Valentines to My Students

I know it’s not Valentine’s Day (a holiday I usually skip altogether anyway), but as my summer classes wind down and I prepare for fall, I’ve been thinking about all the things I wish I could say to my students past and present.  Also, I’m tired, so I’m going to give you shiny things to look at.  So here they are.  Love letters to my students.

To the students who say “I don’t understand why you gave me a bad grade.  I mean, I always got B’s in my last English class” and then refuse to help themselves improve on the premise that am the reason they are not succeeding:

To the arrogant, know-it-all students who let everyone know that they are ‘too good for this class’ by repeatedly questioning any piece of information I provide and, once in a blue moon, actually manage be right about something:

To the students who e-mail me. Constantly.  On my days off.  To ask me questions.  About things that aren’t important or that they should already know.

To the students whose essays are so terrifyingly bad that they are almost unreadable:

To the students who never shut up during class:

To the students who try to undermine my status as the classroom’s foremost authority on English:



To the students who interrupt my precious between-class moments (where I try to shovel some food in my face, do some deep-breathing exercises and massage my twitching eye) to interact with me:

To the students who insist on telling me WAY too much about their personal lives (baby daddies, explosive diarrhea, weird rashes, drug relapses):

To that one snake-nosed, evil she-demon who was openly insubordinate and antagonistic toward me one semester, who gave me panic attacks, who caused me to feel actual hatred for another human being:

Don’t forget I’m a bad muthaf*cka.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I wish I could be a teaching combo of Ron Swanson, April Ludgate, Enid Coleslaw and Samuel L. Jackson.



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