Text and Hubris

“Name?” his voice was rough and bored. She looked down, paused a moment, readying her thoughts. He was looking at her now. “Name?”

“Abigail,” it had been a while since she had spoken and her voice was softer than she expected.

“Miss, you’re going to have to speak up,” his voice teetered on the edge of annoyance.

“Sorry. Yes. My name is Abigail. Abigail Grey.” The man made a series of marks on his paper. She was cataloged and categorized and an old women who smelled of boiled beets and cigarettes took her photograph. It was somewhere between the click and the bright flash that Abigail decided she didn’t like this place and she resolved to leave. The old woman turned from the machine smiling through crooked teeth.

Abigail was already gone.

I just finished using turnitin.com for my Honors paper. I had not heard of the service before or I would have raised an issue earlier. As it was, this wasn’t a paper that will be part of anything I wish to publish so my use of the site was not that detrimental. I will not, however, be using it again and any Professor who wishes to push the issue will find themselves facing a fight.

Essentially, I post my paper to turnitin.com. They then test the paper for “originality” against their database. A report is generated for the instructor telling them that I have been a good little writer and all is fine. Turnitin then adds my paper to their database. I have no say in the matter. The paper is included. The only way to remove the paper is through a request from the University’s accounts administrator.

I’ll look beyond the guilty til proven innocent routine that turnitin espouses. I’ll even pretend to think that the originality report is actually a guide by which the quality or originality of my work can be measured. I draw the line and providing free work for a for profit corporation. If you want my paper, pay me for it. Ah well, it was an interesting excursion and I now know better. I may actually contact my professor to see how hard it would be to have my paper removed from the database. It may not be an important paper in the grand scheme of my work, but it is my paper. I really don’t want it there.

Dawn entered the room as slices of light that slid in between the wooden boards on the windows. The musty smell of dust, mildew, and neglect filled the air and the slight young girl who had sat up with a start coughed a little as she looked around.

This was not the usual place.

She peeled back the tattered covers, a quilt of light red, blue and yellow patches that seemed to crumble in her hands and slid her feet into her shoes – black, patent leather, polished to a shine – that had been carefully placed by the edge of the bed so that she need never touch the floor. She stood and let the silence of the place hold her. She breathed deep, turned and pulled a small mirror from her makeshift pillow, a backpack adorned with the cracked and faded image of a cartoon giraffe. She looked into the mirror, into the pale blue eyes that stared back at her.

“Abigail. My name is Abigail.”