Dear Kurl,
I, for one, am not laughing. I, for one, am delighted that Ms. Khang has finally recognized what was obvious to me from your very first letters: You’re a talented writer, Kurl. I suspect the compliment doesn’t mean very much coming from a wannabe poet like me, and piggybacking on a teacher’s praise, no less.
But take, for example, the vivid detail with which you portrayed your after-class conversation with Ms. Khang. The comparison to a poodle sniffing at your crotch made me laugh aloud. Poor Ms. Khang! She hasn’t read your letters, Kurl, so it must have come out of nowhere for her. She must have been utterly gobsmacked to read your essay. She must have wondered if she was hallucinating it, if she was dreaming it. No wonder she couldn’t contain herself.
You’re wrong about one thing, though: Ms. Khang doesn’t know the first thing about my literary tastes and aptitudes. Kurl, you must have noticed by now that in person, I am not particularly verbally inclined. To date I have never once opened my mouth in English class except to say “here” when she was handing out our first batch of letters from your class and wanted to know who Jonathan Hopkirk was. I don’t speak in any of my classes, in fact. I fear that my letters have given you a wildly inaccurate picture of my student persona.
All of which makes me realize once more that your letters have given me a warped portrait of you, too, Kurl. A person can never really know another person, I suppose. Not all the way through.
Yours truly,
Jo
PS: Before you break off your correspondence with me again, would you please do me one favor? Would you tell me which part of Whitman’s poem you wrote about, and what you said about it?