Or, how I went from Teacher of the Year to suspended with pay in less than 24 hours.
It’s August, and for some of you that means the final countdown to work is now with us. Summer’s freedom is evaporating like heat shimmers from a blacktop highway.
This isn’t always a bad thing. I know plenty of teachers who, though they love having time off, are excited to break into their classrooms and face the blank walls, eager to unpack the posters they picked up in July, ready to set into motion the lessons that have been hiding in the corners, anxious for students to try them. August is a thrilling month for these teachers. It was thrilling for me. There was nothing more satisfying for my head and my heart than to hold, fresh off the printer, my syllabus for American Literature, or English Language and Composition, or Creative Writing.
But August is a different month for me now. I quit teaching almost five years ago. If you’ve never known why, it’s best if I start at the beginning of the story.