This is nothing more than a rant about a ninth-grade English teacher who I cannot bring myself to hate. It gave me this idea about this group of people, the Idiots, and I got interested and made something I called the Idiot Saga. I've disassembled it, though, and have posted the poems separately.

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ODE TO A FRESHMAN ENGLISH TEACHER: THE IDIOTS FORM A UNION formerly titled IDIOT.

It is midnight, and I ought to be sleeping,

But I find I cannot.

It is not the fault of the pouring rain,

Which has subsided,

Nor the effects of the chocolate,

Which have worn off.

It is you! you, you idiot teacher, who—

come now, dear.

Respect your teachers.

You know you want to be one someday.

—who assigned that idiot essay

which I worked on all day

which got a nasty grade, and

wasn’t told why it did not merit

something better!

They were not my idiot words to begin with.

They were hers.

Which you would know if you paid any

Attention at all. Idiot.

And you assigned that idiot project,

Which I thought was lovely,

Which you said didn’t relate,

Which was an idiot statement anyway,

Because we hadn’t finished the bloody book!

Idiot.

Which wasn’t her fault.

You could’ve read it yourself, you know.

You could’ve—

And then there was that idiot final

Which I still don’t know

What I scored on

Which I feel like I aced but I

Felt like I aced that idiot essay too.

And I had to make it up on the

Spot because

You didn’t tell us something crucial. Idiot.

Bless Andrew F.

Someday he and I will ride up to your

Idiot classroom on white stallions

And say “So there!”

And spit on the idiot floor and ride out,

Because you made us cry.

Everyone else can do it fine

Except me and occasionally Andrew.

I don’t like English,

Where the lines are so wavery and

There is no barrier between the correct

And the insane.

So it’s me, then. I’m—

But then it’s you. you make me feel like an—

But it’s me. Because I’m—you—Andrew—

I am an idiot.

Because you make me feel like one

But if I am an idiot, I am an idiot

With strength.

Perhaps we can begin a rebellion of Idiots,

Andrew and I.

We shall have a secret handshake

And secret whistles

And secret meetings

With secret votes

And we won’t tell you

Because you’re Right and we’re Idiots.

And someday we shall form an Idiot Army

And wreak havoc upon people who are

Right.

But until then, all of our tears

And wasted hours tea-dyeing paper

And typing essays

And preparing for the next day

Will block the sight of the True Idiots

And we will only mutter behind your back (in a discontented tone),

“Idiot.”

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Andrew F. is a boy I know from school who always seems to be at the top of the class. There were varying degrees of Andrew-esque perfection in our class but we were all equally shaken sometimes. I came out of that class at the end of the year feeling like I’d been beaten over the head with a meat tenderizer, but also feeling like I’d really learned something.

I would greatly appreciate any comments or constructive criticism.