Steffany

There’s always at least one saving grace from a shitty situation, the shitty situation at hand being my academic experience. I have met, in this short span of time, two women who’ve actively challenged me to be better. One is the TA for my college writing class. If it weren’t for the fact that my professor is a decent guy, I think I’d rip my eyebrows out due to sheer boredom. I feel as if I’m spoken down to, the coursework consisting of worksheets and over analysis of basic concepts. I’m not trying to act like some literary genius, but I think I have a basic understanding of how to write. My professor seems like Guy In Your MFA come to life. You know, boyish in looks and charm, oblivious about the world outside of the bubble of his literary aspirations. He paid an exorbitant amount of money for his writing education, but hey, one of his professors won a Pulitzer or something important like that. He’s writing a memoir about his life, although he’s in his early thirties. I jokingly say, “Do we really need another book about the complex lives of white men?” Except, there’s a little truth behind every joke, this one especially.

His redeeming quality is his acceptance of late work, lenience when it comes to my showing up late to class, and picking a brilliant woman to act as his assistant. I’m not OK with the idea that she’s some kind of protégé of his. Without a doubt, she should be teaching the class. She’s receptive and kind. She has become my sounding board when wanting to know which direction to go, and my support as I figure out my next steps to transfer out. The other day, I looked her directly in the eye and proclaimed: “I am without a doubt, the greatest thinker of my generation.” I just blurted it out after dominating a conversation on prison reform and activism. This wasn’t an idea that she challenged me on. She encouraged me to continue to think that and to hold on to whatever passion was brewing in me. It was a small moment, but one I value immensely. I might tell her that.

My second source of inspiration this week comes from another professor of mine. She’s the only actual woman professor I have and she’s a Black woman at that. She wanted to be addressed by her first name. Initially, I found that difficult. Culturally, I was raised to not refer to adults by their first names; It was usually Ms. such & such, Mr. so & so. It took three or four classes before everyone could actually bring themselves to call her by her first name. She teaches her class with a heightened cultural awareness missing from the other classes I take. A grammar lesson can end in a conversation about the use of African American Vernacular English in Drake’s “Hotline Bling.”

Last week, she handed out short stories, each one by an author underrepresented in college writing classes—Edwidge Danticat, Junot Diaz, Jamaica Kincaid, and Octavia Butler. She challenged us to think about why these people, and the narratives they tell, are so marginalized in the literary community. It was a really important moment. We talked about the ideas of the patriarch in West Indian families. We argued amongst ourselves about religion. The smallest things seemed to make the hour fly by—and the semester feel much more worthwhile. ♦