She told us on the way down to Silesia that she was paying someone to write her Master’s thesis for her. Said it very nonchalantly but at the same time in a way I termed Slavic-it-is-what-it-is-style. Those who know me well, also know that I abhor that expression. Which is why I will always use it when I’m beyond mad (and can’t speak Polish, because no one will understand. Polish has only recently transitioned from being my rage language to being my fun language, so we still have a bit of a way to go, but I will be forever grateful to @nobordersforbeauty for this transition, and for her patience in the process). It’s a very special kind of “well, I know I’m not completely ethical in this, but whatcha gonna do.” Because I wasn’t the only one in the car, and because I didn’t want to cause a rift between Sober Companion Too and Mrs. 52 Hours of Freedom, I didn’t say anything. But it came up again very recently, mainly because I found out that Mrs. 52 Hours of Freedom boasted that she had handed in her thesis, and was now asking those actually writing their work how they were doing. On top of proudly displaying said thesis as a story on Facebook. 

Technically, I don’t really have a leg to stand on. When faced with a stupid History teacher, who only wanted years and events but never connections between anything that was happening (which is kind of the essence of History if you ask me), I walked into his exam with a pair of freshly adapted denims, that had taken me a few hours to prepare, sporting Hebrew letters with English words. To cover my tracks I had to do the back of the pants, too, which is why it took longer. The History teacher never knew, and the denims were instrumental in getting me talking with a friend I thought was no longer talking to me when she pulled me aside on the staircase of the old monastery that doubled as a university building when I attended and is now an alternative club and told me that this was the best cheat sheet she’d ever seen. 

In Germany I got my childhood friend to change tests with me, after having read about that method in a book. In exchange I would write out my arguments on a sheet of scrap paper, as we were allowed to do in German tests, place it in the middle of the table we shared and she would build her argumentative essay by creating counter arguments to what I’d written. Like me she was smart but couldn’t be bothered.

There were a few more such incidents, but never in the UK or the US. Mainly because I felt that there my knowledge was valued. The teachers I had not only wanted me to succeed, they were interested in hearing what I had to say. Besides, I liked pitting my knowledge against challenges in tests and playing around with concepts and ideas when it came to essays, especially if they involved interpretations of literary works. The minute I felt that this was not the case (which happened mainly in Germany), I went into “let’s play” mode. My most extreme action was passing off a novel I had written as a bona fide book I just couldn’t bring in because it was at the library of the US base several towns over, but here’s my book report on it. The story was so outrageous the teacher didn’t know what to say, but the class bully sussed it out, asked me if it took place on the Moon (to which I replied that it was set in Maine) and from that day forward he and I established an unspoken truce. 

So I don’t know why the actions of Mrs. 52 Hours of Freedom bugged me so much. Was it because I was doing it for fun (we did laugh about it with some friends) or to get back at something I deemed deeply unfair, whereas she was doing it to gloat? Because she paid someone to do it? Or was it because I felt that I had invariably contributed to that payment without knowing when she fleeced us on the gas money (you don’t fill up your tank to run errands before picking up the people you travel with, only to then immediately fill up the tank again five minutes after picking up your travel companions. And you don’t repeat the process several times throughout the trip, capping it off with one last fillup right before dropping your travel companions off). 

Writing a thesis is always hard, no matter how good you are, how much you love your subject or how much you love writing. It’s the gut wrenching extraction of information when your brain simply does not want to cooperate, and the downright despair when neither inspiration or knowledge wants to make it from the sources to the page via your brain. But it’s also the joy and pride of having beaten these odds, of being able to share with the world and telling everyone of the discoveries you made, initiating people into your process, and sharing with them your results.

The thing is, I’ve witnessed that struggle firsthand. In my own thesis and with people I’m close to. That overwhelming sense of I cannot do this anymore while others coast by with nary a care in the world, because (secret of secrets) they’re paying someone to do it for them), only to then ask those struggling where they are at, making comments (overtly and covertly) on how far behind they are, how really they should have written more. And how is it that they still haven’t finished, aren’t they scared of the consequences should they not finish on time (which – the implication is clear – is a very big possibility). 

I’ve witnessed it and it hurts my soul to see these people give up or feel that they are worthless because they are struggling so hard when everyone else around them is already done (easy to be done when you’re not the one doing the heavy lifting). And for someone who thrives on being able to provide a solution, it burns me up that I can’t help these hardworking souls and that no reassurance on my part can alleviate the pain because the likes of Mrs. 52 Hours of Freedom have made it seem so effortless, so easy and most of all so manageable.