I worked in the public schools for twenty years as a technology and instructional assistant. The attack on public schools is orchestrated by the far right, a combination of outlandish propaganda and pointed attacks.
storm the school boards,
their grievances scrolled
and shared,
voices raised like verdicts,
accusations flung,
always unfounded.
Teachers, they say,
are plotting
to turn children gay,
to rewrite their bodies,
to bend history
so that it punishes
the white and innocent
for the sins
of their ancestors.
They say
Christian children
are silenced,
as if prayer
requires a stage,
as if God
cannot hear
one unspoken.
It would be laughable
if it were not so ugly.
Teaching is not conspiracy,
but calling.
Hours poured quietly
into bulletin boards,
into desks arranged just so,
into rooms made safe,
made warm,
made ready
for learning.
Hours poured into papers,
grading, planning,
searching for the one way
to reach the ones
who walk different paths.
Hours spent
in the fragile work
of keeping peace,
soft words in sharp moments,
voices low, pulling anger
out of children’s chests,
quieting their storms.
Hours watching
hallways,
lunch lines,
recess chaos,
their safety first,
their own needs
somewhere after.
And yes,
teachers pray.
Not loudly.
Not for show.
But in the quiet moments
between lessons,
between breaths,
that they might
reach them,
teach them,
all of them,
even theirs.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Written on 2026-04-17 at 19:09
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Public Schools
The red hat crowdstorm the school boards,
their grievances scrolled
and shared,
voices raised like verdicts,
accusations flung,
always unfounded.
Teachers, they say,
are plotting
to turn children gay,
to rewrite their bodies,
to bend history
so that it punishes
the white and innocent
for the sins
of their ancestors.
They say
Christian children
are silenced,
as if prayer
requires a stage,
as if God
cannot hear
one unspoken.
It would be laughable
if it were not so ugly.
Teaching is not conspiracy,
but calling.
Hours poured quietly
into bulletin boards,
into desks arranged just so,
into rooms made safe,
made warm,
made ready
for learning.
Hours poured into papers,
grading, planning,
searching for the one way
to reach the ones
who walk different paths.
Hours spent
in the fragile work
of keeping peace,
soft words in sharp moments,
voices low, pulling anger
out of children’s chests,
quieting their storms.
Hours watching
hallways,
lunch lines,
recess chaos,
their safety first,
their own needs
somewhere after.
And yes,
teachers pray.
Not loudly.
Not for show.
But in the quiet moments
between lessons,
between breaths,
that they might
reach them,
teach them,
all of them,
even theirs.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Written on 2026-04-17 at 19:09
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
