Professor Peabrain

Poetry is my thing, so when I registered for my poetry genre class at my school, I was sure I would ace it. Much to my chagrin that was NOT the case. Instead, what ensued was ultimate humiliation.

A morning, not unlike all the others (cue the cheesy Disney music) I trekked across campus to my poetry class still exhausted from the night before. Poetry was my first class on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Today my professor had us examining a somewhat dead structure of poetry - the sestina. We looked at a few famous examples and then were assigned to write one of our own.

I left class exhilerated - overcome and excited about attempting a feat never before tried... such structure, particular rhyme scheme and meter. I went from wonder to dismay and ultimate shut down when I realized it wasn't coming naturally to me. I couldn't hear the meter. The feet evaded my ear.

Crumpled paper blanketed my floor promting me to run to my professor's office hours. I waited patiently outside the door only to be called in with surprise. Apparently he wasn't expecting to see me, of all his students, there. I was a poet afterall, so what kind of help could I enlist from him?

I don't need to bore you with the horrific details of the next few moments. The shout that was heard round campus. I was reduced to tears - "Can't you hear it????"

"I'm trying; it's just not coming. I need help." I swore I couldn't, but he thought I was mocking him. I couldn't imagine anyone who would make such an effort to visit him if they really did get it. What kind of sense would that make? I mean, who WANTS to visit a professor for no apparent reason who isn't even good looking?

"Try it again," he spoke at me as he rolled his eyes and started flipping through the books that were shrewn around his desk.

"Is this right?" I asked nervously. (Admittedly, I wish I had a copy of my sestina somewhere, so I could show you, reader, the disaster that was my moment.)

"You are still adding extra syllables. Da Da Da Da..." He trailed off as he started to pat out the rhythm again straight out of elementary school music classroom. I couldn't take it anymore. Swearing that I would not let him get to me, I felt the wettness welling in the corner of one of my eyes like a two timing friend who ratted me out to a dean after we had done something wrong. Mortified that I would give this man the satisfaction of my tears I needed to find an escape route.

Stealthily slipping out his office, there was no escape. The other students who waited for his "aid" slowly slipped into ashen fear observing what had just transpired. It was evident they had heard what happened, but actually seeing the receiver of such crude frustration was embarrassing for all of us. I'm pretty sure even for my professor.

This story does have a happy ending, just not the "and they lived happily ever" one. I complained to the Dean of students and my formal complaint actually help see that professor away from that fine institution. In addition, he issued a formal apology to my class despite the fact that I wasn't present to receive it. Missing class later that week, he thought he was the reason I decided not to return to school. He was wrong, but it didn't hurt for him to believe that for a week.