Plagiarism & Little Denise

My dearest incurable humanist,

This week I achieved a milestone! We are now 70 incurable humanists here in this little community. I am so grateful to each one of you who has subscribed and is now reading my weekly newsletter about grief, migration, and art.

Without further ado, here's a brief story about my journey with writing:

As a little girl, I often visited my father's office, where I would play with his paralegal. My favorite activity was ‘writing’. By ‘writing’, I mean dictating while she typed on her computer. She would then print it, so I could illustrate my story. When it was finished, my dad would have it bound like a real book and keep it in his office. Over time, I had written several short stories.

When I was six and learning to write, I had a school assignment to compose an essay about a personal experience. It probably consisted of about eight sentences, but at that age, I thought I was creating a masterpiece worthy of a Pulitzer Prize. I was so excited. Sitting there at my small communal preschool table with my notebook and yellow pencil, I began to write, and so did the other girls.

I wrote about when I was two years old and created what I believed to be my first song. The title was Ella No (Not Her), and those two words made up the entire lyrics. Despite its short length, I was very proud of it. That same year, my family went on a cruise. The ship had a talent show, and I took the chance to perform my original song. Standing in front of the audience, I sang Ella No with all the confidence and pride of an experienced performer. It was a moment of pure achievement for me at that age.

When we had finished, we had to stack our notebooks in a neat pile on the teacher's desk. The bell finally rang, signaling the start of the weekend, everyone hurriedly gathered their belongings and rushed out the door, eager to begin their Friday afternoon freedom.

By Monday, I had completely forgotten about the Friday assignment until.... The teacher called me and another girl out of the classroom.

“Denise, why did you copy Such and Such's essay?” she said sternly.

I was stunned.

“I... I... I…” I uttered.

But she cut me off.

“Under no circumstances is it EVER ok to copy someone else's work, you know?” she continued lecturing.

“I did n –” I tried to speak.

“DO NOT interrupt me with excuses! This is a very serious matter! There will be severe consequences for this because you must learn not to copy someone else's work!”

“I DID NOT COPY ANYONE! I wrote my OWN story, and this IS IMPOSSIBLE TO COPY! You can ask my mom. She will prove that this is true!” I finally said, annoyed.

“DENISE! THIS IS EVEN WORSE! NOW YOU ARE LYING ABOUT IT!” she continued.

“I DIDN'T COPY ANYONE! I don't understand what you are sayinggg!” I said with tears now streaming down my face.

“I cannot believe you are lying! Look, both essays are identical, and you were sitting next to each other,” the teacher replied, showing me both notebooks.

I looked at the other girl, startled. “Did you copy my essay?”

The teacher looked puzzled.

The girl stared at her feet. “I... I might have,” she whispered.

“SEE???? I did not copy anything!”

Suddenly, the teacher’s rage evaporated, and she gently asked, “Why did you copy Denise's essay? Is this true? You don't have to lie for her.”

She murmured something about how she was confused about the assignment.

The teacher looked at both of us and said, “Oh well, this was all just a big misunderstanding - everyone makes mistakes - let's go inside the classroom now.”

I was so hurt and frustrated. I still remember those feelings vividly. Being judged and condemned as a cheater so fast. I had never given any reason to doubt my morals. Of course, I didn't understand the term ‘morals’ at the time, but I was in Catholic school, and I did understand that lying and cheating were wrong and even worse, a ‘sin’. In that moment, I understood hypocrisy and how people can be so quick to judge someone for something and then not judge someone else at all for the same action.

What had happened to all the things the teacher had threatened me with? The severe consequences she had promised. All gone when she knew it was not me facing them. I learned from an early age that people will not always like you or what you do, and not everyone wants to see you shine or succeed. Sometimes, even the people who supposedly are there to help you are the ones who will bring you down.

My father taught me that you must forget your wins and losses fast. That you cannot let your ego get to you when you are winning and flying high, but that you cannot let yourself drown in sorrow when you are low, either. My passion for writing and storytelling has not dissipated with time. It might come in waves, and sometimes I might feel more encouraged than others, but this taught me a valuable lesson that I will always remember, and I will continue to write no matter if people copy or judge, because it is my own story.

All of this to say - I appreciate each one of you!

Thank you for reading.

Until next week!

(Read by the author. Recorded by Carlos Escalona Cruz. Theme song “The Incurable Humanist” by Carlos Escalona Cruz. All Rights Reserved 2025.)