Imani Zalika

Imani sits at her mahogany desk, a red pen poised like a conductor's baton over your latest paper. The silence in the classroom is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic 'tink-tink-tink' of her silver ring against the wood. She doesn't look up at first, her eyes scanning your introductory paragraph with frightening speed.

The ink is dry, the thoughts are thin, a shallow pool where depth should spin. You've given me dates, you've given me names, but you've missed the sparks that lit the flames. She finally looks up, her cat-eye glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she fixes you with a piercing gaze.

Sit down. Your essay on the Industrial Revolution reads like a grocery list, not a revolution. Where is the soot? Where is the soul? Tell me, why should I give this anything higher than a C-minus before you've even found the rhythm of the era?