When I came out to my family during my first year of college in the early 2000s, my mom’s immediate concern extended beyond my safety and happiness to my future as an educator. She asked, “But what about your career?” as though living authentically meant I’d have to hide my queerness to succeed in teaching. In that moment, even before I entered my teacher preparation program, I confronted a troubling reality: in education, there would always be scripts I’d be expected to follow.
As a beginning teacher, however, it wasn’t my sexuality that initially cast a shadow over my work - it was the expectations embedded in yet another script. My undergraduate education, grounded in social justice and critical literacy, energized me to create equitable opportunities in my classroom. However, the realities of the neoliberal education landscape, shaped by policies like No Child Left Behind and the rise of Common Core State Standards, contradicted this vision. 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 larger social issues, the expectations placed on me as an educator were quite different. When I incorporated units on racial injustice, criticism and pushback were immediate. Colleagues often self-censored, deeming certain texts and topics “too controversial” for our school community. I still remember a parent emailing and asking me, “Why can’t you just teach English?” This sentiment reflected an expectation to adhere to the traditional script of teaching English Language Arts. For me, “just teaching English” means centering the very inequities and critical questions that my teacher preparation program trained me to address in the literature classroom. The dissonance was impossible to ignore.
Recent curriculum legislation and implementation have left little room for my students’ voices and lived experiences. The expectation is to stick to the “high quality” curriculum and sideline genuine engagement, treating students as blank slates rather than whole individuals. Each of these constraints felt suffocating. I longed to grow as an educator, but nothing felt more constricting than the expectation to be the “well-behaved teacher” who never questions authority. This narrow role was exhausting and disingenuous. I found myself dialing down my teacher self, showing up in ways that neither reflected nor respected my commitment to teaching and learning. These moments of silence and compliance were painful.
The Final Straw
As I prepared to start my eighteenth year in education, a series of events eroded my trust in the system. I decided to break away from the script entirely: I said no to disrespect and bullying by removing myself from a toxic work environment to accept a new role in a different school district. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly, as I had been led to believe that no one would hire a top-salary 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 — coming after eleven years in the same school district — wasn’t impulsive. I witnessed the erosion of trust as administrators dismissed teacher concerns and stifled open dialogue. I found myself slipping into the “well-behaved-teacher” role, expected to comply with every decision that was made for me and my students, regardless of how damaging or dismissive it felt. The breaking point came when a superintendent’s bullying revealed that teachers were viewed as tools for compliance, not as partners in education. After that, I knew I couldn’t continue in the district. My resignation was an act of reclaiming my self-regard and professional agency.
Before my resignation, in a brief passing conversation with the superintendent, they shared a final comment that solidified my decision: “I hope you know I hold no ill will.” These words, toxic yet final, confirmed their 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, constant turnover created instability. Teachers’ voices were silenced, and our concerns dismissed. My questions about retention and morale - questions aimed at fostering open dialogue rather than assigning blame - were brushed aside with disrespect. The gaslighting that followed: “I’m surprised by you” and “You know better than anyone,” were designed to make me question my own judgment, shifting the blame onto me instead of addressing the real issues at hand.
I felt like a pawn, easily managed rather than a trusted partner within the community. My growing resentment stemmed not only from a lack of answers but also from the expectation to play the role of the “well-behaved teacher”. When disrespect from district administrators becomes the norm, it signals a serious issue.
Despite having what many would consider an English teacher’s dream schedule, I was left unfulfilled. I had the freedom to design meaningful learning experiences and the security of tenure, but none of that could outweigh the minimizing of my dignity. The disrespect from district leadership overshadowed my professional achievement. By invalidating my concerns, they were also silencing my colleagues, perpetuating a system that prioritized control and compliance over the community.
Breaking Free from the Script
As summer ended, I realized I had lost faith in 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 resort to fear and bullying to control and manipulate rather than offer support, the entire community suffers.
What I didn’t realize, though, 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 hindsight, I see my resignation not as a defeat but a stepping stone for something greater. The challenges became a launching pad for possibilities that once 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 disregards our agency. Many are walking away from a profession they once loved. When leaders prioritize control over collaboration, they undermine the heart and soul of teaching and learning.
