The Weight of Silence

Photo by Bui Hoang Lien on Unsplash

The sunlight was streaming through the chicken wire windows of the classroom, its warmth mocking a barren moonscape in my chest. The teacher’s voice droned on— pleasant enough, though a hum faded into the background like the static of a transistor radio as I stared down at the book in front of me. The words on the page might as well have been dancing ancient hieroglyphics.

At the blackboard, a boy scratched out rows of crater-like zeros with white chalk. I watched, transfixed, as he began to lose count, mumbling, his hand rising to his mouth, hesitating, then moving faster. It was like watching myself in slow motion —fumbling, overwhelmed, and unsure if I’d ever get it right.

That boy was in fact me, as if in a dream where my body was in two places at once. Ever have one of those?

As a young child, learning first felt like a world of endless possibilities. Letters, shapes, and sounds skipped across the page, inviting me to explore their mysteries. But s…