The Adventures of Cordelia Organa-Solo

Well, I did it. My alter ego truly exists in all her glory. Enjoy her first story:

Here I am, in my fashionably late twenties, single, and teaching high school English. Believe it or not, this is a dream come true for me. I knew long ago that the only way to save the world was not by saving a single cheerleader, but indeed by saving many cheerleaders, athletes, musicians, thespians, and other average American school children.

As usual, my curriculum calls for that great playwright: William Shakespeare. As usual, many of my students are attempting to covertly keep their No Fear Shakespeare open on their laps under their desks. Here's the real irritation. When did we need to start fearing Shakespeare? He wrote for the masses. If you had a penny, you got to see a show. For goodness sake, the man spoke and wrote in English. One little "thee" instead of "you" and my students panic like there at a disco or something. If they just gave Shakespeare a chance first, they would see that he can be funny, inappropriately sexual, and rather intelligent all in one play.

Then today while I'm trying to fire up Much Ado About Nothing instead of King Lear; let's face it-what teenage kid is going to relate to a middle aged, lunatic king; it occurrs to me: These kids can read Shakespeare. They just don't want to do the work of thinking about it.

"Aides" like No Fear and Cliffsnotes and Pink Monkey and Book Rags, etc. are the real enemy here. They do all the analyzing and synthesizing for the students. How am I possibly supposed to get to those higher levels of thinking in my classroom when my students already have it done for them? That's when the light bulb went off (I had stood too long in one place in my classroom and the timer for energy saving shut off my classroom light). My next stop would be the bookstore next door.

Cheerily I greeted the clerk setting up a display of the hottest new hardbacks which all dealt with vampires in some form oddly enough. I cautiously zigzagged my way around the story making sure to never look directly at a camera. I browsed the mysteries and local literature. I made one rotation around the bargain book bin and then narrowed in on my victim.

There it stood ever so smugly crossing the line of hubris that usually angers the gods. In about five minutes the smirk would belong to me. My fingers flipped the matchbox in my coat pocket around a couple of times. In the flashiest of flashes I had pulled two matches out, swept them across the side of the box, and tossed them onto the display. Before the first bellows of smoke could reach my nostrils I had turned to make my way out of the door. The horror stricken octaves of store employees reverberated off the walls, and I let the cool glass shut behind me.

Before you judge me, understand I do not consider those books. They are a plague on intellect and deserve to burn. Sure they still exist on the internet and the war is far from over, but as I head to the next bookstore in my area I take comfort in knowing I've won a small battle.