education reform

🖤 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.

This Was Never Supposed To Be A Blog

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I didn’t set out to start a blog.
I didn’t even set out to “be a writer.”
I just needed a place to survive.

For most of the past year, I was holding myself together with painting, poetry, long walks, and a lot of hope I wasn’t sure I even believed in.
Healing was slow and messy.
It still is.

Then about a month ago, something cracked open in me.
Kind of like that scene in Forrest Gump — he just starts running one day and doesn’t stop.
That’s what happened to me.
Except instead of running across America, I started writing.
And I couldn’t stop.

I started writing memoirs about my life — the real, raw parts of growing up autistic and neurodivergent and not knowing it.
I started writing fictional stories where the main characters were like me — neurodivergent women who didn’t have to apologize for being different.

At first, I wasn’t thinking about anyone else reading it.
I wasn’t trying to be brave.
I was trying to stay alive.

Most of what I’ve written still isn’t on this blog.
It lives in notebooks, Word docs, saved drafts.
It lives inside of me.

But somewhere along the way — after sharing bits and pieces with my family and a few close friends — my mom looked at me and said, “I think you should share this. It’s important.”

And for once, I believed her.

Because here’s what I’ve realized:
People are going to judge me and misunderstand me no matter what.
Especially because I’m neurodivergent.
Especially because I move through the world differently.

For most of my life, I thought if I just stayed small enough, quiet enough, “normal” enough, I could avoid that pain.
Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.
They judged me anyway.
They misunderstood me anyway.
And I just stayed silent and let it eat me alive from the inside.

I’m not doing that anymore.

This blog is me taking my voice back.
It’s me standing up and saying:
If you’re going to misunderstand me, fine — but it won’t be because I hid.
It won’t be because I stayed silent.
It won’t be because I let fear win.

Sharing my writing started as an act of survival.
Now it’s also an act of rebellion.
It’s an act of love — for myself, for my community, for anyone who’s ever been made to feel like their voice doesn’t matter.

The beautiful part?
The surprise I didn’t even see coming?
My words have actually helped people.
They’ve made people feel seen.
They’ve made people cry, and laugh, and think.
And that’s all I’ve ever wanted:
To make the world a little softer.
A little freer.
A little more human.

I also realized I can’t just tell my story without telling the bigger story too.
Neurodiversity matters.
Representation matters.
Advocacy matters.

Most people don’t even know what “neurodivergent” means.
Most people have a cartoon version of autism or ADHD in their heads that hurts real people every single day.
And I’m tired of being silent about that too.

This blog is my small way of pushing back against a world that doesn’t want to listen —
and creating a new space where maybe, just maybe, someone will.

It’s also about education.
It’s about fighting for teachers, students, and schools that are being crushed under systems that don’t care about them.
I left teaching as a career because it was killing me — but I didn’t leave it as a passion.
And now that I’m standing on the outside, breathing again, I feel like it’s my responsibility to use whatever strength I have left to fight for the people still inside.

Education is a human right.
Neurodivergent people deserve to be understood, not “fixed.”
Mental health isn’t optional.
Workers deserve better than barely surviving in broken systems.
Women deserve autonomy over their bodies and their lives.
We all deserve better.

This blog isn’t big.
It’s not loud.
But it’s mine.
And it’s honest.
And it’s full of heart.

If it helps even one person feel seen —
if it plants even one seed for change —
then it’s worth it.

Thank you for being here.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for listening.

I’m just getting started. 💛

👉 If you’re new here, feel free to explore my essays, reflections, and stories. I’m so grateful you’re here. 🌼

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.