Dear Professors on the Last Day of Class

Dear Professors on the last day of classes:


I remember the first day of the semester like it was only three months ago. I arrived early, a little too early, and plopped down in the middle of the first row. My notebook and folder were both purple with Clinical Phonetics written in the top right corner of each. I had both a pen and a pencil. My books didn’t come in until three weeks later, but perfection is elusive. I was ready to rock this shit.


Then, at some point in the semester, I was ready to kill you.


As I began my third page of notes with fifteen minutes left of class, I may or may not have been plotting ways to stop you from talking about intrinsic muscles of the tongue. You must have conspired with all of my other professors to assign massively time-consuming projects all in the same week. I could not help but resent you for making me walk back from class during a torrential downpour. When I took an introductory physical science course, I did not expect you to hurl quantum physics at me, you malignant turd. I’ve cursed your name at three a.m. in the library and made jokes about your plaid-on-plaid ensembles. (I’d like to apologize for that one, I support your unorthodox fashion choices. March to the beat of your own drum).


But on the last day of classes when you stood before us and calmly wished us a Happy Holiday, I could not help but feel nostalgic. My mind conveniently blocked out the feelings of dread that filled my gut as I walked to your class every week. I remembered the time you told us that our final exam was going to be a take-home (elation as I’ve never felt before,) or the time that class discussion turned to a heated debate about Halloween costumes. I’m going to miss your unfunny jokes about anatomy waiting for you to show up ten minutes late to every class. I’m going to miss wreaking havoc in the unspoken same-seat agreement amongst students by always sitting in the lefty desk, no matter where it is. In this moment, I am sure that I am going to miss this class.


(Then finals are over and end-of-classes-nostalgia is replaced by post-finals-freedom and I’m totally fine).



Girl Scribbling Furiously in the Front Row


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