Chapter 1 #2
“Wait—before you say it, let me say this, ‘cause I’m in my healing era.” Tynesha leaned on the desk dramatically.
“I had a lot going on this semester—emotionally, spiritually, and romantically. But if I failed, I’ma just cry in the car real quick, then re-enroll, ‘cause I like how you teach. You don’t sugarcoat nothing.
You lowkey remind me of my auntie who be cussin’ people out at family functions. She mean as hell, but she got wisdom.”
“Tynesha, your final paper was titled ‘I Know I Ain’t Read the Chapter, But Here’s What I Think.’”
“And didn’t I drop some gems?” she clapped back, grinning and flashing her rhinestone nails. “A lil’ sprinkle of nonsense, a lil’ sprinkle of faith. Boom! Passing grade! That’s how I live.” She gave a proud shrug, then strutted off, hips switching like the semester owed her nothing.
Then came Zion, aka The Hype TikTok Kid, phone already in hand, energy on one thousand as he live-streamed.
“Yooo! What’s good, fam?” he cheesed, swinging his camera around the class. “Y’all already know the vibes! It’s Zion the Don, and y’all know who that is.”
He flipped the camera to me. “The most beautiful, chillest, and realist professor on campus.”
My lips twitched into a small smile. I casually threw up two peace signs.
“Gang!” Zion shouted dramatically to the camera. “Y’all see what I mean?! Ain’t no other professor here doing it like this!”
He stopped the stream and tucked his phone away. For the first time all semester, his tone mellowed… just a little.
“I wish you had clones,” he said honestly, his hands still animated. “If every teacher here was like you? Man… college would be lit! We’d all be showing up early with donuts, highlighters, good energy, and not a single clue what we doing… but we’d be happy as hell.”
“Sounds like a wellness retreat, not a university.” I chuckled, then leaned forward and whispered, “But as long as you bring me the donuts first, I’ll allow the shenanigans.”
“Fa sho!’” He laughed, then calmed again. “But nah, for real. I appreciate you, Ms. Hollis. Like, you actually taught without acting like you were better than us. You laughed at our jokes. And when we acted dumb, you told us straight up… but with love.”
I tilted my head a bit, touched.
“Thank you, Zion. I’m just doing my job,” I expressed, voice soft.
“Nah, you did more than that. You made learning feel like the hood had a therapist… and the therapist got jokes. I still got PTSD from that midterm, though.”
I smirked. “Y’all earned every question.”
Zion pointed at me as if I were a spoken word poet. “Bars. Facts. Respect. I’ma stop by next semester and holla at you. Even if I ain’t got your class, you my dawg for life now.”
“Just don’t come in yelling while I’m teaching!” I warned playfully.
“I’ma whisper, I swear. Just a lil ‘what’s up, legend?’ and keep it moving.”
Zion gave me a crisp dap, a salute, then moonwalked out the door.
I shook my head, laughing under my breath.
I’m gonna miss his crazy tail.
Then came the opposite of peace: Jason, the psychology overachiever, with coffee in one hand and trauma in the other.
He stayed behind… of course he did.
I had to brace myself for his goodbye speech.
Jason slid up wearing a backpack that looked like it weighed more than he did, then hovered near the desk as if preparing to confess his sins.
“Well, Professor Hollis…” he began, wide-eyed and earnest. “I just wanted to say that this has been the most emotionally fulfilling academic experience of my adult life. And I include therapy in that. Seriously, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed this class.
I genuinely looked forward to it every week.
You’re like… the Carl Jung of HBCU professors. ”
I smiled genuinely. “Well, thank you, Jason. I appreciate that.”
Jason shifted his glasses up the bridge of his nose, clearly ramping up.
“I kind of wish you would’ve failed me,” he honestly admitted, with a nervous chuckle. “Wouldn’t that be great? Yeah… totally great! Then I could take it all over again and absorb even more! Like a… like a psychoeducational sponge!”
My face froze in a strained, forced grin. “That… would be something, alright.”
But in my head I was saying…
Jason… be so for real. Why would I ever intentionally fail a student who voluntarily stayed after every class to ask me if Freud and TikTok had a connection?
Is it possible to gaslight yourself if you have high anxiety and poor memory?
If I cried while binge-watching Finding Nemo, is that unresolved childhood grief or just empathy?
And if sociopaths dream in color? You even once asked if plants had childhood trauma.
My lunch was cold by the time you wrapped up that nonsense.
Please take your A and leave. Go analyze your mom, respectfully.
Jason kept talking, completely unaware that his voice was tap-dancing on the last nerve I had left.
“I’ve learned so much this semester. I even wrote you a five-page letter about how this class impacted my growth as a future psychologist.”
He handed me a folded paper.
“Oh… wow,” I gasped, forcing a polite expression that came off a little too Botox-adjacent.
If this letter says you’ve diagnosed me with something, I’m pressing charges.
“Anyway,” he beamed. “Have an amazing break, Ms. Hollis. I’ll see you next semester… hopefully not in your class, because, you know, I passed. But if I did fail—”
“You didn’t!” I cut in sharply.
“Right. But if I did—”
“Jason.”
Jason froze and raised both hands, choosing caution over confidence. “Got it.”
As he zipped up his oversized psychology-themed hoodie that read "Analyze This," he gave me a hopeful, slightly awkward smile.
“I’ll go. But I’ll have you know that I printed out your Rate My Professor profile and I’m giving it five stars in red pen. Well, until next year, Ms. Hollis… stay grounded and hydrated.”
Jason waved like we were besties, then finally left the room humming what suspiciously resembled the Criminal Minds theme.
I sipped my iced coffee, stared at the door, and muttered under my breath, “Next semester, I’m putting an electric fence around my damn desk.”
Then, as if the universe pitied me, one of my favorites, Laila, a bright-eyed sophomore who consistently occupied the front row, approached me with that intuitive softness she always carried.
She grinned. “I really wonder what Jason does when he goes home. I feel like he narrates his whole life in third person while eating cereal out the box.”
I let out a short laugh.
I wanted to reply, if I ever get a Jason Jr. next semester, I’m taking early retirement and moving to Cuba.
“Professor Hollis,” she continued, warmly, “thank you for everything. I could take this class ten more times and never get bored. And coming from me? That’s big. Some of these professors be talking like they’re allergic to fun.”
“I try to keep the hives to a minimum. Education shouldn't feel like a root canal,” I kidded.
Laila smiled. “It didn’t in your class. But…
” she hesitated, then smiled, almost knowing.
“I also wanted to tell you that you’re going to have the best Christmas ever this year!
I feel it! Like… really feel it!” Laila pressed the candle to her chest. “Something good is coming your way. I don’t know what, but… something amazing.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
I offered a soft smile. “Thank you, Laila. That’s very kind of you to say… and that means more than you know.”
Laila shrugged shyly, unaware that she’d just cracked something open inside me.
“My pleasure! Have a good break, Professor! You deserve that! Thank you for making this semester feel lighter for all of us! See you next year!”
Laila waved before hurrying out, her braids bouncing with each step, and her optimism trailing behind her like glitter in the hallway.
When the door closed, I finally exhaled and sank into my desk chair. The room always felt too big when everyone left.
Intro to Cultural Psychology was my domain, my safe space, and my home away from the home I never quite built.
At thirty-three, I’d carved out a respectable corner of life for myself at the University of Maryland, nestled right between ambition and quiet grief.
Born and raised there. I never strayed too far, just far enough to make a name for myself.
I’d always been the overachiever; the girl who people said “had a good head on her shoulders” before I even knew what that meant.
I’d been on the honor roll since elementary school, and kept it through middle school, high school, and never looked back.
I was at the top of my class in undergrad and made the Dean’s List every semester without fail.
I had articles published before I even finished my Master’s, and my professors wrote recommendation letters with lines like “mature beyond her years” and “sharp as they come.” Excellence wasn’t just a goal; it was a habit, a part of me, and the one thing I knew how to chase when everything else in life felt unpredictable.
My mother—God rest her beautiful soul—instilled greatness in me.
She wasn’t a professor, but she taught me how to speak with intention, carry myself with quiet confidence, and lead a room without ever raising my voice.
She believed in education like it was gospel and poured that belief straight into me.
She used to say, “Books don’t just open minds, baby; they open doors.
Don’t ever let yours stay closed.” So becoming a professor didn’t just feel right; it felt like a way to keep her legacy alive.
Every lecture I gave, every student I encouraged, and every life I touched with words, was me walking through the doors she held open for me.
I wasn’t alone for too long.
The door creaked open without a knock.