Dear Professor


Winking wild the terrible confusion
of wanting to be something bigger
than I am. I am wonderful. But I am
small. And I am broke. I am paid
poverty wages to teach literature in a
phallic tower that is supposed to make
me feel important enough, worthy enough,
smart enough to stand in front of students
who have no idea that it’s all a ruse.
I was given 2 hours of professional development
2 years ago in the form of a powerpoint slide
that showed me how I maybe might want to
teach a few things to college students who
won’t want to be there and the university
doesn’t care what I teach as long as I stand there.
Or not. I could do it at home in my pajamas
in front of a screen and lure my students to
Maya Angelou as if I’m a sexual predator on
Dateline. It’s all a trick, a game, a lie, a scam
to get you to pay thousands and thousands until you
are in your 60’s while your instructors qualify for
food stamps but barely qualify to teach.
Your degrees are all worth shit not because so many
have them, but because of who has taught them.
And that someone is me. An adjunct. A fake.
A devalued, underpaid, overworked, unqualified,
teacher at a university who pretends she’s more
important than she is but is as important as the university
makes her. And I just might say fuck you and quit.

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