When my professor started failing me because I rejected him, I realized the only way out was to give him exactly what he wanted. It started subtle at first. I noticed the grades on my essays slipping for no reason. My classmates whispered, “Are you doing okay with Dr. Reed?” I laughed it off, thinking it was just me overreacting. But then came the emails. “I expected more from you,” he wrote. Nothing specific, just that I was disappointing. I knew why. A month ago, I had politely declined his “study session invite” outside class. Nothing sexual, just a dinner that was clearly inappropriate. He’d taken it personally.
Every day, I felt the tension when entering his office. His smirk when I submitted homework. The way he lingered on my shoulder in class. I realized I couldn’t win through conventional methods—grades, attendance, participation—it was all tainted now. I needed leverage, a way to turn the game around without losing myself.
Then I remembered the campus’s anonymous course feedback system. Professors dreaded bad reviews; they were reviewed publicly each semester. And he had a secret obsession with recognition—awards, tenure points, the works. I started a plan, subtle yet precise. I would make him think I was complying, flattering, giving him what he wanted in a completely harmless way while setting him up for the public record.
It began with emails. I sent polite notes, over-the-top praise about his lectures, references to his “genius insight” in class discussions. I smiled during office hours and agreed with his every opinion on obscure topics. Meanwhile, I kept screenshots, recorded my study sessions where he subtly tried to steer conversations, and noted every inappropriate comment he made. I played the obedient student while quietly building my defense arsenal.
Midterms came, and true to his strategy, he tried to push my grade lower. I handed in my essay filled with references, citations, and analysis exactly the way he “suggested” in his office. The irony? Each suggestion he gave me was absurdly self-serving, irrelevant to the course topic, or obviously plagiarized from obscure sources only he liked. I followed it word for word.
But I didn’t stop there. I created a second layer of subtle sabotage. I mentioned his “favorite ideas” during class discussions, framing them as if I were discovering them for the first time, giving the illusion of admiration to peers. At the same time, I shared the same comments anonymously on online student forums where we were required to critique professors. Every word he thought would earn him admiration or points ended up exposing him as manipulative and self-serving. It was like setting up a mirror maze—he couldn’t tell what was real praise and what was documentation of his own misconduct.
When grades were posted, I received a C-minus—barely passing. Perfect. I submitted an anonymous tip to the academic board with all my compiled evidence: the emails, the recordings, the essay instructions from him that contradicted academic integrity. The investigation was swift. He was called in for questioning, and suddenly, the tables had turned. His obsession with control and recognition blinded him to the trap I’d set.
Two weeks later, I got the email I’d been waiting for: the professor had been put on probation, stripped of certain grading privileges, and warned about conduct violations. I laughed quietly in my dorm room, thinking about the look on his face when he realized he had created his own downfall by trying to manipulate me. The sweet taste of justice came not from confrontation but from playing the game smarter, giving him exactly what he wanted while protecting myself.
Sometimes, you don’t need to fight directly. You just need to understand the rules of the game and the weakness of those who think they’re untouchable. The world has a way of balancing itself, and sometimes the quietest, smartest moves carry the loudest echoes.
Mic drop.
#aliza
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