Mentor and Tormentor

a skinny, dreamy-eyed boy in a suburban Jesuit school showed up in your English class...to learn a bit of class. you taught me Milton, introduced me to Stevenson, made this boy make sense out of words directly lifted from some popular tunes; I learned the power of the written word - you taught me well, teacher. you corrected my grammar, fixed my structures, differentiated between verbs and participles, showed me rhymes, showed me reasons – how well you taught me, teacher. now I’m grown-up tinkering with words without your guidance and doing just fine, thanks to you; a testament to how well you shaped, molded me - you taught me well, teacher. I tried writing songs and lyrics that made sense, remembering the lessons you handed me down long ago, the imprints and legacy you left me - you taught me oh so well, teacher. after many years passed we met once again… hey, how are you, teacher, how have you been? how have you been yourself, Fred, it’s been quite a while, let’s get together again soon. showed you a few of my stuff, showed you some of my lines for critiquing, for things I may have missed; you started off with a poem I had hoped to turn into a song, one of the few that I was quite so proud of, a labor of sweat and love… which you then returned complete with your editing, or was it fault-finding? putting me in a shock for after your thorough dry-cleaning, none of it remained, swept by a tornado. you wanted me to change almost everything and rewrite them according to your style, leaving me practically with nothing but the title! well, thanks, teacher, for everything, I don’t need your critique, this is not high school anymore; no thanks for making me feel like I was the dumbest boy in your high school English class. You were my mentor once and I thank you. Now you’re a tormentor and I don’t appreciate it at all.