I stand behind the podium and send a silent thank you to Tara for the pair of heels I found left in her closet. Even with them, I have to lower the microphone to meet my needs, and it shrieks its protest, as expected. But the room was already silent.
I stare at the black bulb I’m meant to speak into and take a deep breath. It wasn’t so long ago that a microphone turned on me and attacked like a cobra. But if it hadn’t, I’d never have met Jeff. And that’s an alternate universe I’d never want to consider.
“Good evening parents, fellow teachers, administrators, and board members,” I begin, my voice as shaky as my hands. I take a deep breath and look around the room. Find my school guidance counselor, Elizabeth, and focus on her smiling face—take strength from it.
“I’m Devon Gallagher and I’ve been lucky enough to teach eighth grade math in this district for the past ten years.”
As I shift my gaze from Lizzie, I notice more familiar faces—parents of students past and present. Families that have touched my life and sent kind words that I too have touched theirs.
I stand a bit straighter.
“It’s with a heavy heart that I stand here tonight to give my notice of resignation from my position.” My voice does not shake this time.
The room fills with hushed whispers and Dr. Franklin looks around, stands, and makes his way to the microphone.
“Ms. Gallagher first let me thank you for your service to our community these past ten years. I’ve had your name pass my desk on several occasions and always in midst of accolades and gratitude,” he says. He pauses, meeting my gaze. “You do know that a simple letter of resignation would suffice?—”
I lift a hand.
“I apologize, Dr. Franklin, but in this case, it would not.”
He lifts his grey eyebrows and opens his mouth to speak again, but then thinks better of it and nods before returning to his seat beside the school board president. She is staring at me with an expression I cannot read—and perhaps don’t want to.
“The reason I’m speaking here tonight is to remind us all of our district’s mission statement: ‘We seek to create an equitable education for all students to ensure that they are fully respected and respect?—”
“Ms. Gallagher, I believe we all know our district’s mission statement, as we end each board meeting with it,” says a woman at the end of the table. The brown plaque in front of her reads Mrs. Graham. Not a familiar name.
I shake my head. If only she would listen to those words.
“We all may know the words, Mrs. Graham, but sometimes we need a reminder of what they mean.”
She sits back, lets out a long breath that hits the microphone and makes a deep static. And I continue.
“These words have always been easy for me to live by—to respect every individual no matter what they believe, look like, who they love or identify as—no matter what they battle silently in their minds. And, believe me, they battle. More than any of us could ever imagine. Every student who has passed through my class has felt respected in every possible way, despite the difficulties this district has presented in making that happen.”
Dr. Franklin shifts his weight and his metal chair makes a screeching sound on the stage. I stare right at him.
“Five years ago, I was told not to discuss mental health in my classroom. Against all of my better judgement and every National Mental Health Organization’s expert advice, I was quieted about a subject that should be discussed openly andoften. I was told it is not my area of expertise. I was told to ‘stay in my lane.’
“After several months of confusion, silence, and frustrated tears, I decided to make mental health my lane. I went back to school, received a master’s in adolescent psychology, all so I could uphold this district’s mission statement. And despite our contracted tuition reimbursement program for teachers’ continuing education, I was denied. ‘Irrelevant subject continuity.’ Irrelevant? Is there anything more relevant in this world than your children’s mental health?” I meet the gazes of the parents I recognize.
A low murmur breaks out across the auditorium and I see Dr. Franklin go to stand up. But just then, the auditorium doors open, and there is Sydney with that smile. She steps to the side and holds the door, ushering in dozens of current and past students, some older than I’d care to admit. I can feel my eyes fill up at the sight of them as they make their way down the center aisle to stand behind me. My people.
“I didn’t quit then. I couldn’t. I needed to be here for them—” I wave my arm toward the group behind me. Goodness, there must be fifty of them. Syd did her job well. I motion to her to make her way up onto the stage.
“Sydney, one of my former students, and now a lifetime part of my family is going to show you a poster.”
Syd makes her way up the steps onto the stage, gives a little head nod to each of the board members, then turns and unrolls my crisis hotline poster.
“Many of you have seen this before. Maybe you even have one where you work, but for those who don’t know, it’s a piece of paper that has saved many lives. Some lives that happen to be in this room today. This poster has been hanging in my room for many years. This year, I was asked to take it down by someone who has promised to uphold this district’s mission statement. Irefused, and months later, along with my power to help children the best way I know how, it disappeared from my room.”
The murmurs erupt into full blown chatter and Dr. Franklin moves swiftly to stand beside Sydney on the stage.
“Surely you aren’t accusing an administrator of stealing your posters, Ms. Gallagher,” he says.
I shake my head.
“I’m not. I’m not here to make accusations. I’m here to advocate for my students—to remind you that, despite your beliefs, they have the right to feel safe and respected. To get help when they need it.”
