“Thank you, Zion. I’m just doing my job,” I expressed, voice soft.
“Nah, you did more than that. You made learning feel like the hood had a therapist… and the therapist got jokes. I still got PTSD from that midterm, though.”
I smirked. “Y’all earned every question.”
Zion pointed at me as if I were a spoken word poet. “Bars. Facts. Respect. I’ma stop by next semester and holla at you. Even if I ain’t got your class, you my dawg for life now.”
“Just don’t come in yelling while I’m teaching!” I warned playfully.
“I’ma whisper, I swear. Just a lil ‘what’s up, legend?’ and keep it moving.”
Zion gave me a crisp dap, a salute, then moonwalked out the door.
I shook my head, laughing under my breath.
I’m gonna miss his crazy tail.
Then came the opposite of peace: Jason, the psychology overachiever, with coffee in one hand and trauma in the other.
He stayed behind… of course he did.
I had to brace myself for his goodbye speech.
Jason slid up wearing a backpack that looked like it weighed more than he did, then hovered near the desk as if preparing to confess his sins.
“Well, Professor Hollis…” he began, wide-eyed and earnest. “I just wanted to say that this has been the most emotionally fulfilling academic experience of my adult life. And I include therapy in that. Seriously, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this class. Igenuinely looked forward to it every week. You’re like… the Carl Jung of HBCU professors.”
I smiled genuinely. “Well, thank you, Jason. I appreciate that.”
Jason shifted his glasses up the bridge of his nose, clearly ramping up.
“I kind of wish you would’vefailedme,” he honestly admitted, with a nervous chuckle. “Wouldn’t that be great? Yeah… totally great! Then I could take it all over again and absorb even more! Like a… like a psychoeducational sponge!”
My face froze in a strained, forced grin. “That… would be something, alright.”
But in my head I was saying…
Jason… be so for real. Why would I ever intentionally fail a student who voluntarily stayed after every class to ask me if Freud and TikTok had a connection? Is it possible to gaslight yourself if you have high anxiety and poor memory? If I cried while binge-watchingFinding Nemo,is that unresolved childhood grief or just empathy? And if sociopaths dream in color? You even once asked if plants had childhood trauma. My lunch was cold by the time you wrapped up that nonsense. Please take your A and leave. Go analyze your mom, respectfully.
Jason kept talking, completely unaware that his voice was tap-dancing on the last nerve I had left.
“I’ve learned so much this semester. I even wrote you a five-page letter about how this class impacted my growth as a future psychologist.”
He handed me a folded paper.
“Oh… wow,” I gasped, forcing a polite expression that came off a little too Botox-adjacent.
If this letter says you’ve diagnosed me with something, I’m pressing charges.
“Anyway,” he beamed. “Have an amazing break, Ms. Hollis. I’ll see you next semester… hopefully not in your class, because, you know, I passed. But if I did fail—”
“You didn’t!” I cut in sharply.
“Right. But if I did—”
“Jason.”
Jason froze and raised both hands, choosing caution over confidence. “Got it.”
