Tight-Assed English Teachers

Ol’ Tight Ass

For some reason, this vision always danced inside my mind. Some kid (probably black or Hispanic) doing a school report based  on my writings and life. With great enthusiasm, the kid talks to classmates about my life as a poet, filmmaker, photographer, DJ, etc. By this time, I am one of the most recognized American writers. Maybe even one of the most recognized American photographers and DJ.  From Africa to Europe to Asia and to Australia, people know about me. People even know my poems just like many know Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven.”  Some even quote lines from my poetry, especially the booty poems.

As the kid gives the report on me, some classmates are probably pissed because they lost out on me as a subject.  Yet, they are enjoying the kid’s report. Some even laugh when the kid quotes some of my writings. Everyone is having a good time.

After the eloquent report, the kid receives a C minus.  Hell, a B plus could have been decent. But oh no, the tight-assed teacher hands the kid a fuckin’, goddamned, C minus!!!

Race and gender of teacher is irrelevant. True enough, a white teacher may possess racist thoughts against writers of African descent.  Also, a female teacher may find my writings sexist. Plus a conservative teacher may still be pissed over obscene words my writings aimed at his or her political party.

Still, I guess player hatin’ as the real culprit. Pissed because I achieved success and they didn’t.
Who knows why the kid’s teacher didn’t succeed.  Maybe, the teacher followed ridiculous writing rules. Maybe, the teacher just gave up. Or heaven forbid, the teacher could just  be a shitty writer.

Let me backtrack.  The real reason the teacher hates my ass may be what I achieved success for: poems about big butts, blogs badmouthing drunk white women who annoy black Djs and profanity! (The kid didn‘t curse during the report.)

For years, I’ve always had this vision.  I really don’t know if I would ever become a success.  My problem has always been focus. Instead of picking several things, it may be wise to pick the one thing I really want to succeed in, the one thing I know I’ll be doing until my last breath on earth.  I’m forty-three now.  Yet, I hear of writers and other artists achieving success after age fifty.

Still, if success walks my way and a kid decides a school report on me, I would advise against it. As I would be honored, the teacher just may give the kid a C minus.

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