The other day, I was at Starbucks. (A lot of posts are going to start out like that. I’m often at Starbucks, and I do a lot of writing there; it’s not expensive coffee, it’s cheap office space.)
Anyway, the other day, I was at Starbucks, at a table by the window, drinking espresso and setting up this blog. Two young ladies, about the age and appearance of college underclassmen, sat down at the table next to me. One was telling a story to her friend:
“She gave me a C, and I worked really hard on it, and knew what I was talking about. I should have got an A. I lost it, and told her she was wrong and wasn’t being fair. She said she wanted to talk to me after class.
“She took me in the hall and said she wasn’t gonna put up with blow-ups in class and I couldn’t talk like that in class. I lost it and told her she’s the worst teacher ever, and I should have gotten an A. I went on some, then I started crying and said I was really stressed. She hugged me and said it was OK, like could she do anything to help. She’s still the worst teacher I ever knew.”
I don’t really know if the nameless professor is really the worst teacher ever, although, in truth, I am skeptical. (She sounds like a pretty good teacher.) I just hope that my neighbor realizes that, whether or not the prof is really the worst teacher she ever knew, she is possibly the best person she ever knew.