In which my English teacher tells me when we are going to read my poem in class.

I recently had two poems accepted to literary magazine and/or. No one in my English class had heard of it, but that didn't stop me a few weeks ago from announcing my success to the class anyway. I made this announcement because we were talking about a new unit on poetry we were going to start, and I thought it would be semi-appropriate, topic-wise, to announce it.

My teacher asked if it would be possible for her to share it with her classes, which I thought was brilliant. The two best-case scenarios for the future of my writing (at least to my mind) are gathering a fandom or being read in English classes. Preferably both, but one or the other is acceptable. (I'd want a fandom because it shows that people are enjoying my work so much that they come up with inside jokes about it and bond with total strangers over it. I'd want it to be read in classes because then people could enjoy it intelligently, and intelligence is brilliant.)

Thursday, I found out today, is the day my English class is going to look at my poem. My teacher didn't teach it sooner because she wanted my permission. She showed it to another class of hers, who had trouble understanding it. She then explained that it would have made sense had they known the author "who was probably feeling misunderstood after a tragedy" (and she then postulated it was about how people interpreted things after my mum died. Ehehehe no. I actually wrote that poem long before my mother died, but I guess it's what happens to writers, eh? Something bad happens to them and everyone assumes their work is about that bad thing.)
But we're going to analyze it, and I'm going to be in the room, and I'll probably snickering the whole time at other people's misinterpretations. Life, you see, is too short for me to get upset over people misinterpreting my work, but just short enough for me to find it amusing.