One of my professors is notoriously vague about everything concerning grades, finals, and the midterm essay for his class. He came to class today and announced he’d forgotten his book and unless anyone had any questions, we were dismissed. Someone asked him outright about our upcoming midterm. Or, at least, tried to ask.

“Can we get a head’s up on our midterm?”

“Heads up.”

A few people laugh. He does not smile. Silence. Someone coughs. We look at him. We look at each other. We look at the floor.

“What will the test cover?”

“This class.”

Again, silence. No one looks at anyone.

“What will the questions be like?”

“Big.”

“Big?”

“As in, ‘How does Marxist theory relate to the rest of the universe?’”

Silence. No one knows if he is serious. Those of us that have a foggy idea of Marxist theory become very afraid.

“Do you have some sort of standard to turning in the essay? 12 font, times new--“

“No.”

“Nothing? No guidelines?”

“I don’t care if you turn it in handwritten. On butcher paper. In blood.”

He laughs. Somehow, his frail seventy-two year old five-foot-flat frame seems to morph into a body builder as he flexes his awesome power over us, knowing we are at his indefinable and inexplicable whims of mercy.

Then we were dismissed. Or, rather, he just left us there. Staring at each other, shocked and afraid.


Sometimes I hate my classes.