . . . as in Einstein.
Because the occasion for Albert’s public account was his high school reunion, over which Albert himself presided, he’d selected a topic that related to the group’s common experience half a century ago.
“By way of background,” Albert told me, “I hated biology. There was nothing I liked about it, but there I was taking a biology course. Because I hated it so much, I was horrible at it. I hated studying for it. I hated hearing about it. I hated everything about it and the class.
“Eventually, I faced a 100-question, multiple-choice exam. I hadn’t studied for it—how could I? I hated biology! However . . .” Ever the superb story-teller, Albert waited a couple of beats before continuing.
“I was lucky to be sitting right behind [Smart Kid]. [Smart Kid] was actually very smart even back then. He went on to become [a prominent, highly regarded public official]. I had the additional good fortune of having a direct sight-line to [Smart Kid’s] answers. I knew if I simply copied [Smart Kid’s] answers, I’d ace the exam.
Editorial comment: I was both surprised and amused by Albert’s admission of moral turpitude; surprised because I’ve always trusted Albert implicitly—when I know he’s not joking. He exudes integrity in thought and deed, and I know that every common acquaintance of ours would readily affirm my assessment. But my surprise over Albert’s academic cheating was tempered by my familiarity with his entertaining personality. In college, he’d opine about sports in a way that partisans nowadays talk about politics. Except in Albert’s case, after unloading an intense indictment of one team or another—his contempt embedded in a gnarly scowl—he’d crack a smile and acknowledge that after all, it was only a game he’d gotten himself and his audience all worked up about.
I must add that to this day Albert asks rhetorically, “When I see all that our classmates have accomplished in life, I wonder, How did they let me into [our college]?” The truth is, Albert’s accomplishments are as deserving of tribute as the achievements of our most successful classmates.
“Two days later,” Albert said, continuing his story, “the teacher passed out the corrected tests. Before the paper hit my desk, I could see in the upper lefthand corner, a big red circle around the number TWENTY-NINE.
“How could that be?” he said. “I knew I’d copied correctly every single answer that [Smart Kid] had put down, and I knew that [Smart Kid] had all the right answers. I was flabbergasted.
“I thought there had to be some mistake, so I asked the teacher about it. Only then did I learn that there’d been multiple versions of the multiple choice test.”
I joined Albert’s hearty laughter.
“I’ll never forget that big, red 29,” he said.
The story triggered my own tale of an academic failure that like Albert’s, the future would frame with irony. In the moment, Albert had to conclude our call, because he’d arrived at his destination to give another address—this one being part of a fund-raising effort for a major charitable mission of his: one relating to medicine . . . id est, biology.
As I reflected on our friendship, I smiled at the ironic honesty in his self-deprecating story of dishonesty.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
