Yeah, yo da shiz-nit. Fo shizzle.
Pants hanging blithely under the buttocks (how???), you sway into my class every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Ears plugged with the detrius of the latest rapper, giving each fellow student in your way the upwards-chin-jut or the one-arm-across-the-chest body thump.
O! The gleaming white of your K-Swisses.
O! The gladness you bring with your basketball jerseys, emblazoned with the colors of Demver, of L.A., of Florida.
You strike quite the figure of glorious youth, you tall, Kanye-lovin’ hoodlum.
And they admire you. They watch you, waiting for the latest slammin’ jab at your teacher, the latest witty repartee, the latest hit from your world papered by MTV.
But only I know, when I watch your grade plummeting, of your exquisite inability to function academically. Only I sit at home, huddled over the latest essay dealing with “You’re Gr8test Heeroe”, wondering where we both went wrong. I alone am witness to the downfall of such a bright star.
And the knowledge is deafening, roaring in my ears as you make the witty remark which sends the class into stitches. When the high-fives are given, the winks from the chicks in the back finished, the breath I take before launching into the next section of the text is one reeking of the desire to snap back, to bring you down a notch, to crush you with the scepter from my ivory tower.
And I hold it.
And center myself, and move on.