This Chair Has a Backbone

“I didn’t see your name on the leadership email. Did you forget to apply?” Idele asked me.

I finished up some paperwork needed for hiring off-duty police officers. “Of course, I did. I apply every year. What do you mean?”

“We got an email with the dates the leadership team meets over the summer. Your name isn’t on the group list. They’d be stupid to get rid of you.”

I looked at her, confused with the flurry of activity in my brain, and tried to make sense of it. “Maybe they didn’t create the group list right. They probably just forgot.” I’d been department chair for 20 years and had been doing an exceptional job according to the surveys. Teachers in other departments were surprised that my teachers had notes from meetings, current data on student scores and needs, and a host of detailed resources each week. I provided these English teachers everything they needed, I answered their questions, and even signed up to get messages first-hand from the state department of education. That way laws and directives were fresh and not mangled by the district yet. “I’ll talk to the principal later. I’m the middle of planning graduation, and I’m up to my ears in deadlines. I can’t focus on anything but that.”

It is true that being a class sponsor is stressful. The four years from freshman year to graduation is filled with a lot of hard work and long hours. The reward, however, is watching those high school seniors walking across the stage. Among them that year was my son. I had to make sure everything ran smoothly. Our graduations took place in our gym which was large enough to hold everyone; the band had their “Pomp and Circumstance” to play, the officials and dignitaries organized on the stage, the student speeches, and then the roll call of seniors. There were hugs, tears, high-fives, and one back flip as they walked across and got their diplomas. At least this year there wasn’t a blow-up doll hidden under a graduation gown.

Once all the dust had settled, teachers checked out as they do every year, turning in keys and lists of requests for the following year. I approached the principal’s office and asked if I could have a word. I think she knew what I was going to ask.

I jumped right in. “Why am I not on leadership anymore? What did I do wrong?” I asked pointedly. My poker face wasn’t working.

“Well,” she drawled, “we’re moving in a different direction. One that calls for more backbone.” She was relatively new to our school, so maybe she wasn’t aware of what I was capable of.

It was like being slapped across the face. “And I can’t do that?” Anger started creeping in, dangerously obvious. Along with it I felt unbidden tears start. I can’t do that now! I thought to myself. I can’t be weak. More backbone? No other department chair did as much as I did.

I continued. “I don’t understand. The department respects me, we work well together, better than the other departments. Ask any of them. Our test scores improve each year, I work with district to get answers the teachers need.” I looked down, trying to remember what I’ve always done. “I’m the only one who takes notes at our staff meetings, not that anyone asked me. I just know it’s auditable, and you don’t have anyone else doing it.” My brain was fighting itself from being petty and accusatory.

“The state is using a new test beginning next year, and the questions being used for the language arts sections are different from those in the past.” She leaned back in her executive chair as she scribbled some notes on a piece of paper; I think they were doodles. “We’re hiring a new teacher from another school that has experience in this area.”

“More than I do?” I was grasping at straws now. “This,” I fought back tears, “this position defines who I am. It’s what I do best. I help students, and I help other teachers get what they need to do their jobs. I help improve the school’s morale. I’m an asset to this team.” I felt the tears release. I was deeply hurt. “The first year I was here, no one knew I existed because I wasn’t on anyone’s department or team list. I vowed no one would have to go through that again.” My face flushed with growing rancor. “You didn’t even have the decency to tell me. I had to find out from a friend who noticed my name was left off the mailing list.” I reached for a tissue. “When were you going to tell me?” I looked at her directly. “Were you going to tell me?”

She fumbled for an excuse. “With graduation, you already had enough on your plate.” She popped a piece of gum into her mouth. Her whole demeanor was dismissive and off putting, to say the least.

“Really. That’s how you’re going to treat me.” I nodded, tears still falling. “I guess that’s all I needed to know.” And I left the principal’s office, feeling like a student who got caught doing something terribly wrong.

Fast forward about five years. The teacher who replaced me was, how can I put this delicately, not a good role model. In fact, he had been reprimanded several times for how he insulted students and other staff members and committed other improprieties. It caught the superintendent’s attention, and just like that – the teacher was remanded and gone. Moving to another school was the first step of his “opportunity to improve his behavior to meet community standards.” After a few months, he was let go from the district because the number of parent complaints in such a short time was off the charts. This was the teacher who replaced me.

That meant there was a position on leadership now open.

Walking across the courtyard, I was stopped by one of the assistant principals. He asked me, “We have an opening on leadership. You want it?” He smiled. He knew I did.

“What do you think? Of course, I do. Get me on that mailing list.” I was back in my lane, helping my department become the best in the county, making sure students found their purpose. It was about time.