Seventh Grade, Under Fluorescent Light

Seventh grade, the air thick with the hum of the television,
the glow of history flickering across our faces,
A teacher—our teacher—stood at the front,
watching us watch, waiting.

We were taking notes,
because that's what you do-
When authority speaks,
you listen,
you obey,
you don't question.

Then—snap—light flooded in, harsh and sudden,
and her voice cut through the dim like a blade,
"Charles Anthony Greenberg!" she barked,
"You are not taking notes."

But he was.
I saw his pen move, the quiet scratch of ink on paper.
We all saw.

She asked the room, slow and deliberate,
"Does anyone want to stand up for Charles?"

Silence,
a cough,
a muttered half excuse.
Someone tried,
I think,
a syllable maybe,
But she crushed them with a glance.

She sent Charles to the headmaster’s office.
No one followed.
The door closed behind him like the sealing of a fate.

Then she turned to us, smoothed her skirt,
took a breath deep with satisfaction,
and said the words that would echo in my mind for years:
"See how easy that was?"

We were reading Anne Frank.
And in that moment, I learned how things begin.

Not with war, not with blood—
but with silence, with stillness,
with a room full of people,
with a room of eyes that look,
but do not see.

FSF