Dear Ms. She Who Will Not Be Named,

When I looked you up on Rate My Professors, I was met with all positive reviews. So, I considered myself lucky, and proceeded to register for your Intro to Creative Writing class. The first time the class met, I was giddy. It was the first of many classes that I was going to have to take as an English major. Although I was ecstatic, I was quickly made nervous. I was one of the two freshman in the room. Dwarfed with the obvious superiority of the experienced writers, I was hesitant to share during our free-write times.

I slowly began to open up, and share my ideas and thoughts more frequently. I realized that I was on par with many of the writers in the class and began to be more confident in my writing. Paired with the check pluses and great comments on assignments, I was a force to be reckoned with. I was liking you, professor, well enough. Your assignments and writing topics forced me to jump out of the box conciseness and into the abstractness of abstract writing. I didn't like how you seemed to drag out every aspect of the class, though, making it unbearable at times. This soon changed.

During a free-write, you told us to write about what brings us joy, then asked to share out. After the customary answers of a nice beach and a relatives house, my turn came. I said that being surrounded by beautiful black people brought me joy. My statement made you uncomfortable; it was obvious in your sharp turn away from me, and the joke you made out of my answer. You said something along the lines of: "Well, our class isn't bringing you joy."

The Creative Writing class is with a few students of color and three black students, including myself. The joke you made, at my expense, caused the class to chuckle uncomfortably. It caused me pain. I then asked myself if I was taking your failed attempt at a joke too personally, too close to heart. I did not share for the entirety of the class period.

In next week's class, we discussed our homework. The homework, in case you've forgotten, was to look up Timothy McSweeny's: Open Letters To People Or Entities Who Are Unlikely To Respond, pick a favorite one, and write one of our own. Having forgotten this assignment, I pulled out my laptop and did a quick Google search and found one that I liked, was hilarious, and could really relate to. It was entitled An Open Letter To White People In My MFA Program (a fantastic read, if you have the time).

When my turn to share came, I presented the title of my piece and a short synopsis of the letter. When I opened my mouth again to say the title of the letter I would have written, you interjected and said "Dear White People In My Creative Writing Class" for me, as if you read my mind and knew exactly what I wanted to say. You were wrong.

The title of the letter I was going to write was going to be entitled "Dear Black Students At Predominantly White Institutions" -- a topic that has been a key part of my life since attending an elementary school in San Francisco's Western Addition that was slowly beginning to gentrify.

But what I was going to say did not matter at that point; you had already spoken for me. That was apparent in your laughter, the laugh until you can't even breathe anymore and clutch your side laughter, and the boisterous laughter that the class burst into afterwards.

I was petrified. My initial feelings weren't feelings of anger, they were of sadness. Of my 15-and-half years of education in public, private, and charter schools with a different range of teachers and students, I had never felt the overwhelming sadness I felt by sitting in the hard plastic chair of your classroom.

You took my voice away and made everything I would say after that a joke. Anything I said would be meaningless. The class laughed more at you making light of my topic than a Donald Trump joke you made later in the class. Donald Trump is the biggest joke in America! When I managed to utter a "No" to your suggestion, you were surprised for a moment. You still had laughter in your voice when you asked, "Oh, what was it, then?" The class was still laughing and so were you. I didn't share for the rest of that class, either.

This time, I knew that I wasn't taking it personally. I knew that I wasn't looking too deep into your idiotic joke. Your subtle microaggressions. I knew I wasn't because during a 20-minute break in the hallway when I made eye contact with the only other black woman in the class and yelled, "Wasn't that some bulls**t?" and she agreed, I knew I wasn't looking too deep.

You took my voice away. Twice. Not because you were teaching, not because you were rephrasing, but because what I talk about makes you uncomfortable. Race makes you uncomfortable. Instead of trying to address why race makes you uncomfortable, you stripped my voice away so that you could feel comfortable. As a future educator myself, I feel as if you broke a cardinal rule of teaching. As a teacher, you should be doing your absolute best to make every student you touch feel empowered to share their thoughts and ideas. Not belittling them.

I made a vow to myself. The next time you belittle my thoughts and ideas, which is inevitable, I will call you out.

See you in class,
Talayah Hudson