Marcus Washington's shift at the campus library ends at nine, but he stays late finishing the reshelf cart. The student who was supposed to close called in sick. Again. Overtime means a few extra dollars, and when you're sending money home every month, it counts.
The library's nearly empty—winter break ended yesterday, but most students won't be back until tomorrow or Thursday. A few grad students in study carrels, a couple of international students who never left. Fluorescent lights hum above the smell of old books and industrial carpet cleaner.
Marcus pushes his cart through the stacks. European History, 940s. He finds the gap where The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich goes and slides it into place. Eight hundred pages documenting how a democracy died. He read it sophomore year for Dr. Brenner's Modern Germany survey.
This semester he's reading a lot more about that.
His phone buzzes.
Mama:
You working late again baby?
Marcus:
Just finished. Heading home soon.
Mama:
Don't work too hard. You need to rest too.
Marcus:
I'm good. How's DeShawn?
Mama:
In his room. Won't talk to me. He's still upset about yesterday.
Mama:
You working late again baby?
You working late again baby?
Marcus:
Just finished. Heading home soon.
Just finished. Heading home soon.
Mama:
Don't work too hard. You need to rest too.
Don't work too hard. You need to rest too.
Marcus:
I'm good. How's DeShawn?
I'm good. How's DeShawn?
Mama:
In his room. Won't talk to me. He's still upset about yesterday.
In his room. Won't talk to me. He's still upset about yesterday.
Yesterday was Inauguration Day. DeShawn, his younger brother, watched Trump take the oath and said, "We're fucked." Their grandmother told him to watch his language. DeShawn said, "Grandma, we're Black. You know what this means."
Marcus almost argued it's more complicated than that. But he couldn't. Because DeShawn isn't wrong.
Marcus:
I'll call him tomorrow.
Mama:
Thank you baby. He listens to you.
Mama:
Did you eat?
Marcus:
I will when I get home.
Mama:
Marcus.
Marcus:
Promise. Love you.
Mama:
Love you too. Be safe.
Marcus:
I'll call him tomorrow.
I'll call him tomorrow.
Mama:
Thank you baby. He listens to you.
Thank you baby. He listens to you.
Mama:
Did you eat?
Did you eat?
Marcus:
I will when I get home.
I will when I get home.
Mama:
Marcus.
Marcus.
Marcus:
Promise. Love you.
Promise. Love you.
Mama:
Love you too. Be safe.
Love you too. Be safe.
Be safe. Every conversation since his father got arrested when Marcus was a young child.
Marcus finishes the cart, logs his hours, clocks out. The night supervisor—Amy, white woman in her fifties—tells him to have a good night. He nods and heads out into the January cold.
Campus is dead quiet. Street lights cast orange pools on empty sidewalks, his breath fogging in the air. He pulls his hood up and puts in his earphones without playing music. White people see a Black kid in a hoodie with earphones and they relax—just a college student listening to music, not a threat. His grandmother taught him the rules: don't run, don't walk too slow, don't make eye contact, don't avoid eye contact. Be invisible. Be small.
Fifteen minutes to his off-campus apartment, shared with two other students because it's cheaper than the dorms. His phone buzzes. Master's thesis cohort group chat.
Yuki:
Anyone else freaking out about Master’s thesis deadlines or just me?
Lee:
Literally all of us
Yuki:
Mood
Yuki:
Anyone else freaking out about Master’s thesis deadlines or just me?
Anyone else freaking out about Master’s thesis deadlines or just me?
Lee:
Literally all of us
Literally all of us
Yuki:
Mood
Mood
Marcus doesn't respond. His Master's thesis is different. Theirs are safe topics, past tense—the Hundred Years' War, the Meiji Restoration, decolonization in Africa. Marcus chose to write about now. "Comparative Analysis of Democratic Backsliding: Turkey, Hungary, Brazil, and the United States."
Dr. Brenner tried to talk him out of it back in November, said it was too soon, that he'd undermine his credibility. Marcus pushed back—isn't the point of comparative history to identify patterns? Dr. Brenner signed off anyway, but warned him: people will call it biased.
Seventy-five pages documenting the death of American democracy. Four months to finish. No pressure.
Marcus reaches his apartment building—converted house, four units, peeling paint. Inside it's dark except for someone's laptop glow. He flips on the kitchen light.
Dirty dishes in the sink. Pizza box on the counter (neither his). The fridge opens to leftover rice from three days ago and questionable chicken. He makes rice and eggs, eats standing at the counter scrolling his phone.
Twitter's a mess—#Inauguration2025 trending alongside #NotMyPresident and #MAGA2025, people panicking or celebrating depending on their bubble. He scrolls through news instead: Times saying "Trump Takes Office, Promises Swift Action," Post warning about "Democratic Erosion," Fox celebrating "Trump Returns: America First, Again."
First person in his family to go to college. Tuition mostly covered by scholarship, but he works twenty hours a week at the library, weekends at Target. Last summer: construction, twelve-hour days in the heat. Yale's PhD program—full funding if accepted. Applied in December. Email comes late February, maybe early March. First-generation student, underrepresented minority, research on democratic backsliding—he checks their boxes. But nothing's guaranteed. Applied to Michigan, Northwestern, Harvard as backups. Yale is the dream.
His phone buzzes.
Grandma:
You eat?
Marcus:
Yes ma'am. Just finished.
Grandma:
Good. Your mama said you working too much.
Marcus:
I'm okay Grandma.
Grandma:
You always say that. You know you can ask for help if you need it.
Grandma:
You eat?
You eat?
Marcus:
Yes ma'am. Just finished.
Yes ma'am. Just finished.
Grandma:
Good. Your mama said you working too much.
Good. Your mama said you working too much.
Marcus:
I'm okay Grandma.
I'm okay Grandma.
Grandma:
You always say that. You know you can ask for help if you need it.
You always say that. You know you can ask for help if you need it.
His grandmother is seventy-seven, retired postal worker, living on Social Security while helping raise DeShawn and Amara. She can't afford to help Marcus but would give him her last dollar anyway.
Marcus:
I know. Thank you. I love you.
Grandma:
Love you too baby. Study hard.
Marcus:
I know. Thank you. I love you.
I know. Thank you. I love you.
Grandma:
Love you too baby. Study hard.
Love you too baby. Study hard.
He washes all the dishes, heads to his room. Twin bed, desk, dresser, barely fits. Posters on the wall—Baldwin's The Fire Next Time, Black Lives Matter fist, mass incarceration rate chart. On his desk: laptop, stack of books, framed photo from five years ago.
Marcus picks up the frame. Mother, grandmother, DeShawn, Amara. His father isn't in the picture because he can't be—died in Greenville Correctional in 2017, eight years into a ten-year sentence for possession with intent to distribute crack cocaine.
Nonviolent offense. First-time conviction. Ten years. Dead from untreated diabetes complications.
Marcus barely remembers him now—fragments mostly. Large hands. Cigarettes and Old Spice. Deep voice. And the visits, those terrible visits to Greenville every month when Marcus was young. Metal detectors, guards shouting, rooms full of other Black and brown families. His father across a table trying to smile, asking about school, about basketball, about anything normal while the clock ticked down their thirty minutes.
The sentencing disparity still makes his blood boil. Fifty grams of crack. Ten years mandatory. If it had been powder cocaine, 50 grams wouldn't have even registered—the threshold was 5,000 grams. Everyone knew who used what. The 100-to-1 ratio wasn't an accident. It was policy. Lock up a generation without saying the quiet part out loud.
Crack got bagged into tiny rocks, cash-and-carry on the corner once the factory shifts vanished and the mills shut down. Police flooded Black neighborhoods with patrols, stings, task forces—so you caught the sellers and users you chose to look at.
Meanwhile powder moved in offices and frat houses and suburbs with lawyers on speed dial. In 1988, Congress made simple possession of five grams of crack a five-year mandatory minimum—the only drug with a federal prison term for possession alone. Nobody passed that for the suburbs.
When his father was sentenced, Black Americans were imprisoned at far higher rates than white Americans—same country, same laws, same Constitution promising equal protection. His father became one of those statistics in a system disproportionately Black and brown and poor.
The Fair Sentencing Act of 2010 reduced the disparity to 18-to-1, but it came too late—his father was already locked up. So his father stayed in prison while white kids in the suburbs got diversion programs for the pharmacologically identical drug. Stayed locked up until his insulin got "delayed" one time too many.
Marcus remembers his mother screaming when they got the call. His grandmother holding him and DeShawn while Amara cried. He thought: He had two years left.
But he didn't come home. He came home in a box that cost $1,200 they didn't have, for a burial plot that cost another $800, with a headstone they're still paying off.
Marcus sets the photo down carefully, frame back in its exact spot.
He doesn't trust either party. Democrats talk about criminal justice reform while Obama's years saw record-level deportations—earning him the "Deporter-in-Chief" label—and Biden wrote the 1994 crime bill. They say the right words now—"systemic racism," "mass incarceration," "equity"—but his father still died in prison under a Democratic administration that could have granted clemency and didn't. Marcus remembers filling out the clemency application with his mother, both of them believing, hoping. The form-letter rejection came three months before his father died.
The Republicans don't even pretend to care. "Law and order," "tough on crime"—everyone knows what that means. Trump's clemency choices sent a clear signal about whose offenses were forgivable, and it rarely looked like the nonviolent drug offenders rotting in federal prisons.
So he votes Democratic because he has to, because the alternative is worse, because harm reduction is real. But he doesn't believe anymore. He believes in organizing, in mutual aid, in building power outside the system. Education as liberation like Frederick Douglass, knowledge as power, using the master's tools to understand the master's house even if you can't dismantle it.
That's why he's here. Someone has to document what's happening. Someone has to remember. As a grad student working on his Master's thesis, he's uniquely positioned to do both—to study the patterns of democratic backsliding while witnessing them unfold in real time through the lens of this undergraduate class.
His father's last words to him, during their final visit three months before he died: "I made a mistake, Marcus. Don't you make mine. You stay in school. You get out. You hear me?"
Marcus heard him.
He opens his laptop and pulls up the syllabus for Comparative History: Rise of Modern Authoritarianism, first class tomorrow.
Marcus already did the reading over break, took notes, cross-referenced with his Master's thesis research. The parallels aren't exact—Germany in the 1920s had hyperinflation, political violence, a weak republic. America in 2025 has different problems. But the patterns are there: erosion of norms, demonization of others, strongman appeal.
His phone buzzes. Group chat.
Lee:
Anyone else taking Dr. Brenner's Comparative History class?
Lee:
Yeah. Should be interesting timing lol
Yuki:
Timing?
Lee:
Teaching Hitler's rise literally while Trump takes office
Yuki:
Brenner won't make it political though. He's super neutral.
Lee:
Is neutrality even possible right now?
Lee:
Anyone else taking Dr. Brenner's Comparative History class?
Anyone else taking Dr. Brenner's Comparative History class?
Lee:
Yeah. Should be interesting timing lol
Yeah. Should be interesting timing lol
Yuki:
Timing?
Timing?
Lee:
Teaching Hitler's rise literally while Trump takes office
Teaching Hitler's rise literally while Trump takes office
Yuki:
Brenner won't make it political though. He's super neutral.
Brenner won't make it political though. He's super neutral.
Lee:
Is neutrality even possible right now?
Is neutrality even possible right now?
No one responds.
Marcus closes the chat and opens a new document for his Master's thesis notes:
Beer Hall Putsch, 1923. Hitler's failed coup. Key question: why does failed coup lead to legitimacy rather than discredit? Public perception of martyrdom? Institutional failure to take threat seriously?
Contemporary parallel: January 6, 2021. Failed attempt to stop election certification; arrests and political fallout followed. Now elected again. Pattern: failed coup doesn't end a movement if underlying conditions remain.
Beer Hall Putsch, 1923. Hitler's failed coup. Key question: why does failed coup lead to legitimacy rather than discredit? Public perception of martyrdom? Institutional failure to take threat seriously?
Contemporary parallel: January 6, 2021. Failed attempt to stop election certification; arrests and political fallout followed. Now elected again. Pattern: failed coup doesn't end a movement if underlying conditions remain.
He stops typing, reads it back. Too much? Too obvious? Dr. Brenner said be careful, don't undermine credibility. But what's the point of studying history if you can't learn from it?
Marcus saves the document and closes his laptop. Late now—he should sleep. Early half shift at Target tomorrow morning, then class at 10:00 AM.
He lies in bed staring at the ceiling. The apartment's quiet except for the refrigerator humming, occasional floorboard creaks. His mind won't shut off. Thesis—Turkey, Hungary, Brazil, the United States. DeShawn saying "we're fucked." His father dying in prison for a nonviolent offense while politicians talk about pardoning January 6 defendants. Dr. Brenner who literally wrote a book about how democracies collapse but won't say it out loud.
Marcus understands why—neutrality, objectivity, academic integrity. These things matter. But he also knows what his grandmother told him once, talking about living through Jim Crow: "Some people got the luxury of waiting to see if things get bad. We don't. When you've already lived through bad, you recognize it coming."
Marcus recognizes it coming. Twenty-two years living in America while Black. He knows what authoritarianism looks like because his community has been experiencing it forever—over-policing, mass incarceration, voter suppression. For people like Marcus, American fascism isn't a future threat, it's historical reality. The question isn't whether it can happen here. The question is whether white America will finally recognize what Black America has known all along.
His phone buzzes.
DeShawn:
you up?
Marcus:
Yeah. What's good?
DeShawn:
cant sleep
DeShawn:
keeps thinking about dad. how he died in prison for crack and now trumps president again
DeShawn:
whats the point you know? like whats the point of any of it
DeShawn:
you up?
you up?
Marcus:
Yeah. What's good?
Yeah. What's good?
DeShawn:
cant sleep
cant sleep
DeShawn:
keeps thinking about dad. how he died in prison for crack and now trumps president again
keeps thinking about dad. how he died in prison for crack and now trumps president again
DeShawn:
whats the point you know? like whats the point of any of it
whats the point you know? like whats the point of any of it
Marcus stares at the message. His little brother, sixteen years old, already losing faith in a system that never had faith in him. He wants to say something hopeful about progress and change and how things can get better, but he's spent the last three months researching democratic backsliding. He knows how this story goes.
Marcus:
The point is we don't give up. We organize. We build community. We take care of each other.
Marcus:
The system might not care about us but we care about each other. That matters.
DeShawn:
does it tho
Marcus:
Yeah. It does. I know it doesn't feel like it right now but it does.
Marcus:
Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow okay?
DeShawn:
k
DeShawn:
love you
Marcus:
Love you too.
Marcus:
The point is we don't give up. We organize. We build community. We take care of each other.
The point is we don't give up. We organize. We build community. We take care of each other.
Marcus:
The system might not care about us but we care about each other. That matters.
The system might not care about us but we care about each other. That matters.
DeShawn:
does it tho
does it tho
Marcus:
Yeah. It does. I know it doesn't feel like it right now but it does.
Yeah. It does. I know it doesn't feel like it right now but it does.
Marcus:
Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow okay?
Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow okay?
DeShawn:
k
k
DeShawn:
love you
love you
Marcus:
Love you too.
Love you too.
Marcus puts his phone down and closes his eyes. Tomorrow he'll wake before dawn, work three hours at Target, then sit in a seminar room. He isn't there to learn how Hitler came to power—he’s taken this course before. He’s there to research his Master's thesis, to watch how the students respond and see if they’ll compare the history on the syllabus to the events happening now. He'll take notes, engage with the material, ask thoughtful questions. And he'll watch Dr. Brenner very carefully.
Because Marcus needs to know: when the moment comes—and it will come—will Dr. Brenner stand up? Or will he hide behind neutrality while democracy burns?
Sleep finally comes. Last thought: History doesn't repeat, but it rhymes. And right now, America is rhyming hard.
Wednesday morning, January 22nd. Marcus arrives at the history building early—his Target shift ended at 9:30, just enough time to grab a sandwich, change his shirt, make it across campus. He's tired. Always tired.
Third floor, Room 204. The door's already open. Marcus pauses in the doorway—seminar room with tables in a modified U-shape, open center space, windows on the left, whiteboards at the front. Two students already seated.
A girl with dark hair, South Asian, activist t-shirt under her cardigan—left side, middle position, laptop open, color-coded highlighters lined up. Diagonally across the open center space, back right corner: a student in a MAGA hat, red and faded. Annotated readings, notebook, prepared.
Marcus has seen the student around campus—ROTC kid, polite enough but unapologetic about his politics. The hat says everything. And the girl—Nisha something, president of Students for Social Justice—her jaw looks tight. They're not looking at each other, but the tension's obvious.
Marcus steps inside and scans for his seat. Not at the front, not hiding in a middle position. He's learned that visibility sometimes protects better than invisibility. Back left, near the windows, where he can see the whole room. Diagonal from the MAGA hat student, same back row, opposite corners.
He sets down his backpack and pulls out his materials: laptop, spiral notebook (cheap kind from Target, $1.29 with employee discount), two pens, today's reading annotated in the margins. Always prepared—you work twice as hard to be considered half as good.
The MAGA hat student glances up briefly when Marcus sits—just a flicker of acknowledgment. Marcus doesn't react, just opens his notebook to a fresh page, writes the date in the upper right corner. Nisha doesn't look up at all.
Marcus wonders what it's like to wear that hat into this room, to be that certain. But he doesn't stare, doesn't engage. Just sets up his space.
More students file in. Couple students from other history classes. The room fills with low murmur. Marcus doesn't join in. He listens, observes, stays quiet.
At exactly 10:00 AM, Dr. David Brenner walks in.
Marcus sits up slightly. He knows Dr. Brenner well—took Modern Germany survey as an undergrad, asked him to be his Master's thesis advisor last year. One of the good ones: genuinely brilliant, cares about teaching. But Marcus also knows his limitations, his caution, his commitment to neutrality that sometimes feels like avoidance.
Today will tell him which Dr. Brenner shows up—the scholar who understands what's happening, or the professor too careful to say it.
Dr. Brenner sets his briefcase down at the head of the table and looks around the room, making eye contact with each student. Deliberate—establishing connection, acknowledging everyone. When Dr. Brenner's gaze reaches Marcus, something shifts. A small smile, a nod—not just acknowledgment but recognition. Maybe even respect.
Marcus nods back, keeps his face neutral. Dr. Brenner knows he's here, knows Marcus's Master's thesis, knows what he's arguing. The question is: what will Dr. Brenner do with that knowledge?
Dr. Brenner continues his scan. His gaze pauses briefly on the MAGA hat student—Marcus watches for a reaction, sees none. Just the same professional acknowledgment. Then Dr. Brenner completes the circuit, returns to his briefcase, opens it, pulls out a folder.
Marcus picks up his pen and rests it lightly on the page, ready.
This is it. First class of the semester. The Rise of the Third Reich taught in the first week of Trump's second term. As a grad student researching democratic backsliding for his Master's thesis, Marcus came here to observe how students from different backgrounds respond to the material in real time. To study their viewpoints on the Trump administration, on authoritarianism, on whether history is repeating itself. The classroom becomes his laboratory, the students his subjects, their reactions data points for understanding how democracy dies in the twenty-first century.
Notebook open, pen ready, mind sharp.
Whatever happens next, he'll be watching. And when it's time to speak, he'll be ready for that too.
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