- Oct 17, 2011
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This Florida teacher married a woman. Now she’s not a teacher anymore.
Nicolette Solomon felt her mother’s words come through the phone and settle, heavy, in her stomach.
It was January, and her mother was talking about a new bill, just proposed in the Florida legislature, that would severely limit how teachers could discuss gender identity and sexual orientation with their students.
She wondered: Could she be herself and stay a teacher in Florida?
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Although Florida’s law does not take effect until July 1, LGBTQ teachers in Florida felt its impact immediately. In Orlando, a sixth-grade science teacher decided to resign this spring after parents wrote a letter complaining that he had acknowledged his same-sex marriage at school. In Cape Coral, a middle-school art teacher lost her job after admitting her own pansexuality to students.
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Part of her reticence [about talking about her marriage at school with students] came from the lack of support — veering into open animosity — she had faced from some colleagues ever since her first week on the job. She had long ago learned to nod and smile, swallowing her feelings, when other teachers told Solomon that her marriage was a violation, that it broke God’s rules, that it went against their religion and the way they believed the world should be.
Still, some students figured it out: some by looking up her wedding video or her Instagram, which mentioned her wife, and some by catching sight of her phone background, a wedding picture. When students presented her with this proof, Solomon briefly confirmed the marriage, then moved the conversation to other topics.
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On Feb. 2, Solomon handed in her letter of resignation, effective immediately.
The final straw was when her supervisor implied she would face consequences for taking a week’s leave so she could get fertility treatments; she and Hayley were trying to have a baby. But the bigger problem was it no longer felt possible to be lesbian and a teacher in Florida. The years of homophobic comments from her colleagues now seemed enshrined in state law, their message — “you don’t belong here” — triumphant and irresistible.
Nicolette Solomon felt her mother’s words come through the phone and settle, heavy, in her stomach.
It was January, and her mother was talking about a new bill, just proposed in the Florida legislature, that would severely limit how teachers could discuss gender identity and sexual orientation with their students.
She wondered: Could she be herself and stay a teacher in Florida?
--
Although Florida’s law does not take effect until July 1, LGBTQ teachers in Florida felt its impact immediately. In Orlando, a sixth-grade science teacher decided to resign this spring after parents wrote a letter complaining that he had acknowledged his same-sex marriage at school. In Cape Coral, a middle-school art teacher lost her job after admitting her own pansexuality to students.
--
Part of her reticence [about talking about her marriage at school with students] came from the lack of support — veering into open animosity — she had faced from some colleagues ever since her first week on the job. She had long ago learned to nod and smile, swallowing her feelings, when other teachers told Solomon that her marriage was a violation, that it broke God’s rules, that it went against their religion and the way they believed the world should be.
Still, some students figured it out: some by looking up her wedding video or her Instagram, which mentioned her wife, and some by catching sight of her phone background, a wedding picture. When students presented her with this proof, Solomon briefly confirmed the marriage, then moved the conversation to other topics.
--
On Feb. 2, Solomon handed in her letter of resignation, effective immediately.
The final straw was when her supervisor implied she would face consequences for taking a week’s leave so she could get fertility treatments; she and Hayley were trying to have a baby. But the bigger problem was it no longer felt possible to be lesbian and a teacher in Florida. The years of homophobic comments from her colleagues now seemed enshrined in state law, their message — “you don’t belong here” — triumphant and irresistible.