For over five full-time years, I taught English at the community college I once attended—my dream job. Before that, I had taught part-time for nearly five years. I loved the mission, loved the students, and felt at home there.
It wasn’t perfect. There were politics—people got sidelined from classes or committees if they ended up on someone’s "naughty list." But I stayed focused on teaching well and supporting my students. I wasn’t perfect, but I was good at the work that mattered.
Then, one Thursday evening, I got an email from HR: a student had filed a complaint, and I needed to attend a meeting the next day. I texted my Department Chair—no reply until 12 hours later. I didn’t panic. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I went in for the meeting, upbeat but nervous. The HR rep was also the Title IX coordinator, and she was joined by the head of HR, a former attorney. What followed was a brutal 45-minute interrogation. They asked if I used “foul language” in class. I admitted that I occasionally used “mild” curse words to connect with students, never anything crude or directed at anyone.
Then came the trap: “What if I told you we have recordings of you saying the F-word?” I didn’t know that was a hypothetical tactic—used to rattle me. I said something like, “That’s possible, but not common.” That was twisted into an accusation of dishonesty. They had no recording. They just wanted to see how I’d respond under pressure.
But the complaint wasn’t really about language.
A student alleged that I struck her on the bottom with a rolled-up rug and said, “Sorry, I have to obey the voices.” This supposedly happened in a crowded hallway during a student art auction. No witnesses ever came forward, and I never saw these students that day. The rug in question was a wall hanging I was donating to the auction. I showed it to a few Art Professors and left. That’s it.
Yet the following Tuesday, just days later, I was asked to resign.
HR offered me a deal: resign, and nothing would go on my record. I’d be paid through the semester. Or I could fight—go through a public hearing with no legal representation, against an HR department that had already decided I was guilty. I felt utterly alone, without support from my Chair or Dean, so I signed the paper, packed up my office, and left.
I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had fought. Leaving made me look guilty. Rumors spread. One colleague called to tell me that others had heard I had raped a student. The truth—absurd and heartbreaking as it is—was twisted and swallowed by the machine.
I had no goodbye, had no recognition, and no defense. I packed up my office in the rain.
Since then, I’ve been trying to find my way. I worked for a friend’s roofing company. A woman sang to me at a birthday party, calling me “David, the shepherd boy,” reminding me my purpose might be bigger than teaching. Strange? Maybe. But kind. And kind things stick.
Today, I still feel like a teacher in disguise. I am working as an HR Trainer for a local grocery corporation. I work with wonderful people, but I still struggle with not prepping to teach for the coming semester. I’m learning that I am more than just my job. I’m a husband, a father, a son, a friend. And I'm still someone who believes people can change, grow, and find beauty in hard places.
To anyone else who's lost something central to their identity: don’t forget that you are many things. When one part of your story gets cut short, the rest of you is still very much alive—and worth fighting for.
