Overview:
In this fictional narrative, Veteran Teacher Thomas Courtney writes from the perspective of a future gay educator in a world without the Department of Education. Even though Mr. Courtney writes fictionally, should the Department of Education fall, this tale may be more nonfiction than fiction in some states.
Today is Monday in Room B, and it’s going to be a doozy. The kids are a bit nuts what with Christmas Break coming up, and the mandatory state testing benchmarks we have to review. I admit that I could have gotten more sleep. I know I should have.
Our day starts off pretty normal. Mrs. Owens, Brady’s mom leads us in the recitation of the Pledge of American Allegiance and the Ten Commandments. She takes a moment to remind kids about taking the Lord’s name in vain. “I’ve heard the Lord’s name taken in vain more than 10 times just this week!” She hisses. She’s careful not to point at any one child.
We start our national math curriculum, which I’m still getting used to. The National Education Council of American Values just approved it this fall, and I admit I haven’t taken the look at it that I should have.
Our class is interrupted this morning by a testimonial. Parents at the last school governance team, voted to have testimonials on Mondays, instead of Fridays. Mr. Faber, a father of a boy I had last year, stops by the class. For several minutes, he talks to us about how Jesus Christ led him away from several sins. He doesn’t say anything sexual of course, but its implied. He mentions something odd about lust, and a few of the boys in the back lose it. I’ll have to remember to chat with them later about paying attention when a guest is speaking.
Sometimes it feels weird to me that we have testimonials from born-again Christians in a place that was once a public school, but it’s rare now. The first couple of years, it was definitely a bit odd. But now, I’m one of the few at my school who can really recall the difference.
When the Christian Charter Network bought the school campus from the State, I was going to leave. I had no tenure anymore, and with the closing of the department of education, salaried teachers like me had to renegotiate our pensions by serving years of service for-profit charters, or private schools.But then the establishment clause was reinterpreted by the US Supreme Court in 2027, and it didn’t really matter which school was or wasn’t religious. Propositions were passed, states took on the nationalist curriculum. I figured what the hell, and stayed.
Besides, it’s not like I’ve got to stay. So long as I’m not written up on charges of indoctrination, or a parent finds out I’m gay, I can teach wherever I like. I figured the kids here were fairly affluent, most could read, and came from stable homes. There was no need to move. None of it is like it used to be in public schools. Charters, run by councils of parents, can decide which teachers they hire, and which students they take in. They decide our principal as well, and so far, he seems to like me just fine. I make sure to cover the curriculum they give me.
“Mr. Courtney, you’re wanted in the office,” comes a voice over the loud speaker.
On cue, the door opens and the vice principal, Mr. Sanders, enters. I take off my holster and place it in my lockbox. Then, I place my hand on the electronic sensor and wait for the click in the lock to sound.
It takes me only a couple of minutes to get to the office, and I walk by the nurse, the counselor, and the attendance clerk, giving them my customary silly greetings. The attendance clerk is like me, she’s what we call a public dinosaur.
The principal’s office is open, so I walk in. Mr. Timmons asks me to take a seat in front of his desk in an orange plastic chair. I do. He is finishing an email perhaps on his computer, while I take in the familiarity of his office. Above him to the left is a watercolor of Jesus Christ on the cross. To his right is the 45th, 47th, and 48th President, Donald Trump.
“Good morning, Mr. Timmons,” I say. He doesn’t look happy. But that’s normal.
“Good morning, Mr Courtney, he says, and pushes a dish of saltines at me. He’s known for these. I’ve never been a fan so I just say a quick thanks, and pat my belly.
“Mr. Courtney, I know your scholars are very busy today, so I’ll get to the point.”
“Sure,” I smile. I figure he wants me to help out with the Trump Day celebrations this year. The nationalist curriculum calls for an assembly to watch the Courage of the Presidents, a documentary produced a few years back. Then, we have games and prizes. Kids love it, and I usually help with much of the decorations.
“Mr. Courtney, it has come to the attention of one of our board members, that you are not married.” He picks up a saltine, breaks off just a piece and places it in his mouth. He’s watching me carefully.
The chair I’m sitting on feels slippery all of a sudden.
“That is correct, Mr. Timmons,” I say, smiling. Just enough. “You knew that when I was hired a few years back.”
Mr. Timmons regards me carefully. He then looks down and breaks a saltine in half. “Yes, but we of course, did not know you lived with a man at that time.”
I scoff while my hands grip my knees under the table. “Any idea how high rent is these days? I mean it’s not like we—”
“Mr. Courtney,” says Mr. Timmons. “I’m going to stop you right there. I know what you’ll say and that this is a platonic relationship, or perhaps you are both simply roommates. But social media, my good Sir, says otherwise.”
“But I have no social—”
Mr. Simmons breaks off another saltine. “Doesn’t matter Tom. I’ve seen pictures of you both, myself, on other social media accounts, and confirmed your identities with AI software as I’m well within my rights to do. The Zuckerberg-Musk Act of 2029 says we have grounds to expel any public-school teacher. I, in place of Title 9 protections from the defunct Department of Education, deem that you are living a life non-conducive to American patriotism.”
“But I’ve been teaching here for years. You only just got here Mr.—”
“Mr. Courtney,” Timmons interrupts me. He points the saltine at me across the table now. There’s something in his eyes, something I hadn’t noticed before. It isn’t loathing. I’ve known for many years Mr. Timmons wasn’t impressed with my machismo for some time. I thought that by enrolling as an Elementary Teacher Defender, or ETD, I could make up some of that ground with him. But if I did, it hadn’t been much. No, the feeling I’m now picking up is triumph. I can see it spread across his forehead, across his face.
Smirking, Timmons inserts the cracker, and mumbles, “Mr. Courtney, by US Presidential Decree of the third Trump Administration’s Patriot Teacher Act, I hereby remove you from your classroom, from your employment. This takes effect immediately, however, while the children are at recess, you will be allowed to collect what things you need from your classroom.”
“Do I get to at least say goodbye to the kids today?”
“Mr. Courtney,” leans Timmons across the table. He picks up the last saltine on his plate. Holds it up to me, and breaks it in half. “Don’t you think, Sir, you’ve done enough damage to the scholars of this fine Musk-Walton Patriot Academy as it is?”
