Bitter thoughts run through my head as I exit the dark chambers of her classroom.
I think criticism is an evil way to tell someone they are stupid. I cannot believe she made me sit in the middle of the room, surrounded by all those vicious people! They are supposed to be my peers, my fellow students, and she turned them into hateful vampires. They sucked all of my self-esteem, my pride, and ripped my story to shreds, criticizing every sentence. I spent all night writing that piece and now she tells me I have to rewrite it several more times? Is she crazy?
I walk to my car enraged and race home. I enter my safe haven where she is waiting. With one simple touch, I turn her on. She replies, "Good Evening Melanie. You have one new e-mail message." I click on her MSN icon and read my e-mail message. It is from my English Professor. She apologizes in her pathetic manner of spite. I decide to work on my piece with vengeance.
I begin rewriting each sentence, concentrating mostly on the malicious verbal attacks from my fellow students, or what the teacher calls the "literary analysis from your peers." I rewrite the story in present tense to bring the audience into the exact moment. I use my thesaurus to change my repetition of verbs and adjectives. This story is a masterpiece. Now, I can rest.
I wake up and sit in front of her beautiful screen. I begin to critique my own work, making music with my fingertips as they dance across the keyboard. I spend all day gazing into my monitor, using all the wonderful characteristics she possesses, spelling check, grammar check, the list is infinite. The time passes and the thought of entering the house of pain and anguish makes my skin quiver. I force myself to go to class and reap the wrath of the Critic, my English professor.
She greets me at the door with her fake smile. I sit in the middle of the circle immediately so that I can be the first to be crucified. The execution of my story begins and ends faster than the stroke of a match produces fire. Class ends and as I stride past my professor I say to her, "Not much to tear down today, eh?" She replies, "Your improving, your work will always get better."
I walk to my car and drive home. As I retire in my bed, I think about my professor, the Critic. She helped me to produce this work of art that would later be published in Journalism Magazine. She is a Critic, not the devil himself. She is one of the best teachers I have ever had.
-- Melanie Swor, Florida Atlantic University