Oh Assistant Professor,

If only you could read this now, respond immediately and act affirmatively. I had you for your first class, a politically correct liberal sociology propaganda machine about crime and the law. Some people said you were hired because you are black, young, and a woman, but anyone who has seen your booty and PhD thesis knows that can’t be true. I’m sorry for the way people way people with my skin color have treated people with your skin color. In fact I’ve been a naughty white boy. Punish me?

As soon as I laid eyes on you, my Nubian Queen, I knew you had to have me. As your research assistant. I performed every assignment with extreme diligence. I fought for every point in your retarded grading system of 5/5, 10/10 etc. that treated our writing like factors in the racial quota system invalidated by the Gratz v. Bollinger supreme court case. You see, I learned something. I was paying attention to your every move…

I did not lose one point in your stupid system. You gave me an A+. Even though I could have emailed you my take home final, I chose to come in and give it to you in person, at the party you set up for our deadline. I had popped 3 valium as I finished your exam, so I was already coasting by the time I showed up for pizza. After the others left, you approached me and I knew what you would ask. Yes! Yes’m, masta! I will be your research assistant!

Whip me. I will be your love slave.

Tell me I am a bad white boy, even though the suffering inherent in my socio-historical narrative as a Jew puts yours as an African American to shame. And you and I are both OK now, right? Let’s figure out how to make it all better.

I started by compiling articles for you about failing public schools in Atlanta. I went to an elite private school. I’m sorry. At our weekly meetings, which were unnecessary, I prayed that you would close the door of your office, strip me bare, and take out all your racial angst on me.
I really don’t give a shit about failing public schools in Atlanta, so I tried to start off with subjects that could lead somewhere more interesting, like Weber on the protestant work ethic. I also tried to do coffee instead of meet in your office but you always foiled that plan like a slave rebellion.

You really were the master.

Later I composed a sourcebook on racial inequality for you, which basically found that black people are worse off than white people in education, health, life expectancy, income…basically everything. Despite the bad news, I hope I showed you that I am not like the whites who got us here, that I understand, and I will fight to change it. That’s why you wrote my law school recommendation, because you know I’m good doobie and I’ll fight the good fight. But what if I disappoint you by selling out and making a lot of money, in a way that somehow exploits you and your sisters and brothers through some complex or somesuch? Can I pick you up in my limo?

Working for you did not fulfill my male-dominated-sociocultural-raciological-sadomasochistic desire to jump you like a misunderstood inner city youth. But on the off chance you are reading this between interviews, or writing your next book, let me know, because I need some action. Affirmative action.

Love,
Your Research Assistant