Her Possessive Professor by Gena Snow
Chapter 5
Jared
I reach the podium and glance at the classroom quickly to see how many students are there. Eight out of the ten registered students are present, and Hailey Carson isn’t among them. You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m disappointed and annoyed at the same time. Why did I take her request seriously?
I get through the roll call quickly and start lecturing. “How many of you have done the reading?”
Everyone raises their hands. I’m quite pleased, although my question is vague. The poem takes less than five minutes to glance through, and that’s not precisely my definition of reading.
“Very well,” I say. “We’ll soon get to the discussion questions. Before that, tell me what you got out of the poem. What is it about?”
A young man named Alex sitting in the first row raises his hand immediately, while the rest of the class avoids eye contact with me.
“Mr. Johnson?”
“The poem is about a man who’s insecure and paranoid. The poem's form is an interior monologue and shows the character’s inability to communicate with his companion. He lives in his own fantasy world and is dissatisfied with reality. He might be going through his midlife crisis. He cares about his image a lot. His hair is thinning, but he tries to dress fashionably for his date. They go to a hotel, but he can’t enjoy their time together because she talks about Michelangelo. He thinks he isn’t good enough for her.”
“Good,” I nod, although I’m not that impressed. What he says is nothing original and can be easily found online. However, at least he takes the time to go through the resources and even memorize a few things. “Now, let’s analyze the poem line by line.”
I’m about to read the first stanza when a shadow appears at the door, and I turn to look. I don’t believe it—Hailey Carson! She has the nerve to show up late again.
I should ignore her, but the guilty look on her face changes my mind. Her green eyes shimmer as if asking for forgiveness. I clench my teeth. I’ll lecture her about her punctuality later.
“Have a seat, Miss Carson, and see me after class,” I say to her coldly.
“Okay.” She walks into the classroom timidly and sits down on an empty chair in the second row.
“We’re discussing the T.S. Eliot poem. Have you read it?” I ask her, expecting a no.
She nods vigorously. “Love Song of J.A.P.? Yes.”
I take a moment to register the abbreviation because it’s the first time anyone calls it that. I’m annoyed by it, and I correct her. “J. Alfred Prufrock.”
When she looks up at me with a puzzled look, I explain. “The title of a poem often has a significant meaning, and it’s part of the poem. J. Alfred Prufrock indicates the formality of the character, and Prufrock suggests prudery. Calling it J.A.P. totally misses the point. It’s like saying R&J instead of Romeo and Juliet.”
She blinks, probably thinking I’m making too big a deal. “I just thought Prufrock sounded weird.”
“Exactly. That’s my point, and that’s Eliot’s intention.” I take the chance to lecture the whole class. “Eliot didn’t just come up with a random name on a whim. He probably spent days deciding it. Rule number one for poetry appreciation: Every single word in a poem is carefully chosen.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” she says, looking embarrassed and awestruck.
I stare at the pink color creeping onto her cheeks and regret making a big fuss about her small mistake. To give her a chance to redeem herself, I say, “It’s all right. That’s why you’re here to learn. Now tell me, what literary devices have you noticed in the poem? By literary devices, I mean metaphor, imagery, irony, etc.”
She blinks for a second and then pulls out her cell phone.
I take a minute to realize she’s opening my email for the pdf file.
“You’re supposed to print it out,” I say. I don’t require students to purchase an expensive textbook, but I still expect them to bring hard copies of the poems to the class. Obviously, Hailey has not read the syllabus.
“Why is it necessary?” She frowns. “I can read it fine on my phone. Paperless.”
I roll my eyes. “This is not a quick entertainment piece you read over lunch. It’s fine literature,” I say with patience. “It deserves to be printed out and read carefully, and you will need to highlight the parts you like or are important and write comments next to the lines.”
She blinks. “Sure, I’ll do that next time.”
I shake my head. “Read the first stanza, please.”
She does what I say. “….The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes/ Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening….”
She has a beautiful voice. I close my eyes as she reads the lines I’ve read thousands of times in the past decades. T. S. Eliot is my favorite poet, and that’s why I tend to assign his poems to my students. I don’t expect they’ll appreciate them too, but at least I enjoy talking about them.
Hailey looks up again to see whether I want her to go on, but I stop her.
“Now, answer my question.”
“Err,” she hesitates a second. “Metaphor? Wait. Maybe it is personification. The fog is like a living creature.”
I nod with approval. “Go on! What does the fog remind you of?”
Hailey is still thinking, but Alex has his hand up again. Seeing no other volunteers, I let the fellow speak. “A cat,” he says quickly.
“Good,” I say. “Eliot loved cats. He might have had it in mind. But it doesn’t have to be the right answer. Poetry is up to interpretation. So the same line might mean different things to different readers.”
To my surprise, Hailey raises her hand.
“To me, it’s a woman,” she says.
I raise my eyebrows. Not that many people come up with that. “How so?”
She says with a shrug, “Because the title is Love Song? So I figure he had a woman in mind when he wrote it?”
I’m not satisfied with her answer. “You need to prove your point using the poem itself as evidence.”
“Oh!” She glances at the poem quickly. “The licking, rubbing, and curling to sleep?” she looks at me and waits eagerly for my approval.
Fuck. I’ve heard that before, but for some reason, my mind sinks into gutters right away. My dick actually twitches, and I quickly turn toward the podium.
