The pressure finally got to the head of dear Russel Perkins and he finally got the hint that his entire class of first quarter college students absolutely fucking hated him. He started last weeks class with an open discussion, initiating with his explanation of how "the quarter had not gone the way he'd have liked it to go so far, and he apologized for being short of energy all the time and that being a result of him having a lot on his mind and in his life at the moment." So he had arranged for us to go around the room and explain what we had hoped to get from the class and (this is my favorite part) if anything, what would we change. Of course, being that I always sit in the front corner, he looked at me first, as he usually does when it comes to reading anything or expressing thought on a certain subject, and asked if I would mind starting.
I stuttered, high as hell because that seems to be the only way I can handle English class nowadays, and laughed a "Yes" in response to his question. I feared that if I was the one to start off a class discussion about everything that was wrong with the class, I'd go too far and end up just reiterating all the smack I'd said behind his back. And if I were to start a discussion about how the class could be improved, I would just suggest he retire and let us all off the hook and give us our four hours of the week back. So I decided to sit back and see what the rest of the class had to say (or had the balls to say) before adding my own opinion.
But I was disappointed to find out that I had English class with a bunch of spineless pussies, and none of them actually had the courage to imply that the class was awful. They went around the room saying that they were, for the most part, satisfied with the class and went on explaining that English just wasn't their strong-point and that was why they had trouble being decent students with decent work. And then it was my turn again. I had spent the last half an hour listening to my fellow classmates bullshit out their asses because they couldn't tell this man straight up that he couldn't teach. So when it came my turn to express my feelings for the class, I did my best to make it as honest and non-brutal as possible. I didn't want to give the man a heart attack, but I wasn't going to sit back for another six weeks and rely on tightly packed bowls to get me through four hours of nothingness. So I began.
"I know how to write. I don't know about anyone else in here, and from the looks of things it seems like this is a class of primarily inexperienced writers. But I'm not gonna lie. I already know how to write. I'm getting books published this year and since all you have us doing is different kinds of practice essays that I already have piled up by the hundreds, then I find this class to be a complete and total waste of my time. I mean I guess it works alright for people that don't know anything about writing, being that everything's open-ended and pretty simply explained, but for me personally, I come here, I sit here for four hours with my headphones on, I don't listen to a word you say, and I doodle until the very second I can leave."
He smiled at me and to my surprise, he didn't drop dead in his seat, clutching to his heart and gasping for breath. Instead, he looked at me and he said, "You're right."
"You're right," he said. "You are a phenomenal writer and I've known that from the very first week. It is very obvious to me that you do not need a class that teaches you the fundamentals of writing because you very clearly already have a great understanding of that. You can write better than many many many students I've had in the past." And in front of the entire class, this man pretty much told me that I was a writer too good for his class. I wasn't about to stop the man, but sitting there in the corner, so baked it was funny, listening to the most boring man in the world use elegant words of praise to describe my talent was just awkward enough to be cool. But it got better.
Five minutes after going off on how blown away he'd been by my writing since the first assignment I'd handed in to him, he separated the class into pairs to discuss the essays they'd prepared for that class. He paired me with no one. Instead, he came over to me, took a gander through my book (complete with about five pages dedicated to how much I hated him which he luckily skipped over), and started to talk to me.
"So what do you think we should do about this?" he said.
"I don't know... what is there to do about it? I mean, all the kinds of essays you've assigned I've already written dozens of on my own time. I've learned nothing from the five weeks I've been in this class. Last week you taught us how to use commas and capital letters and I wanted to bang my face into the wall. I mean I don't mind spending ten minutes to crank out a compare and contrast essay or a descriptive essay, but it's no benefit to me. I write on my own time and it's obvious that all you really want us to do in this class is write, and I already do that."
"Well there's really not much we can do about it. I guess I'd just love for you to submit more writing to me. I mean I can pretty much guarantee you perfect scores on anything you hand in, so I guess just write."
Just write? After some clarification, Russel Perkins pretty much handed me a pair of wings with which I could fly through the rest of his class like a little written bird. I didn't have to write a damn thing for that man ever again; I could just hand things in, get straight A's and minimal grammatical corrections, and walk away with the perfect grade at the end of it all. He passed me right then and there, and I gained complete ownership of that crappy fucking four hours of the week. Russel Perkins ate words from the palm of my hand.