About the author: After the events described in this article, Deanna Alexich took a part-time teaching position with the Butte County Office of Education. She lives in Chico with her family. This is her first contribution to the CN&R. Advertisement



Last fall, during my second year as an English language arts and creative writing teacher at a public charter school for the arts in a nearby town, one of my students came by the classroom after school to get the assignment she had missed that morning.

As I was explaining it to her, a parent walked into my room and took a seat.

“Are you looking for someone?” I asked.

He seemed casual, bobbing his head back and forth, absorbing the student wall art depicting various renditions of the main character in the Native American novel we had just read. “I’m just checking up on my daughter’s grades … I can wait,” he said.

I couldn’t place him. “What grade is she in, sir?”

“Seventh.”

I was relieved: “Oh, I see. I teach ninth- and 11th-grade English. The seventh-grade teacher you’re looking for is in the middle of rehearsals for the fall play. You’ll need to sign into the office and walk to the theater—”

He stopped me mid-sentence. “Well, no. I don’t sign in.

“But I do have a question fer you,” he said, stepping uncomfortably close and speaking with a threatening tone. He motioned to a poster on the wall near my desk. It was for the documentary film The Times of Harvey Milk and featured a picture of the famous gay San Francisco politician.

“I wanna know … why you have that … pervert hanging on the wall.”

For once in my life I was not primed for a quick retort. “I’m not going to answer that question,” I stated flatly.

His head snapped back. “Well, why not?”

I began to gather fragments of courage. “Because the question is offensive, and so are you.”

He went into a tailspin. “I fought for this country, and don’t want no pervert on the wall …”

Seeing his agitation escalating, I asked him to leave my classroom.

He kept ranting while I interjected with more force: “You need to leave my class now!”

This continued for some time. I sent my student out to alert a more imposing authority figure.

Finally, the parent left my room, still ranting, his voice echoing in the corridor.

For the next few hours the man remained on campus, talking with the principal during much of that time. The security guard checked on me several times, and the principal managed to wiggle out of his office to see how I was doing as well.

In the meantime, I had to use the bathroom and didn’t feel safe going by myself. The school security guard walked me over. I thought about levels of safety and how gay students maneuver and tolerate much worse than what I had just experienced.

I decided to call the police and have the man written up for harassment. I felt I needed to document the incident.

The police came and took my report; the parent was questioned and told he must always sign in at the main office. I remained in my classroom, looking out my window, until 5:45 p.m.

Finally the police left, but by this time the parent had convened a posse of two or three other parents. They were standing by the far building directly facing my classroom. I alerted our security guard, and he kindly walked me to my car. I drove off and in my rearview mirror saw the group disperse and get into their cars. Now they know what kind of car I drive, I thought.

After teaching for 14 years in three different states, in 2002 I returned to Northern California. It was here that I encountered my biggest challenge as an educator: teaching diversity issues in the secondary classroom.

In several counties, I discovered that multicultural literature and teaching about diversity were relegated to specific days or months when different ethnic groups were to be celebrated.

Since returning to the North State, I had wanted to find a school culture where differences would be celebrated as a part of the daily curriculum. In 2006, I decided to pursue graduate studies in education with an emphasis on linguistically and culturally diverse learners.

Diversity was a popular concept in education and had even been added to accreditation standards. The National Council for Accreditation of Teacher Education defines it as “differences among groups of people and individuals based on ethnicity, race, socioeconomic status, gender, exceptionalities, language, religion, sexual orientation and geographical area.”

Of those groups, the only one I had never seen discussed as part of a curriculum in any of the three states where I had taught was sexual orientation. The only time gay issues surfaced in my classes was in the context of accusations and insults.

This poster, hung on the wall near the author’s desk, sparked a confrontation with an angry parent.



In my experience, students who dared to come out of the closet were often targeted, and in many cases the bullying resulted in self-inflicted abuse or dropping out of school completely. To me, this was an underserved student community, and I wanted to focus my thesis project on discussing LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer) issues in public education.

In 2008 I completed my master’s thesis and curriculum project, “Opening Doors for LGBTQ Students in Public Education,” only to realize that the hurdles overwhelm the topic.

My experience teaching to diversity and my thesis focus were specifically noted on my résumé. The principal of the charter, who was also its cofounder, considered them assets. In fact, it was he who got me started as an advocate for LGBTQ youth.

During the spring semester of my first year at the charter, he brought a woman to my classroom after school whom he introduced as the parent of a seventh-grade student. He explained that she was interested in starting a Gay-Straight Alliance (GSA) at the charter. He told her I was the perfect teacher to act as the club’s adviser.

The parent, who said she was a lesbian in a same-sex marriage and was no stranger to harassment in the community, explained that she wanted her daughter to have support at school. I looked at the principal; he nodded his approval, and I agreed to the request.

One of our very “out” students at the charter was elected president of the club, and we set a goal to write the GSA constitution over the summer and begin meetings in the fall.

My principal retired after that first year, however, and another man took his place. I see now what may have been an asset to one administrator who was well-respected and ready for retirement may have posed a threat to an inexperienced administrator serving his first year as a principal.

Unfortunately for me, this was the year when I was up for tenure.