Cheating at cards
Oct. 1st, 2007 09:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amanda_loddenJulianna posted in her Xanga journal about her husband cheating at cards over the weekend. It reminded me of a story, and since stories tend to get stuck in my head lately, I decided to share it.
In high school, I had the same math teacher for two different years. My freshman year, it was an advanced-placement geometry class (which I did not do so well in; the 3-D aspect of geometry was lost on me). My junior year, it was a trigonometry class that was not required for graduation. That meant that only the math geeks took it, so that the class makeup was pretty much the same as it was for the advanced freshman class. The teacher had a policy of reviewing the material the day before a test by simply telling us to ask questions; if we didn't ask, he assumed we were comfortable with it and gave us the rest of the class period as free time. When we got our tests back, it was the same way-- we were allowed to ask what the correct answer was for any questions, and he'd explain what it was and how were supposed to have solved the problem. No more questions meant free time. Free time meant Euchre.
Our standard euchre game was myself, Kevin, Jeremy, and Brett. Brett was the only person in the class who could tolerate our play style, which was "it's only cheating if you get caught."
Kevin and Jeremy had been best friends since kindergarten and over the years they had worked out a series of subtle signals. They were also exceptionally good at stealing the deal. But I was the girl, which meant I provided the cards since I could carry them easily in my purse. To even the odds, I provided marked cards. I typically carried two decks with me, one for normal play and one non-marked deck for the rare occasions when we called "No Cheating" (which was usually when the teacher sat in as the fourth in place of Brett, but also when one of us was getting sick and not feeling up to keeping track of all the shady dealings.)
Our junior year, we convinced the teacher to let us play Euchre in the back of the room on test days after we were done, too. He agreed on the condition that we played in absolute silence and didn't disturb any other students still taking the test, so we set up signals for "pass" and "pick it up", and on test days if you called a suit as trump you had to show one of the cards to do it. Overall, this helped my grade, because that math class was the one I studied hardest for-- Kevin and Jeremy were always done with their tests quickly, and I wanted to complete mine as quickly as possible so I could go play. If Brett was slower that day, we'd play a round or two of three-person Euchre until he could join us.
Interestingly, this is also how I first started examining morality. After a while, other people in the class started playing their own games of Euchre, and they'd often sit and mutter disgustedly about our game and the very idea of cheating. My mother lectured me about cheating the one time I told her about our free-time games. But frankly, those games of Euchre were the most fun I've ever played. I liked the challenge of spotting other people cheating, and I liked the challenge of trying not to get caught when I was doing it myself. Everyone involved knew about the cheating and agreed to it, and on the rare occasions that someone made a "no cheating" call, we all respected it. If all the people actually playing had consented to the "rules", what business was it of the people who were not playing? Once I got a handle on the idea of a consensual agreement to break from an accepted standard, I started applying the same idea to other accepted standards. Euchre was a stepping stone to tolerance.
In Julianna's case, though, I share her ire about Brian cheating, because it wasn't above board-- she only noticed it by a fluke, and not until the second game. That's not consensual.
In high school, I had the same math teacher for two different years. My freshman year, it was an advanced-placement geometry class (which I did not do so well in; the 3-D aspect of geometry was lost on me). My junior year, it was a trigonometry class that was not required for graduation. That meant that only the math geeks took it, so that the class makeup was pretty much the same as it was for the advanced freshman class. The teacher had a policy of reviewing the material the day before a test by simply telling us to ask questions; if we didn't ask, he assumed we were comfortable with it and gave us the rest of the class period as free time. When we got our tests back, it was the same way-- we were allowed to ask what the correct answer was for any questions, and he'd explain what it was and how were supposed to have solved the problem. No more questions meant free time. Free time meant Euchre.
Our standard euchre game was myself, Kevin, Jeremy, and Brett. Brett was the only person in the class who could tolerate our play style, which was "it's only cheating if you get caught."
Kevin and Jeremy had been best friends since kindergarten and over the years they had worked out a series of subtle signals. They were also exceptionally good at stealing the deal. But I was the girl, which meant I provided the cards since I could carry them easily in my purse. To even the odds, I provided marked cards. I typically carried two decks with me, one for normal play and one non-marked deck for the rare occasions when we called "No Cheating" (which was usually when the teacher sat in as the fourth in place of Brett, but also when one of us was getting sick and not feeling up to keeping track of all the shady dealings.)
Our junior year, we convinced the teacher to let us play Euchre in the back of the room on test days after we were done, too. He agreed on the condition that we played in absolute silence and didn't disturb any other students still taking the test, so we set up signals for "pass" and "pick it up", and on test days if you called a suit as trump you had to show one of the cards to do it. Overall, this helped my grade, because that math class was the one I studied hardest for-- Kevin and Jeremy were always done with their tests quickly, and I wanted to complete mine as quickly as possible so I could go play. If Brett was slower that day, we'd play a round or two of three-person Euchre until he could join us.
Interestingly, this is also how I first started examining morality. After a while, other people in the class started playing their own games of Euchre, and they'd often sit and mutter disgustedly about our game and the very idea of cheating. My mother lectured me about cheating the one time I told her about our free-time games. But frankly, those games of Euchre were the most fun I've ever played. I liked the challenge of spotting other people cheating, and I liked the challenge of trying not to get caught when I was doing it myself. Everyone involved knew about the cheating and agreed to it, and on the rare occasions that someone made a "no cheating" call, we all respected it. If all the people actually playing had consented to the "rules", what business was it of the people who were not playing? Once I got a handle on the idea of a consensual agreement to break from an accepted standard, I started applying the same idea to other accepted standards. Euchre was a stepping stone to tolerance.
In Julianna's case, though, I share her ire about Brian cheating, because it wasn't above board-- she only noticed it by a fluke, and not until the second game. That's not consensual.
