When I heard you would be taking over my Creative Writing class, I'll admit that I was not very happy.

In fact, I was pissed.

But to demonstrate the talent I’m sure you are to doubt that I have, I will be as imaginative as possible when describing just how you single handedly destroyed my senior year.


As I would later learn, it wasn't just because your mouth was ironed, bolted, super glued and pressed into a fine, deep line that I hated you, sir,

as if your lips were so injured by the violent, sarcastic words they tossed

that they paralyzed themselves out of their own regret

and forbid you to ever curl them the way you curl your fingers

when you’re upset

nor would it be because you were not only taking my elective away from me but from one of my absolute favorite teachers who I actually looked forward to seeing.

I was not angry with you, sir, because you dress like you never heard of the word “creative” – seriously, why are you even teaching this course – because it seems to me that the most creative thing you’ve ever done was comb the little hair you have left over the glossing and ever expanding baby smooth area at the top of your skull

or because you’re just an ugly, fat, stupid, evil, lifeless, smelly, meany head GOD I hate you!!


No sir. It wasn’t just because of that.

I realized I hated you when I was walking down the hall

and you just so happened to be too.

And as my mouth tried to remind yours of what it took to forgive

in the most gentle and friendly way a seventeen year old girl could,

you turned the other way

without so much as a second glance.


I smiled at you, and you ignored me.

That’s when I knew just how broken you were.


I’ve had substitute teachers come into class wishing they were dead so they didn’t have to work with a bunch of dumb delinquent teens, forever ungrateful that they are teaching in one of the best public schools in the city of Newark.

I’ve had family members who have insulted me for my life decisions because they are so unsatisfied and angry with their own pitiful lives that they think criticizing my own makes them better Christians.

As much as I hate them, I know they act this way because every pleasant thing they ever were or had has been shattered. Dreams, motivations, spirits, all crumbled under the turmoil they thought they couldn’t fight past. The nasty creature of hate thriving inside these souls like cancerous cells has drained them of any spark of cheerfulness.


I can understand that at some point in our lives, we all don’t want to go to school

but to live each day

with sorrow smudged on your face,

as if the happy colors that once lifted your cheeks

washed away forever,

to live each day, sir, as though every doubt was right

as if every demon were clawing at

your broken soul

with talons you helped sharpen,

to stand at the front of the classroom

with 10 daring dreamers sitting in front of you,

with no meaning in your heart,

and no light in your head to tell you

that you were worth the sacrifice

That is not living sir!


I hate you because whatever happened, you let the pain win.

I hate you sir, because you hate yourself.


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