When I walked into the class today, a woman walked with some authority around the classroom. Her hair was brown, cropped right above the shoulder. Her clothes was conservative, and she carried a quiet self-awareness, a feeling of being a teacher and assured of her place in the world. She scanned the classroom, almost trying to memorize the faces. She smiled at people entering, most who rushed to find seat. Eventually, she settled down in front of a seat, piles of paper and books.

She was not the porn star.

I had signed up for the writing class several weeks earlier, intrigued by the name of the instructor. Initially, I imagined that the instructor was Asian with a last name of “Lee”. An Asian writer is rare—especially from a culture that emphasizes wisdom from science and mathematics. It’s interesting that the emphasis is toward logic when China once revered the arts of opera, dance, and painting. Especially writing. So all of that led me to googling. When I realized that the name was of a porn star down at the local San Francisco kink.com. Now most contemporary porn stars…if I can use that terminology…are often feminist activists. Rather than seeing their work as simply indulgent paid work, it’s about letting females be powerful, just because they can be. It’s about allowing women to be who they are and make choices in their own right.

So I was super excited. Because writing is so vulnerable, I wanted to learn from someone who allows vulnerability in a real way.

To my disappointment, she was sick last week, causing a slight riot from students when we were told after sitting 20 minutes in the class waiting. Then this week, we were told by the replacement instructor that the original instructor needed to opt out due to her mysterious illness—something that she discovered at a doctor’s appointment. For my curiosity’s sake, I really wanted to know. But when announced, I nodded emphatically, accepting that for the next few weeks, I wouldn’t be learning from a porn star.