Utter Despair

Merger. That's a word I will never forget. That's the word that changed my life. That's the word that started the conversation on Tuesday.

Due to low enrollment, my high school, along with another high school in my charter, are to be merged. We knew layoffs were inevitable, but we didn't know the extent until yesterday.

If you've been following my blog, my school was insanity last year. I never thought children could be educated like this in America. We went without toilet paper for three days. In one of our high schools--the high school we are merging with--the only toilets are porta potties. Pigeons lived in my ceiling and their poop ran down my wall. Our one copier went without toner for weeks. The tables and chairs where our students ate lunch were confiscated in the fall because our school did not pay the rent for them, so they ate on the floor or stood up for the rest of the year. We were given no supplies, not even a dry erase marker. Our PE teacher had no equipment and no budget to purchase any. They've paid us up to a week late and our paychecks bounced once. We even faced a 40% reduction in teachers in October, but we stayed.

We stayed because we had kids we loved, and we stayed for each other. There were only eight of us left after the fall layoffs, so our bond grew fast and tight. We were in a war, and we quickly became brothers and sisters. Only the eight of us knew and understood that view from the foxhole. I grew to love them, because some days they were my only light and hope.

Yesterday, I learned all of them were cut, and I am the only teacher who remains and who will be merging with this new school. I take no pride or joy or relief in this. Instead, it sickens me.  And it sickens me to know the reason I remained--this AP class I decided to start. I guess no one else at the new school has this training, so they took one of the few joys I had and bastardized it.

If I had the money, I would walk away from this disaster, but this is the nature of their abusive way. They are master manipulators and know how to use our weakness to their advantage. I have to take it because I need their money, and I have to stay because where else am I going to find a job now? If I try to raise my voice in grief or anger, I can join my colleagues who are out of work.

I've said it before, but this situation trumps all others--I don't recognize my profession.  When I was laid off two years ago, it saddened me beyond belief.  I felt lonely to not have a classroom and students to go to.  Now, I feel gutted.  And lost.  So lost.