The Investigation: The Truth Shall Set You Free

Being accused of something in real life is terrifying. Usually, if you're accused of something in real life, it's something that will take a lot of evidence to convict you. However, in order to be convicted, you usually have to stand trial, and in order to even go to trial, there has to be enough evidence to support the case.

It's really not any different in a public school system, which for a lot of students, is nothing like real life.

An accusation can damage a teacher's reputation for the rest of their career, even if the accusations aren't even credible. I can think of three colleagues off the top of my head who have resigned from their careers simply because of accusations, which usually turned out to be so outlandishly false, that it almost made the situation laughable. But it isn't laughable.

On July 22, 2009, I got a phone call from my administrator, asking me to come in to school and talk to him. So I went.

My dad had died only 5 months earlier. If you've ever gone through the grieving process, or you've read this blog, Month 5 was hard. It was the month where I was resenting my brothers for not living closer and being able to be there for my mom. Month 5 was the month that I was grieving the loss of my dad so heavily, my marriage was rocky, my eyes were constantly swollen from crying, and I was beginning to think there wasn't any way off the bottom of this murky pool of tears.

So I went to school as soon as I could and spoke with my administrator. He told me the version he had heard of the Target incident (he was sorry, he said), asked me for my version, asked me a few questions, I replied to them the best I could, and then proceeded to fold his hands together and lean forward at his desk.

"Laura, these accusations are either so crazy, they're true, or so crazy, they're not true. The school district will be launching an investigation to figure that out."

The word "launch," by definition, means to "send forth, catapult, or release, as a self-propelled vehicle or weapon." The word "launch" catapulted me into a panic attack, right there in my administrators office.

I was told I would be questioned by the associate superintendent a week from that day. I was to wait, 7 days, suspended in a constant state of anxiety. It was like that moment had "launched" me into suspended animation.

Day 1: hysteria. getting my facts straight. reviewing documentation
Day 2: calmer. reviewing documentation. taking moments for myself.
Day 3: back to hysteria. crying. reviewing documentation.
Day 4: complete calm washed over me and my life moved faster than it had days 1, 2, and 3.
Day 5: hysteria. crying. more hysterics.
Day 6: complete panic. reviewing documentation. fight with Eric.

Day 7 came, and I dressed in what I thought was one of my more professional looking outfits. Pointed-toe, black high heels, black dress pants, teal sweater, black long necklace, matching black earings. I wonder if my subconscious thought I was, instead, headed to a funeral.

I met my union representative outside the district office. She told me to keep my answers short, but honest.
In all, there were 27 questions. Questions about whether or not I would make gay jokes in class (no). Did I threaten this student in any way (no). Did I ever tell her she wasn't good enough (no). Did I do this, that, the other things during class, after class, out in the hall, during lunch (no).

At the end, the associate superintendent asked me, "Is there anything you want to say?" Yes.

Did you know she had sat outside my house at night? Did you know she had said things to people who had come into my classroom to observe me? Derogatory, hurtful, leading things that would make those individuals believe I might actually be a bad person? Did you know she wrote me letters, telling me what a horrible person I was? Did you know that I can't even go into Target anymore because she works there? Did you know she has said things to other students, who have then told me what's going on? AND I CAN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THIS! Did you know she doesn't try in class, but that I'm forced to give her an A anyway because God forbid this leads to anything about discrimination? Did you know I've asked the administration to remove her from my classroom and they didn't for an entire year?! Did you know my administration have made jokes about this to my face? Did you know my administration TOLD ME they were going to remove her from my class, tell her and her parents, and when I double checked with them later that day, they told me IT HAD BEEN DONE? DID YOU KNOW THAT THEY ACTUALLY DIDN'T DO THAT??? That's why I'm here. THAT'S WHY THIS IS HAPPENING. 

But I didn't say anything like that. Instead, I said, "I haven't done anything wrong."

I cried when I got out to the car. I came home and cried some more. I was exhausted. I was thoroughly, and completely, exhausted. And then it was done. Just as slowly as my life had suspended itself in those 7 days, it all of a sudden caught up to that moment in time, sitting in my driveway, with my head against my steering wheel, crying.

And just like that, it was done. Again. Or so I thought.

13 Months!

It was so easy to document things as you went before you were 1. First tooth on this date, first genuine smile on this date. I thought walking was going to be {insert date here} and tadaa, you were officially walking.

That is not the case for this first-time mommy.

You took a few steps here and there before your first birthday. You were probably about 11 1/2 months old. But it was only a few steps. Some steps to dad, some steps away from the couch after you pulled yourself up. Walking all the way across the room pushing Mr. Lion in front of you.

I thought for sure you were going to "take off." That was not the case. Then your first birthday rolled around - more standing on your own, a few more steps. Reports from the babysitter said you were walking more and more each day. We did not see that at home - why? Because I believe in a firm difference between "walking" and "taking steps." To me, your mommy, you were still just taking steps.

And then it was more and more bravery. All of a sudden, you were taking steps across your room, which amounted to about 10, uneasy, mostly-forward steps. So does that constitute walking? I am a black and white, draw the line type of gal. This was a hard one for me!

Just recently, you've started taking even more steps - more measured, more careful, more consistent steps. But does that mean you're walking?

Now that it's reached more of a consistency, yes, I guess you could say you are walking. And then it was like someone knocked me over with a feather.

You're walking. Holy crap! Where did my projectile-pooping, hiccuping baby boy go? The one I swaddled and we let sleep on the ottoman for his naps. All of a sudden, you're able to ask for your "mom mom mom" and your "dada." Now you can say "achoo!" when I sneeze (which is adorable!) which you have been saying for ages and came out like "hets." Until one day I actually sneezed, and you said it, clear as day. You can say "hi dada" and "papa." Those b's are hard to come by, so we're working on "ball." You're getting there with "baba" but no singular "ba" so this black-and-white mama isn't buying it. We'll get there, though.

You love the outdoors. So much so that when we get home, you go right for the sliding glass door. So much so that you will stand against the front door and try with all your might to get the handle to come down just far enough to open it. And again, knock me over with a feather - you know how doors work.

You know that if you yank down hard enough on the toilet handle, you can flush the toilet, which is hilarious to watch because as soon as I am in the bathroom upstairs, you are right there, ready to flush it for me.

You can feed yourself, and well. You have figured out what you like, and what you don't like. You can hit. As in, tonight you slapped me across the face, which then led you to discover "time out."

You are down to one nap a day, which makes for one tired mommy. BUT, it's a good nap, and you're always in such a great mood after you wake up - both in the mornings and the afternoons.

You don't suck your thumb or need a pacifier - THANK GOD. I remember once watching a four-year-old cry for her "paci." Ugh. We can hold conversations with each other. I love "talking" with you, which includes a lot of grown-up words on my end, and a lot of babble on yours. But it works.

You sleep like the dead. You sleep through your dad's nail gun, you sleep through thunderstorms, and you sleep through just about anything that might be happening outside your bedroom window. You love sleep.

Tonight, in one of your crabby crying stages of the evening, I tried to put you in my lap and rock you. And you're too big. That about broke my heart - my little man is truly turning into my little man. A walking, talking, smiling, laughing, silly little man.

I love being a "mom mom mom."