Does anyone else ever feel like they’re wearing a mask every single second of the day, or is this just what being an adult is supposed to be like? It’s almost three in the morning and I’m sitting in my kitchen—which is way too quiet, by the way, the fridge has this hum that makes me want to throw it out the window—and I just keep thinking about how I’m basically a professional liar. Am I the only one? Like, you spent years studying, reading every book you could find, trying to actually understand the truth of how things happened, and then you get the job and you realize the job isn't about the truth at all. It’s about something else entirely... something much smaller and uglier. I live in this town where everyone knows what color socks you’re wearing before you even put them on, and it’s exhausting. I went to the store today to get milk and someone—I won’t say who, but they’ve lived here since the dawn of time—stopped me in the aisle for twenty minutes to talk about their grandson who is in my class. And I had to stand there and smile and nod while all I could think about was the lesson I’d just finished, where I had to look those kids in the eye and read from a page that I KNOW is full of holes. It’s like being handed a map that says the world is flat and being told I have to convince thirty teenagers that it’s the absolute gospel because that’s what the state says is the "standard." It makes me so ANGRY. Not just regular mad, but the kind of heat that sits right behind your teeth and makes you want to scream at the wall. I spent four years in university—actually five, because I changed my major once because I thought I wanted to do something else, maybe something with art or something where I didn't have to talk as much, but I always came back to this—and I learned about what actually happened back then. The stuff that wasn't pretty. The stuff they don't want people to talk about in a place like this. But if I say one word that isn't in that specific book, that one version of the story they’ve decided is the only one that matters, I’m done. My career is over before it even really started... and in a town this small, where would I even go? And the thing is, I’m not even a brave person. I thought I would be. When I was younger I used to imagine being the person who stood up and said something, but when you're actually in it, and you have bills and you're trying to make things work with someone who already thinks you’re "too intense" about everything... it’s different. This person I'm seeing, they don't get it. They told me I should just "be grateful" I have a steady paycheck in a town where most people are struggling to find anything. And maybe they're right? But then I go into that room and I see those kids and I feel like I'm betraying them every time I open my mouth to talk about "the situation" as if it was some kind of polite misunderstanding. There was this one kid today. He’s smart, way smarter than he lets on, and he asked me this question about "that part" of the chapter on the early settlements. He saw the gap. He saw the part where the story didn't make sense, where the people we were talking about just... disappeared from the narrative like they never existed. And I had to shut him down. I had to point back to the paragraph on page eighty-four and tell him that was all we needed to know for the test. I felt sick. I actually had to go sit in my car during my lunch break and just stare at the steering wheel because I couldn't breathe. Does anyone else feel like they're erasing themselves for a paycheck? This place is so small that if I even whispered what I actually thought about the curriculum, it would be back to the school board by Monday. They talk about "values" and "tradition" but what they really mean is they don't want to feel uncomfortable about the past. And I’m the one who has to keep them comfortable. I’m the one who has to stand at the front of the room and perform this version of history that feels like a fairy tale, but a really mean one. I keep thinking about what my old professors would say if they saw me now. They’d probably be disappointed. I’m disappointed... mostly at myself for being too scared to just tell the truth. I keep going back to that conversation at the grocery store, though. It’s funny how the small things stick with you. The way that person looked at me, like I was some kind of hero just for showing up and repeating the lines they want to hear. They have no idea that I’m sitting here at 2:47 AM hating the sound of my own voice. I wonder if the other teachers feel this way? I try to look for it in the breakroom—which smells like stale coffee and burnt popcorn, always—but everyone just talks about the weather or the football game or their weekend plans. We’re all just acting. Are we all just acting? Is this just what it means to be part of a community? I just want to know if I'm the only one who feels like a total fraud. Like I'm actively making the world a little bit worse every single day by doing exactly what I'm told to do. I look at that book on my desk and I want to rip the pages out, but instead, I'll go in tomorrow and I'll tell them to turn to page ninety-two and we'll talk about "the expansion" like it was some kind of inevitable, peaceful thing. I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this without just... snapping. Is there a point where you just stop caring? Or does the anger just stay there forever, like a rock in your shoe that you can't ever quite shake out? Anyone?