There's something about my professor sitting on his desk, cross-legged, with one hang in the air making some point about Shaft as a revolutionary act that gets me all hot and bothered. I've always had a thing for intellectuals, with their dark-rimmed glasses and fitted jeans. I guess if they like me, that somehow proves I'm interesting too. But that's just my shrink talking. As if people say 'shrink' anymore! I should talk to my therapist about this.
But there he is, his Dead Poets enthusiasm flailing about in front of a room of adoring students. Be still, my beating heart!
I don't know what it is about this curriculum that draws me in. Movies about oppressed black people? Sign me up! It's like I've adopted a portion of white guilt for my very own. So here I sit, dissecting the racial implications of West Side Story, swooning over this effete professor who barely acknowledges my existence. The room is full of cute girls with cute outfits and cute demeanors, and I'm sitting in the back with my unkempt hair, wrinkled clothes, and last night's makeup. I must be delusional.
Yet everytime he writes an approving note on my paper, I know I'll be taking another class with him next semester. Because that's what we do. We sit in the back, and we swoon.