Getting Schooled (The Wright Brothers #1)(4)
One message in particular stood out, at least to my eyes.
“J. Wright” had responded to my feedback from earlier, and for some reason, I felt a little giddy as I clicked to open the message.
“I’d like to contest the assertion that my paper goes outside of the scope of the assignment. The book goes outside of the scope of the assignment, because this isn’t literature. It’s presented as literary fiction, but it’s a badly written hood novel with a heaping dose of magical realism, at best. It could be in the “black” section at the bookstore, with the title in blinged-out font and a half-naked woman (with green eyes, long hair, and light skin) holding a gun. It would be a much better fit there.”
My eyes went wide, and a blinked a few times, reading the message again before a smile spread over my face, and I shook my head. Instead of replying from my phone, I pulled out my laptop and laid the phone down at my side. It took a few minutes to load my email up, but once I did, I quickly typed out a response.
“The assignment was not to analyze whether or not Mr. Jefferson’s work was suitable reading material for the class. It was to provide a critical analysis of said work. If you want to make the claim that City of Dreams is not fit to be called literature, you can certainly do so. In your paper.”
I sat back, deciding to wait a few minutes to see if J. Wright was going to respond right away. Apparently, he wasn’t drinking the Cory Jefferson Kool-Aid, and neither was I. He was being hailed – by “liberal” white people, grossly misogynist “enlightened” men, and the silly women who pandered to both – as some kind of literary messiah, but fuck that. I’d actually personally side-eyed my mother about this book choice, and gotten a laugh in response.
Every year, in the midst of the actually good books she required the class to read, she would throw in a choice that made my damned teeth itch. According to her, the goal was to help her students discern what was good literature and what wasn’t. She’d assured me that City of Dreams was this year’s “wasn’t”, and I was incredibly pleased to see that she’d taken my suggestion of doing a couple of her lectures on romance-centered novels.
But back to Corey Jefferson – I wasn’t sure if his inclusion was having the desired effect, so far. It had been hard as hell for me to read some of those papers and not give the feedback that the student needed to jump off a cliff into a sea of dicks. Some of these kids actually agreed with Corey Jefferson’s bullshit, and it made my head hurt.
My computer pinged, letting me know I had a new message, and my heart started beating a little faster when I saw J. Wright in the “from” box.
“Hey, my bad Professor B. I didn’t mean to imply that you’d made a mistake in choosing the book. It’s definitely an eye-opener, even if I’d rather keep mine closed on this one. Still, message received.
In any case, I do want to contest the assertion that my social commentary isn’t suitable here. City of Dreams is a very, very widely read bestseller, with a huge marketing push of movies, merchandising, etc behind it. People are buying into these words like they’re some type of law. This book, and the ideas and ideals it presents, absolutely have a social impact. I think exploring that as part of critiquing the overall work is valid.”
I had to walk away from the laptop on that one. I considered calling “Professor B” to see what she thought, but I didn’t want her peering at me over those glasses of hers, not saying anything, but questioning my competence anyway. On the other side of that, she would provide the final grade on the paper, with my notes and scoring provided as suggestions. Even if said I was accepting it, there was no guarantee she would agree.
But on the other side – yes, I was up to a thought triangle now – she rarely went against me. She actually tended to score things higher than me, so maybe I was worried for nothing.
I walked around my space, straightening up for Gray’s arrival later, and then climbed into the shower. Now that my apartment and I were clean, I felt better, and I sat down in front of the laptop again, staring at my fingers as I considered my response. Finally, I typed something out.
“Cite your sources. Use direct quotes. Provide examples. Show context.”
If J. Wright was so adamant, I’d give him the chance to make his case. Crush-worthy social and literary views or not… his ass had better write to impress if he wanted to earn a better grade.
two.
“Cite your sources. Use direct quotes. Provide examples. Show context.”
I pushed out a heavy, relieved breath as I sat back in my chair, letting it swivel back and forth as I re-read the message on the screen. Those ten words had just saved me from having to cut a crazy amount of work from a paper that was due on Monday. Yeah, I had some work to do to address the other things the professor had pointed out, but those were no big deal. I could make those adjustment tonight when I got home, have my Saturday off to my damned self, and read over the paper again on Sunday.
“Hey, where are you? Jay?”
Shit.
I closed out my email and slipped my phone back into my pocket as I hopped up from the chair. There was just enough time for me to look like I’d already been on my way out when my father, Joseph Wright Sr., rounded the corner.
“What are you doing back here in the break room?” he asked, wearing a little frown as he looked me over. “And why aren’t you in the polo with the company logo?”