Friday, May 01, 2009
A Culture of Cheating
Cheating isn’t always a fully intentional act. Consider the executives at big insurance, finance, and banking firms – people at AIG, Citigroup, and JP Morgan Chase. At American corporations executives basically write their own paychecks; yet they believe that they earn the millions in salary, stock options, and bonuses they lavish on themselves. They’re like the men in the Olympic racewalking event I saw televised from Beijing last summer. Remember those guys?
Racewalking is just walking, but at a brisk pace, so that it looks almost like running. But the front leg is straight when the heel hits the ground, and the hips swivel, giving the motion a swishing, coquettish flair. The walker never loses contact with the ground. That’s the rule that distinguishes walking from running. But in Beijing – and probably everywhere these Olympians strut their stuff – the racewalkers were cheating. A low, distant camera provided a shoe-level view of the race. We could see that the racers, bunched together in a pack, were pushing off too forcefully and scooting, skipping a bit, not walking. You know that just a nanometer below consciousness each of them was thinking not, “I’m cheating,” but, “I’m bending the rule, but within reason, like everybody else.” The race pack incites a mob-like mentality that blots out intentionality. The guys in the middle, in the heart of the machine, those whose actions are hardest to observe, are the worst offenders, indulging in longer leaps, certain that no judge will call them on their subtle cheating. The official would have to disqualify them en masse, ruining the entire event and damaging the sport. The defense is clear: in a sport in which everyone cheats, you can’t really call it cheating.
But it’s a culture of cheating.
Executives who pay themselves lavish bonuses race along together in one big pack, and there isn’t much anybody can do about their habitual cheating. They surround themselves with managers whom they also overpay. Officials at the SEC and even stockholders turn a blind eye to the pillaging, because they are making money, too, or taking credit for the boom times. Only when there’s a crash do people begin to notice the violations. Then, for a moment, it becomes clear to everyone that the executives employ such loose calculations with the managers’ bonuses merely to conceal the even looser standards that excuse their own acts of predation. Suddenly it comes as no surprise that, accustomed as they are to the main work of filching money, they reveal themselves to be inept managers of the company’s wealth. When times are tough, they continue to do the primary thing they are trained to do: pay themselves as much as possible.
In high school, a friend of mine, a slow runner named Philip, made varsity track by training as a racewalker. His faster teammates were uninterested. Racewalking is slow. It’s all about discipline. It doesn’t look cool. Other schools rarely even fielded a walker. When opposing coaches saw Philip lining up for the race, they’d push a tall kid out there to compete for the points. Inevitably, these athletes zoomed past him and, just as inevitably, committed a violation. Philip then completed his tortoise-like laps – annoying everyone, but sweeping up all the points.
In this disastrous economic environment, we may learn who the tortoises are and who the hares. But unless we are in for a full-scale depression, expect the hares to return and to multiply – and to continue to plague us with frauds less flashy than Bernie Madoff’s but more insidious.
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A random pick from more than 400 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:
April Lidinsky -- More essays by April
Jeff Nixa -- More essays by Jeff
Ken Smith -- More essays by Ken
Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- More essays by Jeanette
Heather Curlee Novak -- More essays by Heather
David James -- More essays by David
Elizabeth Van Jacob -- More essays by Elizabeth
Joe Chaney -- A Culture of Cheating / More essays by Joe
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About the series
Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, Ken Smith, Heather Curlee Novak, David James, and Elizabeth Van Jacob.
Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.
Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.
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Recent pieces
Christmas Eve, 1971 -- I ran in for some coffee at a McDonalds, and asked the lady if there was a VW dealership in Indianapolis. She pointed me only a few blocks down, by the bypass construction. We chugged over and turned in; the service bay was open—our first piece of luck. Out comes this short, round, greasy, cross-looking mechanic; working, on Christmas Eve. I explained our predicament; he glanced at her, in the full throes of dazed, dreamy pregnancy, and growled, “Pull it on in.” Dead battery; he and I had to push it on in. She and I moved to the waiting room. I sat and thought, how am I going to pay for this? It was Friday, they would deposit the check that evening and on Monday it would bounce and there was nothing I could do. Fifteen bucks in the bank; me in Atlanta. Overdraft protection was years away. By David James.
Feeding Willard -- Uncle Frank spent a great deal of his daily free time for years caring for my Grandfather. Frank would feed Grandpa Willard at least one meal most days. They would go to restaurants where Grandpa would drink too much and fall asleep before eating much of whatever it was he really liked that day. The whole excursion would take hours because Grandpa Willard was wheelchair bound and needed a special shuttle to travel anywhere. Despite all the trouble to arrange transportation, nurses and equipment Uncle Frank made sure Grandpa also got to his Dreamland cabin in the rocky mountains once or twice a year. He got him loaded onto a ferris wheel, to the opera, ball games and yes, to many, many restaurants. My Uncle took exquisite loving care of him for about eight years before Grandpa Willard died this Spring. By Heather Curlee Novak.
Two Boards (Upon Cold Powder Snow) -- It’s true, the year is ending, but lovers of winter sports know we’re just on the cusp of fun, as well as a chance to burn off some of those one trillion calories from holiday fudge. I’m a bit of a poser, really, in this camp of winter sports fans, since only in the past year have I ventured back onto the downhill slopes after nearly 25 years away. I grew up in Colorado, and downhill skiing is in my blood; it’s the beating heart of my family history. In fact, without skiing, I would not exist. By April Lidinsky.
Model Train -- I won an electric train in a store drawing when I was 7 years old. What a train: a black, green and red American Flyer steam engine with working drive wheels, real puffs of smoke and three long yellow passenger cars. Dad set it up each Christmas and I spent hours watching it clack around the living room carpet on journeys out of town, across the great plains, up into the Rockies. Then each January my dad, a detail-minded rather fussy accountant, sorted the tracks, oiled the engine and wrapped each car in newspaper for storage. When I lost the instructions, he carefully sketched the entire layout on a piece of his office stationery, labeled each track and trestle number and applied a wide piece of masking tape to the end of a sturdy box where he wrote, Electric Train. Jeez, Dad, can I go outside now? By Jeff Nixa.
Farewell, Old Car -- It sure was easy to donate our aging car to WVPE, using the Car Talk web site. We filled out a simple web form, signed the car title, and mailed it off. In a few days a tow truck came to relieve us of the relic that had been dripping oil all over the driveway. Not to mention the car’s occasional demonic impulse to electronically lock and unlock its doors fifty or sixty times a minute. I was very happy to remove the license plate, cancel the insurance, and send it on its way. What could be simpler, and any proceeds go to our favorite radio station. By Ken Smith.
Pollyanna Grows Despondent -- Not to be obscure, I’ll tell you right up front, generally, according to my amused co-workers, I grew up to become a Pollyanna figure. They maintain that I absorbed those positive, plucky characteristics. Until recently, no matter how dark the components, I usually could find a bright, or at least darkly humorous, outlook in any situation. Not so anymore though, I am too besieged! The season of comfort and joy aside, this Pollyanna is growing despondent; the “Glad Game” is getting more and more difficult to maintain. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
The Family Dogs -- Our dog developed a great attraction for the mailman and was always escaping to chase his little step van. The attraction blossomed into affection one day when the man stopped the truck, Peanut Butter leaped in, and with the acquiescence of our mother and the grateful blessings of us kids, they both sped off on his appointed rounds. That was the last we saw of Peanut Butter. By David James.
Celebration -- The thing is, at the end of the day we all could do well with more celebrations. We all will be better people with some extra thanksgiving and a little silliness on top. The dog got a bath; bake some special cookies. You conquered Monday; turn off the TV and have a swing dance contest. The neighbor helped you with the yard work; send a cookie bouquet. You choose to be grateful for the small happiness in your life; throw on a feather boa and pop the four dollar champagne! By Heather Curlee Novak.
Action Heroes -- The ER staff and I are standing in the empty trauma room, nothing to do but make restless bad jokes until the patients arrive. The EMS radio only said it was a house fire, one adult female and two minors. The ambulances are three minutes out. We’re ready. Oh man, are we ready. We’ve got a half million dollars worth of technology in this room stocked like an arsenal with medical supplies: Allegiance gauze pads, Kimberly–Clark face masks, NovaPlus powder-free exam gloves, an Agilent EKG monitor, a Newport HT 50 ventilator and the main attraction, sitting on a shelf like a smug Napoleon, the Philips Heartstart XL defibrillator, green light on, fully charged. By Jeff Nixa.
Telling Stories -- Could there be a more delicious time of year for lovers of stories? When I was a kid, the return of cold weather meant happily slouching near the heat register of my bedroom, rereading fat classics like Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, and puzzling over the one line that never rang true to me – Meg March’s lament that November is “the most disagreeable month in the whole year.” For me, and maybe for you, November holds all the pleasure of holiday conviviality without any of the angst of gift-giving. November is about drawing our chairs close to the fire, tucking into pie, and sharing the quiet pleasures of story-swapping. By April Lidinsky.
At the Circus -- There was wave upon wave of daring carried out with the utter precision that transforms crazy danger into highly polished extravagance. It is not enough that someone walk across the tight rope high in the air; now he must walk back with a woman standing on his shoulders. It is not enough that the trick cyclist ride helter-skelter around the very edges of the stage; now he will ride his two-wheeler as if the front end were a unicycle, with most of the now useless bike circling around him like a wacky ornament. Gymnasts leaped out of windows onto trampolines and then rose back up and passed through those windows again; masters of aerial display swung across the highest reaches of the stage suspended by long flowing sheets of brilliant fabric they had merely wrapped once or twice around their arms; tiny child performers catapulted spinning disks into the air, executed two or even three back flips, and then casually caught the disks on a string again. By Ken Smith.
Feelin’ Cranky, But Trying to Remain Civil -- “Good manners are the grease that makes the wheels of life turn smoothly.” That was a mother-mantra that I endlessly used as my son, Joseph, was in his formative years. Although expressed as a hybridization of the worlds of the prissy and the mechanical engineer, I believed it, and I repeated it: way too many times, he might tell you. I still believe it though. That’s why I am puzzled at the lack of civility which I knee-jerk to exhibit as I age. Even without the excuse of feelin’ poorly, I find myself just getting crankier and crankier. If only I could get that big-eyebrow thing going, I could be Andy Rooney Junior. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
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