You Love it When They Call You Big Poppa

I have a teacher that I have had for four years of college here at my semi-reserved historically black university. He has been awesome and taught me everything from how to write a research paper (except not really), to how not to go about getting your Colors. He has doubled for this same amount of time as my mentor. And I really look up to him. But in this, my last year of undergraduate study, he has been my instructor for Thesis and I find myself in a really bad place with him. It seems I visit his office and leave not only with more things to read, but a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that maybe he and I have grown apart. The advice he gives now simply upsets me, and the instruction I recieve as a student (or lack thereof) confounds me in his class. He continues to emphasize the importance of this school year and his course yet he has office little more than a hock phlegm in the face with regards to helping me develop this Thesis that is supposed to be the summation of all my days here in the Hampton Bubble. And then I began to look at each of the courses I have taken. African American Lit. American Lit. Writing Research. And I realize that in each of these courses I haven't learned anything except how to bullshit my way through another class. And now he looks at me in his office, like I should know things that, prerequiste classes I had with him as the professor, never taught me. That's a major blow! And what's ironic about the entire situation is that he has been bullshitting us the teaching of these courses too. So he really can't get mad at me not having any structure in my brain, because he clearly hasn't cultivated that in me for 4 years. He has no structure his damn self. He can't impose this one outline on my life and decide that I should blindly do it. It ain't even finna go down like that. You can start this conversation Doc, but I guarantee I am going to finish it. Plain and simple whatever disarray my Thesis ends up in is as much a failure of yours as it is mine. And if I don't pass this my last class at school with you, I'm blowing up a building (but not really). Then I'm coming for you. A nigga is not whining, but damn it, I'm just sayin.