Apology

Dear Professor Schwartz,

I apologize for disrespecting you in class. I was out of line, and I shouldn’t have given you the finger or told you to go fuck yourself. It was wrong of me to be so honest about how I felt. My feelings haven’t changed, but Dr. Evans said a written apology would be a good idea, what with you threatening to get me kicked out of school and all.

When you go running to the Dean of Students, do me a solid and begin at the beginning. Normally, I love beginning in medias res, but that would be a disservice to me, and I fear you would never flashback to include the beginning.

The beginning--where is it? Should I begin with you, my art history professor coming to class in navy blue sweat pants and a teal tshirt, suggesting that your respect for your students and academic learning is non-existent? Let's also take a look at your lecture habits, getting practically on top of us in the front, and, in a normal-sized classroom, articulating and pontificating in such a manner that saliva sprays on the front row, at a volume that suggests you think you are Penelope, hollering at Odysseus to stop by Whole Foods on his way home from Troy. See, we were already on the wrong foot in terms of respect; your lack of it for your students was evident from the beginning. It was crystal clear that you did not want to waste your time talking to anyone outside of your discipline, unless they were also your colleague.

Before we get into what happened, let's talk about what happened afterwards, after I wasted a piece of my good stationery writing an apology that I drafted over twenty times, to make sure it sounded respectful. So many different openings, all of which I knew would be counterproductive, ranging from, "I'm sorry I showed you one tenth of my manicure" to "I'm sorry I gave you the finger and told you to fuck off." I knew these would be ill-received, akin to dousing a fire with kerosene to extinguish it. So I drafted and drafted, admittedly laughing out loud for most of the process, imagining your face, wondering if my double-edged sword cuts as cleanly on the other side. I honed it on my whetstone for the task. I loathe a dull blade.

We'll come back to the aftermath, the day I found the letter from the Dean of Students, quite literally calling me on the carpet. Do you remember what happened? Your sloughing off of your responsibilities on your students was strike one for me. I fail to see how it's the responsibility of anyone but you to account for your exams and answer sheets. Demanding that the front row do this for you wasn't atrocious by itself, it was your snide, sarcastic comment that pushed me over the edge, after I rolled my eyes, and you had the entire class pass their tests to me for me to count for you. Do you remember what you said? I do. In fact, you should thank your lucky stars that I only gestured and spoke. I wanted to throttle you.

"I really put the burden on you." This may seem like a mild, innocuous statement. When it's said to a woman who's six months pregnant and has naked hands, all humor vanishes, annihlated by brutal reality. Did it ever occur to you that I was already carrying too much for one person, that being cavalier and flippant while selfishly adding to it was a very, very bad, horrendous, terrible, loathsome, hateful idea out of the gate? You see, I had no choice. I could let that attitude towards women in general and me specifically stand, or I could refute it.

Refute it, that's what I either unconsciously or subconsciously decided. You see, I was as surprised as everyone else when my middle finger raised itself skyward, thrusting toward the ceiling, and I truly thought the words that left my mouth were my go-to, "Kiss my ass," and I was shocked when my classmates told me that instead, I said, "Fuck you," which, in retrospect, may have been the better choice anyway. You see, I meant it, and I do not take it back. The truth of the matter is that you made me the butt of your joke when I was in no state to tolerate that, and it's easy for you to lay the blame on me (akin to the burden, I'll learn later) instead of being respectful and handling your responsibilities yourself.

The letter from the dean arrived, after the term ended, and, presumably, after you read my five-page evaluation of you as my professor. I was every bit as kind to and respectful of you as you were me. It appears that those Weejuns fit differently on the other foot, less comfortable to step on people without injuring your little pinky toe.

I called Dr. Evans at home, told him that I had been summoned, expressed my displeasure by exclaiming, "I can't believe I wasted a piece of my good stationery on that asshole!" I was advised to refrain from calling you an asshole in the dean's office. I was also assured that I could tell the dean to call on my witness, your colleague, my advisor, chair of the humanities department, Dr. Evans. You see, if it weren't for Dr. Evans, your misogyny would have prevailed. My BA in English literature from the university where you teach suggests that your attempt to ruin my life as retaliation for giving back the disrespect you heaped on me was largely unsuccessful.

I learned from this, truly I did, and I told the dean everything, from sweatpants to saliva to sloughing to burden. I admitted that I was wrong, but I also asserted that I wasn't the only person in that room who was wrong, and I was not wrong first. So, here we are. I'm truly sorry about all of this, but what I'm most sorry for is what I previously failed to say, so I'll close with it.

Kiss my ass,

Dena E. Leonard