Yes, I am aware I have no poker face.
No, I will not stop rolling my eyes.
Yes, I have always been like this.
With any luck, I will always be like this.
I ran for president of my local union because I don’t believe the union is functioning as it should. If we have to fucking work, if we must spend five out of seven days of our weeks and all of the weeks of our months and all of the months of however many years we live on this planet we are readily and properly destroying, we might as well be able to fight for work to not fucking suck.
And work for public school educators sucks.
There’s a groupchat that will call me anti-union for having the audacity to type such a sentence for the internet to read; it’s the same groupchat that said I was “too pro-union to be union president”. For the collective better and for the idiosyncratic worse, I am nothing if not audacious1.
I ran at the head of a reform slate in the 2026 elections for my local union. On the day voting opened, February 23, 2026, I was pulled from the classroom and put on administrative leave. My employee misconduct form was swiftly leaked to the local press. My district investigation was scheduled for Friday, March 13th, the day immediately following the finalization of the election results.
My investigation interview was one of the first places I drove my new old car. Because like appliances that my mom says break in threes my reliances, in winter ‘26, broke in thirty-threes. My lawyer called on the way with a reminder: the investigator is there for the district and a piece of advice: answer clearly, and only with certainty, and did I understand what that meant?
I thought about the first candidate debate.
Their Facebook posts.
The second candidate debate.
My videos.
The years of struggle that led to this bigger struggle.
How the bottom row of eyelashes are tiny spears when they’re sopped.
Yes, I told her, yes I understand what that means.
The room was tiny, so sterile a jar of cotton balls and tongue depressors surely belonged at the edge of the sink, the walls themselves seeped with scandal from ECOT, painted and rebranded to now deal with me.
The table is far too large for the space, yet just 4 chairs, meant for the 4 people, and did I need coffee? It’s not good, she says, but it’s something. No, thank you, but my lawyer did, she had a long drive. Did my union rep need a cup? She asks with a chuckle because no, he didn’t, but he knew where the pot was because he’s here often, and the prolonging pleasantries are funny. Oh, and did I need water? No, I didn’t, thank you, and if I changed my mind it was just down the hall. Was I ready? Was everyone ready? Okay, everyone’s ready, we’ll go ahead, we’ll get started.
She knows it’s in my statement but she wants to know, she wants to hear it from me, did I help students protest Immigration and Customs Enforcement?
And now we’ll watch the video. And actually we’ll watch it twice, and then a third time we will rewind it to just a certain part, and watch that again.
“Do I need to point out that [the bulk of this] employee misconduct form is a lie?”
“I know. Why would [someone] write this? Why would [they] set you up?”
My union rep wants to know, is the investigator kidding? Is she aware of the grievances I’ve filed and won over the past four years? Is she aware of the cease and desist letter that was sent [when the regional superintendent interrogated me when I organized members]? Is she aware of the Unfair Labor Practice [filed and won against when School Board Member Michael Cole came into my building and screamed at me during the workday]? Is she aware [of the conditions I’ve endured to win protections for members]?
And does she know that I was running for union president, does the know about the timeline, and does she know about the local news? Those words stay on the back of my tongue because my union rep has shown me they don’t belong in the room. My lawyer has shown me they don’t belong in the room.
My lawyer that I had to advocate to get. My lawyer that my union office said I wouldn’t need. My lawyer that E had to remind me I needed.
“Kelsey! Snap out of it! You need a lawyer! You need to fight! Kelsey, you are under attack! Wake up! Is this how you beat Kimbal Musk? Kelsey!”
My blue eyes searched E’s and no, no, this was not how I beat Kimbal Musk. No! This is not how I beat Kimbal Musk!
I was home by 11:00 in the morning after my district investigation interview. The investigator had told us the allegation was wholly unfounded and she would be putting that in writing before leaving her desk that day. It was a priority for her to do so, she had said, as she was leaving for spring break with her kids, who are in a different district, and we all wanted me to return to work as soon as possible.
At home I sat on my couch, still donning my coat and snow boots, focused on the ticks or tocks from the clock hanging above the door. How long was I going to sit there? How long could I sit there? How long was I capable of just sitting, and could I count up to one thousand ticks or tocks, should I put on a record to fill the room?
But I couldn’t move, not to untie my boots, not to put on a record. The laundry list of grievances, organizing campaigns, marches on the boss, of speaking truth to power held new meaning. No longer victorious in nature, now axes with blades of submission.
Because if my employer was willing to do this to me, someone who they knew would speak out, who would organize, and would win, what in the proper hell were they doing to other employees?
But they struck at a time when my union office was against me, and not afraid to show it. It was not lost on me that all people in positions of power: my building administration, my district administration, my union administration leadership, had a tangible and direct gain from me being assigned to home.
I would go on to refresh my work email several times that day, after I found the energy to untie my boots and hang my coat, waiting for the directive to return to room 113 at 7:15am Monday morning, but it would never arrive. Despite the charges unfounded, the district would keep me from my classroom for an additional four weeks.
But I didn’t know that yet, so I sat there, bones far too heavy to do anything but sit on my couch and stare at the roaring gas fireplace, and as the flames reflected in the depths of my pupils I would wonder if this was my Icarus moment.
Most people who reference Icarus aren’t actually familiar with the story, and instead rely only on the moral, that his arrogance flew him too close to the sun and his wax wings melted. But if I was going to be Icarus, who was Daedalus, who had made my wings? Who was King Minos, who locked me away, and what is the Labyrinth, which I know the secret to, and are the billionaires the Minotaur or is it capitalism itself? Is the Labyrinth the structure of paid-dues organized labor, or is there a version where it is collective class consciousness?
One thing often properly ignored when referencing Icarus is this: he flew.
***
This is the first piece in a series of six. They detail my experience being a rank and file union member, a high school English teacher, a labor organizer, a reformer, a failure, a friend, a dropout, and a believer.
audacious
/ɔːˈdeɪʃəs/
adjective
disposed to venture or take risks
unrestrained by convention or propriety
invulnerable to fear or intimidation