IF IT'S SO WRONG, WHY DOES IT FEEL SO RIGHT?

SNAPPED

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Wednesday arrived, and Billie was already tired. She had barely slept, running the previous day's exchanges through her mind. She wore a massive black t-shirt with some obscure gothic lettering, paired with wide, pinstriped trousers and her boots. She looked like she'd just rolled out of a photoshoot, but her eyes held a brittle exhaustion.

The lesson was on 20th Century social movements, specifically focusing on the pressure to conform in post-war America. This was Nala's turf.

"Think about the 1950s," Billie instructed, pacing the front of the room. "The conformity was intense. The pressure to present a certain image, to hide anything that wasn't deemed 'normal'—whether it was political belief, mental health struggles, or sexual identity."

She projected a black and white image of a smiling, homogenous suburban family. Nala watched the image, her expression hardening slightly.

"It's easy to judge them now," Billie continued, her voice gaining passion. "But imagine the fear. The sheer risk of exposing your true self. To lose your job, your home, your family—all because you didn't fit the mandated mold."

"Or because you were Black in a white neighborhood," Nala stated, her voice flat, cutting through the academic discussion.

Billie nodded immediately. "Absolutely. The pressure to conform was always exponentially higher for marginalized communities. This pressure created an environment where people had to lead double lives. They had to be experts in performing a version of themselves that was palatable to society."

"Like someone who has to hide their actual age to seem credible?" Nala asked, her voice innocent, but her eyes were piercing. She didn't look at the screen; she looked only at Billie.

The question hit Billie hard—a sudden, cold splash of white-blue water. Her breath hitched. Nala was poking at the constant, low-grade anxiety Billie carried about being the youngest teacher in the department, the one who had to prove herself twice as fast, twice as competent, just to be taken seriously by the administration.

"We are discussing historical figures, Nala," Billie managed, her voice tight. Her right shoulder gave a quick, sharp jerk—a tic she barely managed to disguise as adjusting her shirt.

"I'm just asking if the historical context applies to contemporary situations of employment," Nala pressed, leaning forward. "It seems like a relevant parallel. People still have to perform, right? Especially when their livelihood depends on maintaining a certain image of competence and experience."

The air was thick, suffocating. The other students were silent, recognizing the shift from academic debate to something deeply personal. Nala wasn't being malicious; she was being analytical, but her analysis was pointed straight at Billie's deepest insecurity.

Billie gripped the edge of the whiteboard. She saw Nala's challenging gaze as a blinding, aggressive shade of yellow. She had to shut this down. Not just for her job, but because the stress was making her lose control. Her left hand flexed rapidly against the board.

"Nala," Billie said, her voice dropping to a low, intense warning. "The purpose of this class is to analyze the past, not to engage in personal critiques of the faculty. Focus on the material."

"It's not personal, Ms. O'Connell," Nala countered smoothly, though her eyes betrayed the game. "I'm just very interested in the concept of authenticity versus survival."

"I think you've made your point clear," Billie said, pushing off the board abruptly. She walked quickly to her desk, forcing the movement to mask a rapid, fluttering eye tic. "Now, let's move on to the rise of counter-culture..."