While I do not necessarily hate anything I post, it feels like too many posts ago that I wrote anything of the same caliber as the post that got me recognized--in other words, the typical standard I try to keep in my writings. With that said, I am sure most people go through random ruts in their writing, and I am not the only one; I just hope this makes up for it.
I'd also like to note my unusual frequency in posting will not be the norm. I typically allow my readers a week or so before a new post comes in. I suppose I just felt a bit obligated to put up some posts to space-out the "Sunday Songs."
The doors sigh—one heavy, memorably squeaky sigh—as students and teachers file out to begin a well-needed session of breathing and occasional job-hunting. Screams relax and syndicate the smiles of someones—some of servitude or of studious nature, searching for salvation deep in the Sundays and Saturdays of their summers. The only rest for the wicked.
“My students don’t know ‘A Modest Proposal,’” the man of liberal arts lamented, lingering atop the stones that lined the pedestrian mall.
His woes were anything but humorous no matter how many students he mocked during my walk with him. His jokes made about the “smug-faced frat boy” whose sexual preference was up-in-the-air for the sake of humor—at least, I hope for the boy’s sake—or the over-sized girl in the tight shorts and her love of cheesecake, were hysterically cruel, but not necessarily unusual. And these remarks kept me smiling a deep, dim grin, despite all things.
“My son knew I was doing a parody of a parody”—the same professor had spouted off some words about feeding stray animals to homeless people in an attempt to end hunger—“he called them on it! He said, ‘C’mon you guys, it’s nothing more than “A Modest Proposal.”’ Not one student knew. They had no idea.” I seemed to remember him using the same example in my class a year ago.
Tired and terribly un-attracted to the class of idiot savants who had stumbled through life and into his classroom, mistakenly on their part, the listless man, with dramatic pauses that consume my air and cause me to fill the silence with the most thoughtful of thoughts, was preparing to face his doom: the class he had been sorrowfully binging for two hours through passionate verbosity and rhythmic, contagious reflection.
While I agreed his students seemed to be sadly unprepared for college-level composition courses, I was reminded I had my own doom waiting for me tomorrow with a professor ill-advised in the ways of instruction, yet one who can actually write like a published author. It is a terrible shame he never lets us forget he is one.
The man of much liberal artistry—woven from extensive looks at Freud and with literary models such as Swift—parted ways with me for a cigarette and a soothing phone call from his wife. I walked away, overcome by enamoring progressive ideals and humorous quips. The next night, I walked through the same squeaky doors, fearing they felt the same as I, and hoping to find a sign that lovingly read, “CLASS IS CANCELLED.” Instead, the same man, whose wardrobe is an unfortunate byproduct of color blindness, and a head smooth and shiny, and distracting, was standing before us, ready to “teach.” Which translates into: talk tangentially for over an hour and assign us an irrelevant quiz to finish before the end of the session. If he had spent less time stroking his ego that morning, he would have had time to write up a lesson plan not covered in his own smelly debauchery. That is to say, if he even understands the benefits of forethought.
This summer bodes well for those who desire nothing more than to create their ultimate masterpiece. Once darkened by halls, the deep recesses of the library and dormitories, we all shall see daylight again—inspiring and refreshing daylight. I can only hope my former professors’ students spend a bit more time reading something other than Sports Illustrated and The Onion (or, at least, stop taking it seriously). Our summers may be long, but they do not last. Those squeaky doors will be awaiting us when we return. I can only hope the sounds of rotten displeasure sound more welcoming—like the pleasant squeals of reunited friends—when I return.
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