“Why are those posters in a math class?” someone asks from the right side of the room. I try to refocus, wiping Jeff from my mind.
“Those?” I look at the superhero posters I got at Five and Below. “That’s the Marvel universe! X-men in the front, Thor, Hulk, the rest of the Avengers. There is so much math in Ironman that?—”
“No, no—the others,” the woman says. I’d guessed her child wrong and now I’ve forgotten who she belongs to. This is obviously Jeff’s fault because he’s occupying important real estate inside my brain. Like a squatter not letting anything else in.
“My mental health posters? Those let the students know that I’m an ally,” I explain. I can feel myself come alive as I smile at the woman. This discussion is so important to me and I’m very excited to be asked since, honestly, no one ever does. Every opportunity to educate is significant.
“An ally to what?” she asks. Her eyes are narrowed, and I keep my smile easy even as I’m starting to suspect she already knows the answer to this question.
“To all of my students really, but particularly those posters speak to the kids battling something we can’t see,” I tell her evenly.
She makes a face. I hold the smile steady, like ten men holding up a steel beam. Breathe in. Breathe out. Wax on. Wax off.
“As I’m sure you are all aware, part of our district’s mission statement reads, ‘We cultivate resourceful, resilient citizens byteaching social-emotional and academic skills in a nurturing learning environment.’ That’s what I uphold in this class. That’s what those posters support,” I tell them, avoiding eye contact with the mother to the right who is burning a hole through my forehead with her glare.
The bell rings and I wish them all a good night and a great school year, then make my rounds to the few parents who have older children that I’ve taught in previous years. They fill me in on their kids’ accomplishments and struggles, and by the time the final adult meanders out into the hall, my phone reads 9:15. Well past my school night bedtime. I check my missed text messages and there’s nothing from Jeff. My disappointment is pathetic.
“Devon, can I speak to you for a moment?”
I look up from my phone to see my principal, Mr. Donato, standing uncomfortably in my doorway in his suit and tie—the picture of Back to School Night pomp and circumstance. I slide my phone into my purse.
“Of course,” I tell him, and he steps inside of the classroom.
He surveys my walls like he’s in a museum taking in paintings instead of integer rules and inspirational quotes. I clear my throat.
“Since it’s getting late,” I prompt.
He refocuses on me, but his eyes don’t meet mine. His gaze hovers around my hairline, which always makes me want to stand on my tippy toes.
“Right. Of course. I’m sure you’re tired, so I’ll just make this quick. I’d like to request that you take down some of the posters around your door,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
It is suddenly very hot in the room.
“I’m sorry? Could you say that again?” I manage. The whiteboard behind him looks like there’s a red haze over it.
“Informally, of course, as a friend. I believe that it would be in your best interest to take the crisis poster there—and maybe the mindfulness—definitely that one,” he points to my UCLA Mental Health Support poster, “–off of your wall. We can put them in the guidance office, where they’re better suited.”
I hear unfamiliar laughter and realize with a start that it’s coming from me. I am a person who respects authority. Respects rules and expectations. When I was told that mental health was not my area of expertise, I went back and got my masters. When he asked me to take leave to recover from surgery, I took the leave to recover. But this.
Fuck. No.
“No,” I say.
Mr. Donato flinches a little, like I’ve bitch slapped him. And I wish I could. I ride out the wave of righteous anger.
“I won’t take those posters down. And I certainly don’t care about my best interest, Mr. Donato. I only act in their best interest.” I point to the twenty-six empty seats in front of me. Tomorrow they will be filled with the trusting faces of my students, Jessie hiding amongst them, still shrinking in plain sight despite the protocol I’d followed to get her help. She is badly in need of every ally the school—no—the world can offer. No way in hell am I making this place less safe.
Mr. Donato flattens his mouth and looks me over. I lift my brows.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Do you know who that mother was?” he says stiffly.
I shake my head and refrain from telling him how many shits I have to give about that mother’s ignorant opinion.
He lets out a long breath.
“That’s Mrs. Stoner. The school board president.”
