When I came out to my family during my first year of college in the early 2000s, my mother's immediate concern extended beyond my safety and happiness to my future as an educator. She asked: “But what about your career?” as if living authentically meant I would have to hide my queerness to succeed in teaching. At that time, even before entering my teacher preparation program, I was faced with a disturbing reality: in education, there would always be scripts that I was expected to follow.
However, as a beginning teacher, it was not my sexuality that initially overshadowed my work, but rather the expectations built into yet another script. My college education, grounded in social justice and critical literacy, pushed me to create equitable opportunities in my classroom. However, The realities of the neoliberal educational landscape.shaped by policies such as Let no child be left behind and the rise of Common Core State Standardscontradicted this view. These policies prioritized standardization and testing, turning schools into spaces of conformity and compliance. The script was clear: fidelity to the status quo took priority over meaningful change.
This tension was palpable in my daily work. While I envisioned teaching that challenged students to question and connect their learning to broader social issues, the expectations placed on me as an educator were quite different. When I incorporated units on racial injustice, the criticism and reactions were immediate. Colleagues often censor themselves, Consider certain texts and topics “too controversial.” for our school community. I still remember a parent emailing me asking, “Why can't you just teach English?” This sentiment reflected the expectation to adhere to the traditional English language arts teaching script. For me, “just teaching English” means centering the same inequalities and critical issues that my teacher preparation program trained me to address in the literature classroom. The dissonance was impossible to ignore.
Recent legislation and curriculum implementation have left little space for the voices and lived experiences of my students. The expectation is to stick to “high-quality” curriculum and neglect genuine engagement, treating students as blank slates rather than well-rounded individuals. Each of these limitations felt suffocating. I longed to grow as an educator, but nothing seemed more restrictive than the expectation of being the “well-behaved teacher” who never questions authority. This limited role was exhausting and false. I found myself reducing my teacher self, showing up in ways that did not reflect or respect my commitment to teaching and learning. These moments of silence and compliance were painful.
The straw that broke the camel's back
As I prepared to begin my eighteenth year in education, a series of events eroded my trust in the system. I decided to break script completely: I said no to disrespect and harassment by leaving a toxic work environment to accept a new role in a different school district. It was not a decision I made lightly, as I had been led to believe that no one would hire a top-notch teacher like me. However, staying meant continuing to work in a system that silenced my voice. By leaving, I chose my integrity over the false comfort of remaining in a situation that no longer served me.
My resignation, which came after eleven years in the same school district, was not impulsive. I witnessed the erosion of trust as administrators dismissed teachers' concerns and stifled open dialogue. I found myself taking on the role of “teacher of good behavior,” who was expected to follow through with every decision made for me and my students, no matter how harmful or dismissive it seemed. The breaking point came when a superintendent's harassment revealed that teachers were seen as tools for compliance, not partners in education. After that, I knew I couldn't continue in the district. My resignation was an act of regaining my self-esteem and professional agency.
Before my resignation, in a brief conversation with the superintendent, they shared a final comment that solidified my decision: “I hope you know I have no ill will.” These toxic but definitive words confirmed his lack of leadership. I walked away, realizing I had outgrown the script they wanted me to follow.
seeing is believing
When I first joined the district in 2013, I believed it was the right place to foster my growth as a teacher. However, the constant rotation created instability. Teachers' voices were silenced and our concerns were dismissed. My questions about retention and morale (questions intended to encourage open dialogue rather than assign blame) were disrespectfully ignored. The statements that followed—“You surprise me” and “You know better than anyone”—were designed to make me question my own judgment, placing the blame on me rather than addressing the real issues at hand.
I felt like a pawn, easily managed, rather than a trusted partner within the community. My growing resentment was due not only to the lack of answers, but also to the expectation of playing the role of “well-behaved teacher.” When disrespect from district administrators becomes the norm, it indicates a serious problem.
Despite having what many would consider an English teacher's dream schedule, I didn't feel fulfilled. I had the freedom to design meaningful learning experiences and the security of a position, but none of that could compensate for the minimization of my dignity. The lack of respect from district leaders overshadowed my professional accomplishments. By invalidating my concerns, they were also silencing my colleagues, perpetuating a system that prioritized control and compliance over community.
Break free from the script
As the summer ended, I realized I had lost faith in the district leadership's ability to foster civility. Leaving was not just about escaping a hostile environment; it was about protecting my dignity and refusing to compromise my values for a system that no longer valued me or my colleagues. I value my integrity more than my role as an educator. When those in power use fear and intimidation to control and manipulate instead of offering support, the entire community suffers.
However, what I didn't realize was that this situation presented an opportunity to rebuild and explore new paths. I still believe in the power and potential of education and the possibilities of community collaboration. In retrospect, I see my resignation as a defeat, but as a stepping stone to something greater. Challenges became a launching pad for possibilities that previously seemed out of reach.
My story reflects a larger narrative in schools across the country. Teachers are increasingly expected to conform to rigid scripts, losing trust in leadership that ignores our agency. Many are leaving a profession they once loved. When leaders prioritize control over collaboration, they undermine the heart and soul of teaching and learning.
