I don't want to appear self-indulgent when I write about this stuff, but then, perhaps that's the basis of all creative non-fiction writing (and if you want to press the issue, you could say that about novels and short stories since still authors are trying to infect audiences, just through the imagination of another world or bits-n-pieces of the real world). My poetry professor gave a long, encouraging speech about "shitty first drafts," and how it was a burden that all of us writers bear--we tend to write crappy words and the sentences and paragraphs that follow them--at least the first time around. We write too much, and have to narrow it down later as we finalize our ideas.
I've never found writing to be this way, but I'm sure that the English instructor would agree with my poetry professor that a work gets better the more you fuck with it. I see their point, but I often think of the rough draft as a purer expression of our conflict and subconscious drives that civil society (and the writers' community certainly fits into this) wants to tame and curb. But what made Marilyn Manson famous? From the interviews I've read, he's not that extreme, yes, he lives during the night and sleeps during the day, but he's never been diagnosed with a serious mental disorder like some of our other fated musicians--but what does Marilyn Manson do? He says all the shit that other musicians either see as too frightening or too base and coming from the marginalized culture and society that we want to cover up and avoid. In a way, I want to be the Marilyn Manson of literature. I want to say all the crap that others are afraid to. And I want it to hit like rock cocaine.
And what does that have to do with a love letter to the English instructor? Well, there's a start. Say something that everyone is thinking, but not saying because we think of ourselves as too polite and above our animalistic features. We think we're too civilized, and that notion would work if sex didn't interfere in just about every relationship you have with any one given individual.
Let's face the facts: the English instructor knew I was a woman (in my writings, I described myself as being bisexual, which is accurate). Not only did he recognize this fact and was cognizant of it, my gender and sexuality played into every word he spoke to me, and every sentence he wrote me. In every movement of his body, even as he sat behind the table at the front of the class while we were alone together. He was painfully aware of it. To this, I'm not at fault. And we got into this argument in poetry class, to what extent are women guilty of driving men to aggressive sex acts against females? My professor argued not at all. As a woman, we should be able to wear anything we fucking please, and walk anywhere at night without worrying about rape. So, what I mean to say is, I never wore anything provocative to class, and I never openly flirted with the man or otherwise tried to seduce him. I was just there, I just showed up and exercised my right to have an opinion.
Referring to me in this student role was just another PC way to put bars up around my female body. I realize that in the academic community, some of this is necessary. We can't have the disruption of a professor sleeping and possibly manipulating his students. Would the work ever get done?
So, yes, by speaking my mind in an email, I was putting the English instructor in an awkward position, and I am grossly conscious of that. However, most of us past fifteen know how to deal with rejection properly and how to dish it out as well. It's a skill, as they say, molded in fire.
And also, I doubt the English instructor was surprised by my email. Harry agrees with me on this. Harry said that the English instructor saw it coming, but was still alarmed by my frankness. Maybe the English instructor had a greater awareness of the issue than even I had since I thought we could easily have a platonic friendship.
That's why I just couldn't sit here silently. Because I knew that my options were not good. I couldn't stand the idea of pining away for him for years. At least if I forced the issue, he could turn me loose. Make him do it. I thought explaining myself was better than just coldly dropping our communication (there is some debate about how much that would have bothered him, perhaps not at all or only slightly, like a wistful, distant thought, "Huh, I wonder where [Jae] went? Hmmm, nevermind. Moving on").
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