Spring Break 2018 was about to begin. It was Friday, and I had finished teaching my last class of the day. I sat down at my desk, exhausted and grateful for a week to breathe and grade and sleep in, when my principal came in. He told me that I had been terminated, and I was to clean out my classroom and leave campus immediately.
I was shocked, humiliated, and distraught. I had never been fired from anything. I had been raised to believe that people who were fired had done something terrible–those were people who embezzled money or harassed coworkers, etc. I had worked at that school for over three years, putting in an average of 60-80 hours a week (for $30k a year, mind you) teaching English, ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages), and history.
My principal told me that the reason for my termination was due to my participation in a protest against gun violence the week prior, in response to the school shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida where 17 students and staff had been shot to death. Prior to the protest, I had gotten approval from my administration to project a statement in my classroom. It stated that rather than walking out (which was how the protest was designed), I would be taking 10 minutes of the class period for silent reflection and prayer over the loss of those lives. I had offered my classroom as a space for other students on campus who wanted to walk out.
My statement indicated that my students were welcome to participate in this silent reflection, but did not have to–they could study or read if they preferred not to participate. News about this had upset an influential parent, who had demanded that I be fired for trying to “make our kids liberal Commie snowflakes.” (I had also previously offended a parent by having a “safe space” sticker on my desk.) Admin had waited until spring break to fire me because it would be an “easier transition.”
My principal left, and I fell apart. I remember having a panic attack that had me gasping on the floor, weeping, and struggling to breathe. The security guard who had been assigned to escort me off campus found me and sat on the floor with me. His daughter was one of my students, a sophomore whose intelligence and bubbly, sweet personality made her one of my favorite students. He sat with me until I could breathe again. He cried with me, grabbing a box of tissues off my desk for both of us. He told me that I was his daughter’s favorite teacher, and how much he appreciated everything I had been for her. He helped me gather a few things and walked me to my car. He even called the office to ask that I be allowed to clean out my classroom at a later date, offering to come to campus himself so that I could get in. He recognized how very broken I was in that moment.
That evening, a friend (who would later become my husband) came to sit with me. He didn’t know exactly what to do, only that I needed someone there with me.
The following week, my friend Leilani drove me over in the big red van to help me pack up my classroom. She loaded boxes, took down art, and emptied drawers. She encouraged me to cry as needed, and discouraged me from vacuuming when we had finally finished–”they can do it themselves,” she said.
I hadn’t told many people what had happened–I was feeling so much shame and embarrassment about losing my job. I was particularly loath to tell my family, but I decided to drive back to the Pacific Northwest to visit my grandparents for a few days. It ended up being one of the last times I was able to spend significant time with them before they died. My grandmother loaded up my car with my great-grandmother’s carefully-packed delicate Limoge china set–an inheritance from the woman whose name and red hair I share. My grandparents didn’t ask questions about how I was able to be there in April, in the middle of the school semester. They just loved on me and made sure I knew I was important to them, sending me with precious heirlooms that reminded me how valuable I was.
When I returned, people in my community helped me find ways to make ends meet–finding me pet-sitting and house-sitting gigs, feeding me on weekends, and sitting with me as I processed my grief and tried to figure out what to do next. A friend ended up recommending me for the teaching job I took that summer–a job which was exponentially healthier for me and provided for me for the next two years.
I don’t pretend that I am not still torn–it is very difficult to teach in today’s day and age. I am consistently reminded that Old Testament prophets’ warnings to take care of the marginalized and welcome the foreigners are still applicable to our society today. I do not always know the best way to stand up for my neighbors (or for myself, for that matter), but I do know that it is our duty as Christians and as members of a global society to show up, to sit with those who are broken, to demonstrate compassion, defend the marginalized, and value and accept each other as neighbors in one big community. I am eternally grateful for the people in my life who have valued me and my beliefs, and sat with me when I was broken.
Marjorie (Jorie) Ellenwood is doing her best to weather the current political climate by showing up for her community and surrounding herself with small beautiful cozy things. She claims Margaret Mead’s quote: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”