There is No Dignity in Teaching


It is rare that I have no idea how to start a story. That something is so wrong, so mangled that I can’t begin to make sense of it.

I guess the only place to begin is the beginning, so here goes.

I met a teacher named Gretchen in early October, 5 years ago, at East High School. It was Parent/Teacher Conference day, and I was wearing a dress and heels. I was 8 months pregnant and massively uncomfortable. I had trudged down to the main office, no small feat in our city’s largest urban high school.

As I was leaning on the counter, catching my breath, I overheard the woman next to me talking to the secretary. She was asking for my supervisor and explaining that she was an ESL teacher assigned to the building.

What?! It was October, our department wasn’t expecting a new teacher.

I turned to her and introduced myself and asked her how long she’d been waiting. Her answer made me gape, she’d been assigned to my building from the beginning of the year and had been showing up and calling for days, trying to find someone to tell her where to go. She told me she was assigned to East part time, and was teaching at the jail the second half of the day.

I told her to come with me, that I’d take her to our supervisor and straighten out where she was supposed to be.

We started down the hallway. “What’s the ESL population look like at the jail?” I asked.

“I don’t know, the kids aren’t there, so they have me teaching gym.”

I stopped and looked at her.

“There’s no gym teacher and I know some yoga.” she replied, laughing as she saw the face that I made at her.

We continued to walk and make small talk.

My internal monologue was off and running “The District has a shortage of ESL teachers because this is how they treat them when they hire them. What the hell is wrong with these people? She didn’t get her Masters Degree in yoga! This is ridiculous.” and so on.

We did finally get her schedule straightened out, although she continued to teach yoga at the jail. You see, that is just the type of person Gretchen is-energetic, gritty, enthusiastic, hardworking.

Honestly, she’s the only person I can see actually teaching yoga in a jail and not looking completely insane.

We worked together for the next year before I realized that she was hiding something.

It was little things at first. When my daughter was born she checked my car seat installation 5 or 6 times. She would talk about her children, but never in much detail. She started asking about taking Family Medical Leave and if I knew how to help her get the paperwork.

One day, right after Christmas, I finally just asked her. “Gretchen what is going on? Are you ok? Is your family ok?”.  I even think she tried to blow me off.

Yes, I pried.  

She finally opened up and told me the story of her family, of her son, Tristen.

They had been in a car accident when Tristen was one year old. His carseat failed and he was ejected from the car where he sustained a traumatic brain injury. Due to the accident, Tristen was severely physically and mentally disabled. His health wasn’t good and the doctors wanted to intubate him. He was getting infections and Gretchen wanted to be prepared in the event that she needed to leave quickly to go and take care of him.

As she described her situation in more detail I became more and more astonished with my friend. She showed up to work and gave 100% Every. Single. Day. She was at all of our student events. Her students, all 75 of them, came to her for everything. On top of all of it, she was damn good in the classroom.

After she was finished I bluntly asked her if she sued the carseat company and if so, why in the world would she work?

“I need a job with health insurance, and I really just love working with these kids. People don’t like working with the hard ones, but I do. So if I don’t do it who will?”

There was a settlement, but because health care in the United States is complicated and unfair, Gretchen had to fight for every dollar that Tristen got. Theoretically he had millions of dollars in a trust, but her son’s life came with mountains of paperwork and lawyers and bills. Every service he got had to be documented, and none of the money could be used for anything other than Tristen’s care.

To top it all off, her son’s health was failing.

I wanted to drag her down to our Principal, have her repeat the story. In my mind, there had to be some way to help her.

Gretchen refused. “I will never use my son like that. I don’t need people to feel bad for me or my family.”

In the end, she didn’t need to take Family Medical Leave. Tristen improved and she had enough sick days to cover the days that he was intubated. Although we disagreed, I kept quiet about her family business.

In June she was called to the Principal’s office where she was issued an official letter saying that she had taken too many “suspicious” sick days. Let me be clear, she had the time in her allotment of sick time that teachers get; the Rochester City School District just thought that she took too many days off that year.

This time I insisted. Along with our Vice Principal, we informed the Principal that Gretchen could provide documentation for all of the days she took off AND that they were for her child who was living with multiple disabilities.

He was sympathetic but offered no solution other than to promise that it wouldn’t affect his recommendation of tenure the next year. He told her that it didn’t really matter in the long run now that the building knew of her struggles.

And then the school was labeled failing by New York State.

It was granted an “Educational Partnership” with the University of Rochester. (Which really means U of R took over operations and staffing.)

The Principal was fired for sexual harassment accusations.

The ESL program was quietly reduced, as too many students who need too much help impacts the school’s “improvement numbers”.

Gretchen’s son fell ill and she took Family Medical Leave.

The next June she was called down the the Superintendent’s office. (Now that a university runs the school, they have their own Superintendent.) She was told that she wouldn’t be getting tenure because “The RCSD School Board would never approve her tenure with her absence record.” She was told that she’d get an extra year to prove herself and to sign a paper.

She was offered no union representation, given no written documentation of what the problem in her performance as a teacher was. In fact, every year she received excellent evaluations.

Many of her friends told her to leave the school. Start over somewhere else. But if you’ve realized one thing from this story so far, it’s that Gretchen is stubbornly optimistic. She was good at teaching and loved her students, things would be ok. She actually told us not to worry, that things would work out.

Her failing was to believe that in this politicized world, being a good, loving teacher is enough.

This year Tristen’s health spiraled into uncertainty, yet Gretchen remained at work, dedicated to both of her lives. She didn’t start teaching until 10am, as she was lucky enough to have planning periods in the beginning of the school day. She was open and honest with her administration, and if late because of doctors appointments, missed no class time due to her schedule.

In February Gretchen was called down to the Superintendent’s office, told that she was not being tenured, and that she was being fired. They pulled her entry times from the computer and gave her “absences and lateness” as the reason. Absences and lateness that I remind you, were documented medically or taken under the Family Medical Leave Act, and did not exceed her contractual sick days.

Two weeks later, Tristen died.

Realizing the morale nightmare they created, East offered Gretchen her job back. Well, they offered her a job subbing, or a job starting over as a first year teacher. So really, they were just trying to mitigate the fact that they fired a teacher for taking care of her disabled, dying son.

What the administration and people who “evaluate” teachers fail to understand is that no amount of politics will give Gretchen back her dignity.

The dignity she lost filing for unemployment, of being denied because there was “no reason for her to leave her job”, of her phone being shut off, of the fear that her house and her car would now be repossessed now that she had no job and the trust no longer had to “help pay” for Tristen.

The dignity she lost trying to be both a mother and a teacher.

At the beginning of this story I told you that Gretchen showed up to a school that didn’t even pick her up at the office, and a second that had a highly sought after specialist teaching yoga.

There is no dignity in teaching.

We are blamed for the ills of society. We are tasked to perform miracles every day. We are told “I pay your salary, you work for me.” by parents who don’t like their kids’ grades. We are called racist, lazy, discriminatory, and overpaid. We are told over and over again that we are failing our kids.  

Administrators have forgotten that teachers (and the kids they work with) are in fact human beings and not numbers. Instead of standing up to government officials and defending their teachers, they uphold unfair—and frankly discriminatory— evaluation practices.

Fearing for their own jobs, they are willing to sacrifice good teachers in the hopes that they are seen as allies to the almighty State.

They investigate absences and arrival times, deny tenure and fire a teacher with a dying son.

Gretchen’s future is uncertain. She has no job, no health insurance, and other children to provide for. She may move to Florida, where she has family and where they are desperate for ESL teachers, but first she has to get there and then explain why she “resigned”.

To paraphrase Martin Luther King Jr., “The measure of a woman is not where she stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where she stands at times of challenge and controversy.”

I’m pleading with anyone who reads this to measure my friend by this standard.

To measure her by the sheer force of will it took to get up and give 100 percent to her students every day.

To measure the strength and grace it took not to “use her son as an excuse”.

To measure her not by the number of times she was “late” but by the number of students and colleagues that attended her son’s funeral.

I wrote this story at her request, because her story deserves to be told. The world should hear all of our stories, because if you think this is an isolated incident, you’re wrong. The world should know what we deal with.

The world should see us as humans.

Maybe her next employer will read this. Maybe a parent or a member of our Board of Education will. Maybe somehow this will make a difference.

But I doubt it.

No, there is no dignity in teaching.




A Tale of Two Women- My Struggle with School Shootings


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It’s 9:39 at night and I’m staring at my computer screen.

I’m also eating Haagen Daz strawberry ice cream straight from the carton. This is my dinner, because I got home from school at 7:00 tonight.

I was just in time to read my 4 year old daughter a bedtime story.

I have spent exactly 1 hour of the day with her because I leave for work before she wakes up in the morning.  Eating instead of snuggling isn’t even an option.

I could cook, but after getting up at 5:30 and putting in a 12.5 hour day, I just don’t have the energy. I’d probably fall asleep and burn the house down- so ice cream it is.

I read the news and chomp down on a few more spoonfuls.

I swing between royally pissed off and weepy.

I want to scream at the computer screen.

Arming teachers? In my building we can’t even be trusted to work the laminator!

I keep thinking about the kids in Parkland, FL., about what I would do if someone came to my school intending to harm my students.

Call me arrogant, but I’m pretty convinced this won’t happen. The statistics overwhelmingly support that school shootings are a white, middle class problem.

Culturally, white middle class men buy guns that are designed as military weapons. White, middle class America has a culture of toxic masculinity, where instead of caring about the safety of their children, they care about how big their “recreational” guns are.

Spoon in my teeth, I fire off messages about my participation in local rallies. I draft some letters to legislators. I make a “to-do list” to bring up the subject to my union.

Then I pick the carton back up, relax a bit, and the other me starts to leak out.

You see, I’m a white parent. I truly believe that I am safer in school than my suburban counterparts- so what does that mean for my daughter?

Academically, it means that my white privilege has protected me from from actively thinking about gun violence for a very long time. Only now am I starting to live the crippling fear that black parents face on a daily basis as their children walk out the door.

But that woman- the logical, academic, unafraid one- is melting with the last of the ice cream.

This other me knows that each day my baby gets on the bus, pigtails and purple backpack swinging, she is in greater danger than I am in my “rough”, urban, school.

It means although I have made peace with the vitriol (and sometimes safety issues) that come as backlash to my unapologetic, liberal, outspoken self, I can not actually comprehend a world where the most innocent of us all are gunned down in school.

It means I cannot begin to formulate a plan or a to-do list, because all I want to do is run upstairs, curl by body around my daughter, and never let go.

It is as that woman that I’m writing this blog post.

The teacher who, for so long, has worn her righteous indignation as her armor is tired and scared.

I know I’m not as compelling, not as powerful, but I’m what’s left- a mother whose tears are running for all of our children.

If we can’t look past our differences to see the innocence that we are slaughtering while we shout at each other, I fear that the day will come when no metal detector, no security officer, mental health screening, no armed teacher will be enough. That we, as a nation, will have become so entrenched in our desire to be right, we will have destroyed the hope that comes with the promise of a new generation.

Then again, maybe we are already there.

My breath catches and I run to the sink.

It’s not the ice cream that’s made me sick.


Why This Teacher Doesn’t Stand for the Pledge



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Kneeling during the anthem. Sitting during the pledge.

We’ve all heard about it. We’ve all typed about it on social media. We’ve all got an opinion.

I was around 15 when I stopped saying the Pledge of Allegiance.

I grew up in rural New York, near a Native reservation. I had a friend in my homeroom who was Native and she sat during this routine part of the day. One day I finally asked her about it and she had a lot to say.

From the numerous reasons, two resonated with me.

One, the United States did not recognize my friend and her people as citizens until 1924…150 years after we stole their land. On top of that, the US didn’t even grant Native Americans civil rights until 1968.  

“I don’t say the pledge because by recognizing us as tribal nations the US recognizes that they took our lands and ravaged our people. I will not pledge allegiance to a government that decimated the cultures, government, and people that were here and has made little effort to make reparations for those things.”

Two, “The god in the pledge isn’t mine either.”

I found her arguments compelling. Maybe this was the beginning of my social justice path in life, maybe it just made sense to my teenage brain.

While I didn’t sit (I wasn’t quite ready to go against the norm just then), I did stop saying the pledge. If our government and pledge weren’t “fair” or representative of all people, than it seemed wrong to say it.

As I got older I became increasingly aware that our laws and freedoms aren’t applied equally, especially to migrants, women, Muslims, the LGTBQ community, and most of all- people of color.

I started speaking out, I started marching, I started to stand for something other than what made people “comfortable”.

Fast forward fifteen years. I am teaching English in an urban classroom. Not only am I teaching English, but I’m teaching English to students have newly arrived from other countries. I plan thoughtful lessons, make sure my students voices are heard, and serve as an advocate to those who need it. I don’t think about the pledge that much.

It took another Native, this time my student teacher, to remind me of why I stopped saying it in the first place.

After his first day he approached me. I had seen him sit, so I figured it was coming. After he told me his reasons for not participating in the pledge, he asked why I made my students stand.

“I ask them to stand, they don’t have to say it. I ask them to because it’s respectful, because it’s what you do, because, because, because…”

“More than half these kids aren’t from the US (meaning not from Puerto Rico).” he countered. “They are here because they are fleeing horrible circumstances in the countries they are from, not because they suddenly want to become American. Also, the Hindu’s aren’t really represented in the ‘under god’ part.”

“The god in the pledge isn’t mine either.”

I started considering all of the ways that my students were not treated equally in the United States.

My Puerto Rican students hold US passports, but are treated deplorably by the United States government. As I write this, the Federal government still has not sent aid to the over 3 million Americans without power, water and transportation after Hurricane Maria. People routinely think Puerto Rico isn’t part of the US, and tell them to “Go home to your own country if you don’t want to speak English.”, even though the United States- by design- does not have an official language.

All of my students are people of color.

As such they are more likely to be misidentified and mistreated by law enforcement, less likely to see themselves represented in literature, more than 3 times more likely to be labeled as behavior problem or classified as learning disabled compared to their white counterparts. Less likely to graduate, more likely to end up in prison. The list goes on and on.

The more we talked the more I realized that I was wrong. I wasn’t asking the kids to stand because I believed it was respectful or in service to anything. I was having them stand because it was a behavior management mechanism- it got 28, loud, boisterous, rough teenagers to be quiet and get ready for the day.

I sat then and have every day since. I give my students the option to stand, speak, stay seated, or stay silent.

To those who are outraged, I say this. You stand because you believe that the United States is the greatest country in the world. You stand because it “shows respect”.

I will stand with you when our ideals extend to all of our people. When I can look at my students and sincerely tell them that there is liberty and justice for all.

Until then, this teacher will spend the first 5 minutes of her day sitting in silence.

If I Ever Leave Teaching it Will Be Because of the Adults, Not the Kids


A Facebook “On This Day” popped up in my newsfeed today. Normally I dismiss them, but today’s subject gave me pause.

3 years ago I sat down at my computer and started writing. I was upset about work and needed to find a way to work out my frustrations.

I rarely listen to music, but that day I’d heard TuPac blasting in the hallway.

Have you ever heard the story of the rose that grew from the crack in the concrete? It learned to walk without havin feet.

The result was On East High, my first viral blog post.

Could that have really been 3 years ago?

One of the hallmarks of a good teacher is reflection. I’ve always believed that if a lesson fails, it is my fault. I sit and think about the ways in which it failed and what that means for my students. Was the task too difficult? Was it interesting enough? Did they know why what they were learning was important?

When On East High went viral, District personnel reached out for my opinions on what we needed to do to change our schools. I sat in on countless meetings, spent hours on emails and even spoke at multiple conferences. Little by little those meetings and those “interests” have died down. If anything, I find that my professionalism and commitment to my students is challenged more than ever.

The District just can’t seem to honestly and openly reflect on why it is failing.

When no one even cared-the rose grew from the concrete-keeping all these dreams.

I still have never been paid the correct salary.

I still have battles over sick time and personal days.

My students are still not being given their mandated services.

I give ESOL services to students who speak NO OTHER LANGUAGE BUT ENGLISH because of a paperwork/clerical error that “can’t” be fixed.

I hold students who cry on a regular basis because they are lost, but someone’s test said they are proficient enough to sit in “regular” classes.

I meet with administrators, district officials, and even email the superintendent, hopeful that someone will listen, that someone will ascribe value to the lives of the children being lost in the system.

When no one else even cared. No one else even cared…

In every research papers about job satisfaction I could find, the results showed that there was a negative relationship between teacher job satisfaction with operating procedures and years of teaching experience. As years of teaching experience increased, teachers in public schools were more dissatisfied about the operating systems and procedures in which they worked.

Not behavior. Not safety.  Not “today’s youth”.

Operating procedures—which are made and staffed by other adults.

Every time someone asks a teacher about the state of education, we give the same answer: “If I ever leave teaching it will be because of the adults, not the kids.”

Think about the power of that statement. Teachers are, in general, a pretty conformist bunch. We like to follow rules and make systems. We say “good morning” to everyone we meet. We value kindness, integrity, and order.

How is it that this is our unofficial mantra?

We are failing our children, that much is clear, but if you really look and reflect, you’ll see why.

Our students “fail” over and over again because we are obligated to work within a system that was built by people who are no longer (or never were) teachers. We witness the racial, socioeconomic, and linguistic discrimination that is our public school system.

Teachers can’t work to our potential. We can’t do what’s right for kids because some politician decided what is right for our kids. Because some complicated formula or algorithm told a computer what is right for our kids.

We watch as those children don’t graduate, get low paying jobs, get married and get pregnant.

We watch them join gangs.

We attend their funerals.

All the trouble to survive and make good out of the dirty, nasty, y’knowhahatImean, unbelievable lifestyle they gave me

I’m just tryin to make somethin…

In my blog I wrote “ East is doing the best it can in a system so broken no one knows how to fix it.” Three years later, I’m amending that statement.

The system is broken, but there are people who know how to fix it—the teachers.

God bless the teachers who grow from the cracks in the RCSD.

Don’t ask why.

But please, I’m begging you, ask us how.



On International Women’s Day and A Day Without Women

Today is International Women’s Day.

Yes, it is actually a thing and it is actually celebrated in many different countries.

No, it isn’t made up by some conspiracy, man hating group to further “the leftist” agenda.

When I lived in Europe I would often get flowers or small presents. Students and even strangers would do small favors for me.

Women in different cultures celebrated in different ways, but one thing remained the same. They were honored. Their communities “saw” them. They were affirmed.

Never once did someone say ” That’s annoying.”, “That’s privilege.”, “Why do you get to feel special?”

You see, in so many countries around the world they realize what we in America haven’t seemed to grasp- That celebrating women doesn’t demean men.

So to experience the pushback that I’ve gotten today, for simply wearing red is tiring.

Or maybe I’m just plain tired.

I’m tired of pretending that things are ok.

You see teachers carry burdens so much heavier than an armload of homework.

We’re mandated reporters of sexual abuse and assault.

We watch mothers struggle to feed and clothe their children.

We watch the system discard working adults as parent’s who “don’t care”, because they can’t come to parent teacher conferences.

We take care of other people’s children while daycare workers get minimum wage to watch our own.

These issues are all women’s issues.

So while I would normally stay home, today I’m at work.

Today especially, I fight for my girls.

For their opportunity to come to this country, despite racist and discriminatory “Presidential” edicts.

For the opportunity to escape female genital mutilation.

For the opportunity to marry who they love.

For their opportunity to dress in a manner that represents themselves, without “asking for it.” if someone thinks their tank top is too low.

For the opportunity to wear a hijab and fully cover without “asking for” racist and bigoted threats.

I’m working today because students get sexually assaulted at school too and I need to be there for them.

I work so that my daughter will see and know a strong woman.

Today I couldn’t strike, but I stand with those who did.

Until every woman can feel safe in every place she occupies.

Until not one of my friends can name, with ease, times they were harassed or assaulted.

Until pink collar jobs like teaching are paid what they’re worth.

Until all women are paid what their worth.

Until I don’t have to teach my daughter to walk with her keys in her fingers.

Until all those who identify as women are safe.

I work and strike for you.



On Why Black Lives Matter


Our school district will recognize this Friday, February 17th, as a day of affirmation and understanding that black lives matter. Its overwhelming support includes that of the teachers’ union, administrators’ union and the school board.

Hopefully hundreds of teachers will voluntarily participate in “teach-ins” and engage in difficult yet necessary conversations around the inequality faced by people of color in this country and how it affects them and their school environment.

However, as is expected with anything that involves race, there has been a lot of pushbackpushback from the community and from teachers, with very heated opinions on both sides.

Instead of engaging with every Facebook post, every email, every pointed question, I’ve decided to tell my story of how Ia very white ladycame to not only believe in, but to fight for the #BLM movement.

A few months ago, my husband and I were discussing having another baby. For a variety of reasons, we would like to adopt.

When you adopt a child, you can’t just say, “I want any baby.” There are all sorts of things the agencies ask you about, one of which is race.

My first response was to blurt out, “Race doesn’t matter!” Especially since we are thinking about international adoption.

But before I got those words out, I stopped myself. I must have looked pained, because my husband asked me what was wrong.

And just like that, I said it out loud. “I don’t think I can raise a black son.”

Then, I started to cry.

In that small moment, a thousand conversations about what to do if he was stopped by the police went through my head. I imagined family meetings about “the right” clothes and tone of voice. I thought of teaching him not to run through white neighborhoods.

I thought of all of the things that black mothers, fathers, and caregivers tell their sons to “lessen” their chances of getting profiled and hurt.

The reality is that it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.

You see, it’s not because I can’t love him enough or provide for him enough.

It’s not because I can’t learn how to style his hair or that I’m worried about what people would think of our mixed family.

It is because I would be terrified every time he walked out of my house.

I cried for a baby that wasn’t real because I couldn’t cloak him in my whiteness and privilege forever.

I cried for the little baby boy who would eventually be a hoodie-wearing male teenager.

I cried because it is not fair.

I cried for all of the mothers who can’t choose. For those that can only hope that when the time comes, the world sees their sons for their character, and not their clothes or the color of their skin.

I cried because I am not strong enough to be the mother of a black son.  

White friends, I know you grow uncomfortable when I talk about #BLM and how we can use our privilege to be allies.

I know that you don’t think that you are part of the problem, so you don’t see why you should “get involved”.

I ask you this sit for a minute and think about your own children…

Think about all of the good with the bad. Think about that time you had to pick your kid up because they got drunk or because they did something stupid in school. Think about how much you hate your teen’s ratty old sweatshirt and the jeans with the holes in them that are two sizes too big.

Now imagine your child is black.

Did you change how you would parent?
This my friends, is why black lives matter.



For more information about the Black Lives Matter at School event in Rochester, N.Y. please visit or email



On DeVos and Why I’m Marching



It has been two months since my last post. Two months since I was overwhelmed with the possibility of the first female President of the United States. Two months since I realized the anger that drives part of our population.

To be frank, I’ve been numb.

I’ve avoided a lot of news, kept to myself on social media, and then — because curiosity killed the cat — I watched the Betsy DeVos confirmation hearings.  

As I watched her admit that she was unfamiliar with FEDERAL legislation regarding disability accommodations for students, I about yelled at the television.

“This is some sort of joke.” I told my co-workers the next morning. “This can’t really be happening.”

As tomorrow’s impending “celebrations” inch closer, I’ve realized that the American public has become numb to this sort of ridiculousness.

Appoint a woman who has no idea about public education, has never sent her kids to public school, or as Tim Kaine pointed out, “has no experience overseeing massive monetary programs like college Pell Grants?” Sure.

Why not? We elected a man who has no political experience, promotes rape culture, and has the demeanor of a three-year-old to be President.

But my job? Don’t you even think about being a teacher unless you are “highly qualified”.

In New York you must complete your undergraduate in teaching and a core subject area, pass multiple state required exams (one of which Ms. DeVos obviously needs since it tests the legislation and treatment of students with disabilities) and then get your master’s degree within 5 years of your bachelors. Most people complete the cycle in 7 years and the debt we take on is enormous.

Being married allows me to be a teacher. If I were to suddenly become single I would not be able to afford to work. My student loan payment is as much as my mortgage. My daughter’s weekly daycare is as much as a monthly car payment (10 year old Prius BTW). My daughter and I could survive on my salary, but it wouldn’t be pretty.

When will we start valuing our teachers?

When will we stop blaming the teachers and start looking at the real problems in education?

Could you sit by while an unqualified, inept, and discriminatory doctor examined your child?

Teachers don’t have time to wait it out — and even if you don’t realize the harm coming to your child’s education, we do. We won’t let an unqualified, inept, and discriminatory candidate be appointed Secretary of Education.

And so, with less than a week to go, I found my voice again.

I bought a bus ticket to Washington. Saturday I’ll be marching with hundreds of thousands of women who will show that their voice matters, and will be heard.

I march because I am not helpless.

I march for all of those, like me, who had to pay for a required master’s degree that was never feasible to be paid back on our salary.

I march for my daughter’s teachers at daycare, so that one day they can make a living wage.

I march because my profession is a calling and not a job.

I march for your children, even as you condemn me.  
Remember that in the years to come.