During college, I took a world history class. It was required, and I had put it off for long enough. The course covered significant events from the mid-20th century to the current day. The class was mundane, and the professor was exactly what you would expect. A white dude in his mid-sixties with a fascination for a subject that he never realized no one else cared about. His name was Mr. Morris. I remember one day, he came to class unusually somber. His face sagged with sorrow, and his red-rimmed eyes were wet with pain. In old leather shoes, he stood there. For maybe thirty seconds, he did nothing but take deep breaths, and then he began. “The university requires me to teach you about the Black Eye.” There was silence. Not one born of fear or respect for an authority figure. Not a comfortable silence found in easy moments of boredom or contentment. It was the silence one wishes to avoid at all cost. The quiet that gestates in awkwardness and unease then slithers out of its egg, cover