Disappointment--not exactly the word

Yesterday, my last day of class in most of my classes at uni. I had worked hard to finish papers, organize portfolios, finish my sketches. After it was mostly over I was sort of let down. I waited for English with a certain amount of tension. I was preparing myself to be cool-headed.

I had spent nearly my entire Thanksgiving break doing revisions on my poems and short story as well as writing my research paper for geography.

The time came for class. I stood outside the door with Danielle. She had her work ready to present in a nice neat binder. Her journal, a plain spiral-bound notebook, sandwiched inside. She wondered if he would read any of her entries. I hoped he wouldn't read mine. I had raved often about how I disagreed with his teaching style.

As we sat there, waiting for those who were late, as was often the case, our professor grabbed the lecturn, placing it between us and him. I noticed he did that when he was about to deliver news he knew we wouldn't like. Like hiding behind a fortress wall to protect against slinging arrows and hurled stones.

He collected a sheet of paper from each of us, detailing the changes we made in our work, how many journal entries we had as well as how many absences we had. I felt like I was doing his work for him. Turns out I was. He didn't take any of our other work. Justifying this with how rewarding it was to hear from former students that finding their old "written" work was a delight for them. To top off all this, he told us that if we were disappointed we had missed the point of his class.

Because I have a terrible temper (redhead) and I've got a "NO ASSHOLE" policy, I was pretty vocal about it, saying, "I don't think 'disappointment' covers the emotion I'm feeling right now."

To add a little frosting to this lovely cake Prof. Braggs had baked, we were his captive audience as he read us a 10 page dissertation on what he hoped for us and what he hoped we learned.

As I sat there choking on his ego, trying to suffocate the flames of my irritation, I was more outraged, galled, and completely angered by how much time I spent, how much of myself I put into the whole situation, not to impress him but because I'm dedicated and I really thought there was an opportunity to learn from him. EVEN if I didn't like him, I felt there was something I could learn. I really thought I was open, but there he was slamming the door in our faces.

The silver lining... I struggled to find it... but it's there...
I'm writing again, taking chances and sharing my work. And not really caring what anyone thinks anymore about it... being satisfied that *I* like it.

So, Earl, I guess ya taught me something, but I don't think you'll ever see me in one of your workshops again. Go sell more books, have at it. But I don't have to listen to how fabulous you are anymore and stand for how condenscending you are anymore. My "NO ASSHOLE" policy is completely in force and I don't have to deal with you again unless *I* choose to. Merry Christmas.