Teacher Voices

🖤 Why Juneteenth Matters—And Why Freedom Still Isn’t Real for Everyone

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By: Kayla Warner

Yesterday was Juneteenth. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think enough people understand what that really means—or why it’s so important.

Some people still roll their eyes at it. You can feel it in the way they say, “another holiday,” or the way they go about their day like it’s just a long weekend, not a reckoning. I think some white people still don’t know what Juneteenth is, and others don’t want to admit what it represents: the truth that Black Americans weren’t truly free on July 4th, 1776.

Juneteenth, June 19th, marks the day in 1865 when Union troops finally arrived in Galveston, Texas and enforced the Emancipation Proclamation—two and a half years after it was signed. It’s that day—not the Fourth of July—that marked real liberation for enslaved Black people in the U.S. And yet, I want to say this as clearly and respectfully as I can:

Freedom hasn’t fully arrived.

The Prison System is Slavery in Disguise

There’s a line in the 13th Amendment that haunts me. You know, the amendment that’s supposed to have ended slavery in this country? It goes like this:

“Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime, shall exist within the United States…”

That exception clause created the legal foundation for mass incarceration. It didn’t end slavery—it rebranded it.

Right now, Black Americans make up about 13% of the U.S. population, but account for nearly 38% of the prison population. Latinx people make up about 19% of the population, but about 30% of federal prisoners. White Americans make up about 58% of the general population, but less than 30% of those incarcerated.

These numbers aren’t random. They’re the outcome of centuries of policies designed to criminalize poverty, mental illness, addiction, protest, and Blackness itself.

Today at Work, I Read Something That Gutted Me

I work in a law office, and today I read the presentence investigation report for a woman. A Black woman. The kind of file that’s supposed to summarize a person’s life in neat little checkboxes and paragraphs.

It told the story of someone who’s been struggling with serious mental health problems since childhood. Abuse, trauma, poverty, loss—page after page of suffering. She isn’t a threat. She isn’t dangerous. She’s unwell. She needs help. But instead, she’s being sentenced. Locked away. Put in a system where healing is almost impossible.

And we’re paying for that with our tax dollars. The United States spends more than $80 billion each year on incarceration—while so many people can’t access basic therapy, affordable housing, or care.

I Used to Be a Teacher. I Saw the Pipeline.

Before this job, I was a teacher at Warrington Elementary—a public school in Florida where most of the students and families are Black and living in poverty. I still carry so much love for those kids. But I also carry rage.

Because I saw firsthand how our education system prepares Black children for prison.

How? By focusing obsessively on standardized tests that are biased and dehumanizing. By threatening schools with closure if scores don’t improve. By labeling six-year-olds “disruptive” instead of asking what’s wrong or what they’ve been through. By suspending kids for behaviors that are often trauma responses. By not hiring enough counselors. By sending more cops into schools than therapists.

I remember feeling like I was working in a building that wasn’t built for our kids to thrive—it was built to sort them. And that sorting happens fast.

Black students are nearly four times as likely to be suspended from school as white students.
Students who are suspended are three times more likely to enter the juvenile justice system.

We call it the school-to-prison pipeline for a reason.

Juneteenth is a Celebration—And a Call to Action

I’m glad Juneteenth is now a federal holiday. I’m glad we honor it. But celebration without reflection is empty.

We can’t just clap for freedom while ignoring how unfree so many people still are.

If you’re white like me, this isn’t about guilt—it’s about truth. It’s about choosing not to look away. It’s about asking why so many of our systems still fail Black Americans so violently.

It’s about asking why we call people “criminals” instead of asking what happened to them. It’s about wondering what kind of country we could build if we invested in care instead of cages.

A Final Thought

To my white friends reading this: this post isn’t an attack. It’s an invitation.

You don’t have to have all the answers. But you do have to care.

If Juneteenth makes you uncomfortable, ask yourself why. If you’ve never noticed the racial disparities in who gets arrested, incarcerated, suspended, or expelled, maybe now is the time to start paying attention.

Black liberation is not just Black history—it’s American history. And it’s far from over.

📚 Sources and Further Reading

On the Clock Again (But Only When I’m Actually Getting Paid)

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I started working again for the first time since October—this time in a chill, part-time job. And wow, it really puts into perspective just how wrong it is that teachers are expected to work endless unpaid hours.

After eight months of not working, I started a part-time job as a receptionist/assistant at my boyfriend’s office. It’s a gentle return to work—low stress, nice environment, no emotional baggage or kids climbing the walls. Honestly, it’s been a pretty smooth transition considering how brutal burnout had me down bad last fall.

But still… I count the minutes until lunch. (One full hour. Non-negotiable. I made that very clear during my “interview” aka casual couch conversation with my boyfriend.) And I definitely count the minutes until the end of the workday too.

Even though I like working here, I’ve realized how fiercely I now guard my time. Like when my boyfriend tries to bring up work stuff at home and I’m immediately like:

“Circle back when I’m on the clock tomorrow. I’m not salaried. I’m not doing unpaid overtime.”

It’s not personal. It’s about boundaries.

And it’s also about reflection—because when I was a teacher, I didn’t even have a clock to punch.

The Job That Followed Me Home (and Into My Dreams, and My Body, and My Burnout)

As a teacher, I spent thousands of hours working outside my contract. Nights. Weekends. Breaks. Summers. All unpaid. All expected. All “just part of the job.”

I stayed up all night working on lesson plans, behavior systems, bulletin boards, PD assignments, data reports, emails, and IEPs. I’d grocery shop while mentally mapping out small group rotations. I’d scroll Pinterest for anchor chart ideas during dinner. I’d dream in read-aloud voices.

Even thinking about it now makes my stomach turn a little. Not because I didn’t care—but because I cared so much and the system took advantage of it. Because no one talks about how teaching seeps into every corner of your life until there’s nothing left but the job and a shell of yourself holding a stack of ungraded spelling tests.

Now That I’m Not a Teacher, I See It Even Clearer

Working this job—calm, structured, low-stakes—makes me realize just how outrageous the teaching workload really was. The fact that unpaid labor wasn’t just normalized but necessary to be “effective”? That’s exploitation.

And I didn’t just pay with my time. I paid with my health.

Burnout took a wrecking ball to my nervous system. Years later, I’m still rebuilding. Still trying to sleep through the night. Still trying to not flinch when I hear a printer jam.

I Work Now. But Only When I’m Being Paid.

So yeah, I work now. I’m easing back in. I’m contributing. But the second I clock out? I’m done. I’m not discussing spreadsheets over spaghetti. I’m not responding to texts at 8 PM. I’m not doing anything work-related unless I’m actively being paid.

Because I’ve been there.
Because I’ve learned the hard way.
Because my time—and my healing—is worth more than that.

Being a Democrat (But I Might Not Always Be One)By Kayla Sue Warner

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A woman wearing a red Alabama cap and sunglasses, smiling in the Cass County Courthouse, Logansport, IN, with a caption that says 'Time to vote!' and American flags.

Let me be clear: I call myself a Democrat. Right now. That doesn’t mean I always will.

Because honestly? I don’t pledge allegiance to a political party. I pledge allegiance to people. To truth. To what’s good and honest and actually makes life better for all of us. Let me say that again—ALL PEOPLE. Not just the wealthy. Not just straight white men. Not just whoever screams the loudest or fundraises the most. All people.

Right now, the Democratic Party lines up more with my values than the Republican Party does—by a mile. But I’m not a blind loyalist. I believe in calling out the hypocrisy, corruption, or cowardice wherever it shows up. And yes, that includes the left.

A close-up of a wrist wearing a bracelet that spells 'VOTE' with colorful beads, against a background of a green sweater.

The Republican Party Today: A Cult of Trump

Let’s not dance around it. The modern-day GOP has become less of a political party and more of a personality cult. They follow Donald Trump with such blind loyalty it’s terrifying. The man has been indicted on 88 criminal counts [NYT, April 2024], including trying to overturn a democratic election. He was recorded bragging about sexually assaulting women. He mocked a disabled reporter on national television. And somehow, that’s still not a dealbreaker for his base.

Republicans in Congress regularly echo his lies, deny election results, and block legislation that would help real people. They’ve fought against reproductive rights, LGBTQ+ protections, gun reform, climate action, education funding, and fair voting access. In some states, they’re banning books and threatening teachers. It’s giving fascism.

And yet, the GOP base follows. Not because it makes sense. But because it’s about loyalty to the leader, not loyalty to truth.

A man speaks into a microphone at an outdoor event, with a banner behind him that reads 'A New Voice for Florida's First.' Another person stands nearby, and tables are set up in the foreground.

Why I Identify with Democrats (For Now)

Democrats aren’t perfect. Far from it. But they’re the ones generally pushing for:

  • LGBTQ+ equality
  • Reproductive freedom
  • Racial justice
  • Climate action
  • Gun safety laws
  • Expanding health care access (affordable, available, and fair health care for all people)
  • Protecting voting rights (affordable, available, and fair education for all people)
  • Investing in public education
Two children in a classroom setting, one wearing a historical costume with a shimmering gold gown and the other dressed as a historical figure in a blue and white outfit, both posing for the camera.

Those are human rights issues. And I care deeply about them.

That said, the Democratic Party is not immune to criticism. Corporate money still influences too much. Messaging is often weak or out of touch. And at times, they act more interested in being “civil” than being brave. I get frustrated when they don’t fight harder. When they compromise too soon. When they forget who they’re supposed to be fighting for. The party has a long history of letting down marginalized groups too, including how they handled (or didn’t handle) mass incarceration and welfare reform in the 90s.

A group of children playing together on a playground, smiling and enjoying their time outdoors.
Some of the people who I fight for <3

What I Really Am: A Person Who Gives a Shit

At the end of the day, I’m not here for parties. I’m here for people. I want leaders who are honest, principled, and committed to building a more just, compassionate world. If the Republican Party actually did that someday, I’d consider switching. If a new major party emerged and fought for everyone with integrity, I’d be on board.

But let’s be real: we’re stuck in a two-party system. And one of those parties is openly trying to dismantle democracy.

So for now, I vote Democrat. I support policies that uplift communities, protect freedoms, and push for equity. But I will never be a party loyalist. I’ll always be someone who asks, “Is this making the world better for all people?”

Let me repeat that one more time. ALL PEOPLE.

Because I’m an American. I love this country—its people, its messy beauty, its potential. I believe we can do better. But only if we stop worshipping parties and start demanding better from them.

Country first. People first. Always.

A woman wearing a maroon Alabama visor and athletic attire is sipping from an iced drink through a blue straw while seated outside the Cass County Courthouse in Logansport, Indiana.
It should be federally legal and everyone agrees on that!
An elderly woman wearing sunglasses and a red jacket sits at a table outdoors, looking thoughtfully into the distance, with trees and other people in the background.

I Don’t Want to Make It—Just Make Meaning

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Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Six

I never chased a big salary.
My dream job was to be a teacher.

Not because it paid well. Not because it impressed anyone.
But because I thought I could make a difference.

That was the dream.
To show up, to help kids feel seen, to give them the kind of care and structure I knew they deserved.
To build something meaningful, day by day, even if it was exhausting.
Even if it wasn’t glamorous.

I wasn’t trying to “make it.”
I just wanted to make meaning.

But what I didn’t realize is that even meaning has to be system-approved.
Even passion has a breaking point.

Because in the real world, meaning doesn’t pay the bills.
And trying to make a difference inside a broken system is a fast track to burnout.

Because it turns out, loving the kids isn’t enough.
Being passionate isn’t enough.
Wanting to make a difference doesn’t matter if the system is designed to break both the kids and the people trying to help them.

I gave everything I had to teaching.
My time. My creativity. My nervous system.
I stayed late decorating classrooms, writing notes, buying snacks, calling parents, calming meltdowns, sitting with kids through grief and chaos and hunger.
And for what?

For admin walkthroughs that never saw what really mattered.
For PDs that told me to “self-care” my way out of burnout while doubling my caseload.
For salaries that barely covered my bills.
For the constant feeling that I was never doing enough, even when I was doing everything.

I thought I’d feel good making a difference.
But most of the time, I felt like I was drowning.

And even worse, I started to feel like it was my fault.
Like I was too sensitive. Too tired. Too bad at boundaries.
Like maybe if I were stronger, I could survive a system built on scarcity and still keep my softness intact.

But I wasn’t too weak.
The system was too cruel.

So I left.

Not because I stopped caring.
But because I cared too much to keep breaking myself for a job that didn’t care back.

I didn’t leave because I gave up on making a difference.
I left because I finally realized I couldn’t do it like that.

I’m still not sure what comes next.
But I know it’s not going to be about “making it.”

I don’t want a dream job if it costs me my health.
I don’t want a six-figure salary if it means I lose my softness.
I don’t want to keep proving my worth by how much of myself I’m willing to sacrifice.

Now, I just want to make meaning.
Real meaning.
In the quiet, slow, unglamorous ways.

Through the essays I write.
Through the art I make.
Through the conversations where someone feels just a little more seen.
Through healing—not just for me, but for the people I used to burn out trying to save.

It’s not profitable.
It’s not tidy.
It’s not something you can put on a résumé.

But it’s mine.
And it matters.
Even if I never “make it.”
Even if I just make meaning.

📅 April 25, 2020: A Day in the Life (According to My iPhone Memories)

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On April 25, 2020, I didn’t know my phone would save these messages or that they’d still mean so much to me years later. But today they popped up in my photo memories—and I remembered the love, the grief, the trying, the tenderness. These weren’t grand moments. They were just human ones. Small threads in the fabric of that strange, heartbreaking, beautiful time.

1. A Text From My Dad

“When I first saw you I knew I wanted to do my best.”

I cried rereading that. I probably cried when he sent it too. My dad has always been steady, loving, present. I was trying to get back into running then, and he was trying to get healthier. We were both finding motivation in each other.

I said I never wanted to disappoint him.

I still don’t.

Screenshot of a heartfelt text conversation between a person and their dad, expressing love, motivation, and support for getting healthier.

2. A Message From a Student’s Parent

“You’re all she ever talks about.”

This one split my heart wide open when I first read it. That year, I had an incredible group of kids—smart, wild, kind, messy, magical. We were sent home early because of the pandemic, and I never got to say a proper goodbye.

But this message reminded me that the goodbye didn’t erase the impact.

They remembered. I did too.

A screenshot of a text conversation where one person expresses appreciation for a teacher's impact on their child's experience and suggests looping with them to the next grade.

3. A Dream I Was Afraid to Ask For

I had this idea: what if I could loop with my class to 5th grade?

I knew them. I loved them. I believed I could help them in ways that a brand-new teacher might not be able to right away. I wrote out my case in a long green text, half-apologizing for even thinking out loud.

But my assistant principal (a badass motherfuckin’ woman who I deeply admire and respect btw) replied with warmth and support:

“I love that you are thinking outside the box!!”

Maybe I didn’t feel so silly for wanting something bold after all. And soon after texting her about it I went ahead and sent a text and a screenshot to my principal. Anyways, I got to loop with my kids from 4th to 5th grade. One of the hardest but also most beautiful years of my life and I will never forget it.

Screenshot of text message conversation discussing looping with a class, expressing care and support.

4. A Small Offer That Mattered

Even during COVID lockdowns, I was trying to help however I could. One of my student’s family needed hand sanitizer and tissues, and I said yes.

Simple. Small. Kind.

It reminded me that even when the world feels overwhelming, I still have the ability to make someone’s day a little easier.

Screenshot of a text message conversation discussing the need for hand sanitizer and tissues during the COVID-19 pandemic, expressing willingness to help.

April 25, 2020, wasn’t a milestone day. But it was a human one.
A day full of care, connection, hope, and longing.
A day where I was a daughter, a teacher, a friend, a helper.

And I think that’s worth remembering.

Here are some more random photos from around that time. This first one was the last day of school before we never came back because of the covid19 pandemic in 2020. This is a 4th grade student of mine at the time, whom I loved so much, and his little 1st grade sister.

The last day of school waiting fr the buses (because we always had to wait for the damn buses because shortage of bus drivers) before we never returned because of the pandemic in 2020.
A screenshot of a group chat discussing school closures due to COVID-19, featuring messages from multiple participants expressing their thoughts and concerns.
Screenshot
Screenshot of a mobile phone displaying a notification about the Escambia County School District providing supplemental school meals from March 23 to 27, 2020. It lists participating schools and details about meal distribution timing and procedures.
Screenshot
A screenshot of a text chat between a student and a teacher expressing feelings of missing school during the pandemic.

Why Florida Teachers Should Go On Strike (Even Though They Legally Can’t)

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Note from the Author:
This post is not legal advice. It’s a reflection from someone who deeply loves public education and has watched far too many great teachers disappear from Florida classrooms. I’m writing this because silence isn’t working. And maybe—just maybe—it’s time to make some noise.

My 4th grade classroom during a writing lesson in 2020 before the pandemic.

I. The Absurdity of Illegality: You Can’t Strike, But You Also Can’t Stay

In Florida, it’s illegal for public employees—including teachers—to go on strike. If they do, they risk everything: their licenses, their pensions, their jobs, their futures. The state doesn’t just discourage strikes—it threatens to annihilate you for even trying.

And yet, here’s the irony: What is the state going to do? Fire them all?

Florida is already in a full-blown teacher shortage crisis. Walk into almost any public school and you’ll find long-term subs teaching out-of-field, exhausted educators doubling up classes, and students quietly slipping through the cracks. Qualified teachers are vanishing. College graduates are steering clear of education degrees. Veteran teachers are leaving in droves.

So, really—what power does the state even have left to threaten?

You can’t scare someone into silence when they’re already crawling toward the exit.

II. This Isn’t Just About Pay (But Also… the Pay)

Let’s talk money. Florida ranks dead last in average teacher salaries. 50th. Not 49th. Not hovering around average. Fifty. The bottom. The end of the line. The state’s starting pay looks decent on paper, but that’s part of the trick: it’s a flash-in-the-pan bonus to attract new hires while experienced teachers remain underpaid and disrespected.

Meanwhile, the cost of living in cities like Miami, Tampa, and Orlando is skyrocketing. Teachers can’t afford to live in the communities they serve. Many work second jobs. Some donate blood for grocery money. This isn’t hyperbole—it’s the reality.

And yet when teachers advocate for better pay, they’re told to be “grateful” or accused of being political.

III. A Profession Crumbling From the Inside

Florida classrooms have become battlegrounds. Not just because of underfunding and overcrowding, but because of the political environment manufactured to punish teachers.

Educators face laws like the “Don’t Say Gay” bill and the “Stop WOKE Act,” both of which censor curriculum and stifle professional autonomy. Teachers are being told what they can’t say, can’t read, can’t teach—even when those things are rooted in truth, history, and compassion.

Textbooks are being banned. Libraries are being stripped. Teachers are being investigated simply for having inclusive materials or acknowledging systemic racism.

You cannot expect teachers to remain silent when the very soul of education is being gutted.

IV. Union Power Under Attack

Florida’s legislature has gone after unions with a scalpel and a sledgehammer. New laws ban automatic union dues deductions and require unions to maintain higher membership levels to remain certified—moves clearly designed to destroy them.

The attack on the United Teachers of Dade, one of the largest local unions in the country, is just the beginning. This is not about accountability. It’s about control. It’s about fear.

But unions aren’t just bureaucracies—they’re lifelines. They’re the only protection most educators have left. And if that’s taken away too, what other option do teachers have but to walk out?

V. Public Opinion Is On the Side of Teachers

The truth is, people get it. A recent poll found that 72% of Floridians support the right of teachers to strike—even though it’s currently illegal. Why? Because even parents, students, and voters can see that things are falling apart.

Teachers don’t strike to hurt kids. They strike because the system is already hurting them.

Strikes are not abandonment. They are resistance.

VI. What Happens If They Do Strike?

Let’s imagine it. A mass teacher strike in Florida.

What’s the state going to do—fire every single teacher? Lock them all up? Replace them with who? Substitutes are already maxed out. The pipeline is dry. And parents? They’ll flood school board meetings in a rage when classrooms are closed—not at the teachers, but at the state that let things fall this far.

There’s a quiet power in mass refusal.

And when it’s all gone too far—when you’ve exhausted every channel, every plea, every sleepless night—maybe refusing to keep playing the game is the only real move left.

VII. The Point Isn’t Just Protest—It’s Preservation

Florida teachers aren’t asking for luxury. They’re asking for livable wages, classroom autonomy, books on the shelves, respect for their expertise, and the freedom to teach truth.

If striking is illegal, so be it. It was illegal once before, in 1968, and yet thousands of Florida teachers walked out. They changed history. They forced the state’s hand. And they earned what they deserved.

Maybe it’s time again.

Final Words

To Florida teachers: You are not alone. You are not selfish. You are not wrong for wanting more—for your students, your profession, and yourself.

To lawmakers: If you’re afraid of a strike, maybe you should ask yourselves why.

To everyone else: If you love your public schools, stand with the people who make them run. They might be walking out, but it’s only because they’ve been left behind for far too long.