I taught religious studies and French at St. Ignatius for almost four years, and was initially excited to work there because I adored its humanistic, Catholic tradition of education, and I heard it offered an open-minded environment. While this may have been true in the past, around the time I joined the faculty current leadership began introducing a brand of traditionalist Catholicism to the school that didn’t leave room for people like me, and this trend only intensified.

To provide some context, Ignatius had no anti-discrimination policy for workers covering sexual orientation. Ironically, one of the few other LGBT employees assured me that non-discrimination was the school’s unspoken policy, and might even be made official (to this day, there is still no such policy). In addition, observance of the Day of Silence, a nationwide school movement to oppose LGBT bullying, was always scrubbed of any LGBT references. Perversely, a day devoted to opposing LGBT silence became a tool to reinforce it. In time, I even learned there was a sort of student LGBT support group, but it was not allowed to be publicized or openly discussed.

Speakers invited to the school also set a particular tone. In 2014, administrators welcomed James Meeks to address the school on “Catholic education,” despite Meeks being a Baptist minister and a notoriously virulent anti-gay crusader. Students were full of questions. So was I.

Similarly, within weeks of my termination, administrators invited alt-right personality Jason Jones to address the entire school. Jones cracked offensive jokes, and asked the girls to stand and publicly pledge never to have an abortion. I learned that some female teachers felt compelled to stand at this point, for fear of their jobs. This offensive invitation even led outraged students to draft a petition demanding change.

“He’ll Never Bring It Up”

As previously reported, an Ignatius senior lied about his age in Spring 2016 to gain access to the popular dating site OkCupid, where he came across my profile and learned that I was gay. My profile did not contain my name or the school’s name, and it could not be found via search engine. My photos were unremarkable; I was shirtless in one. This student took screenshots of my photos and sent them to many other seniors in a group chat, outing me to the student body. The group understood that institutional homophobia gave them power over me. One wrote, “He’ll never bring up the fact that he’s on there you’re safe.” Another responded, “idc [I don’t care] what is he gonna do [?]” I felt sick to my stomach for the rest of the day, and for many days to come. The fear I could lose my job under the current Administration was intense.

Despite the initial support and empathy of some administrators, the principal said the students were basically just “kids being kids,” and blamed me for having a dating profile. She didn’t articulate what was “wrong” with me having a profile, and she ignored the numerous straight teachers who used OkCupid and other dating sites. After she had conversations with the president and vice president of development, I understood the Administration just wanted things to die down and go away. She said the Administration would not be punishing the students, all of whom came from affluent families. In her attempt to get me to agree with her approach, she asked me to reflect on the message of the Year of Mercy and the sacrament of Reconciliation. I reminded her that the forgiveness of Reconciliation requires penance and a firm commitment to amend one’s ways. I also predicted that letting these students off the hook would lead to more harassment.

Realizing the student harassment was being turned against me, I asked if anything would be placed in my personnel file. The principal assured me nothing would be.

“I Have Screenshots That Could End You”

Several weeks later, I asked one of my sophomores to get back to work and be respectful in class. Other students notified me of a Twitter thread he then directed at me: “honestly hope you pull me aside after class because I will tell you exactly what kind of lowly vermin excuse for a teacher you really are,” he wrote, and “like try me I dare you. I’m just sitting here, relaxing, bitch.” He threatened to discuss my sexual orientation online and get me fired by making an explicit threat: “And let’s not forget I have screenshots that could end you [kissy-face emoji].” He then posted the shirtless picture of me that could only have been taken from OkCupid, which garnered the “likes” of other students in my class. His post was a public threat of blackmail: he was willing to use my profile and the fact that I was gay to end my career.

I sent the screed to the principal via e-mail, along with a report of harassment, before going to see her. I said that not punishing the first round of senior students had created an environment of impunity. The principal disagreed. Unbelievably, she said I couldn’t even be sure the post was about me. Of course it was, I said. The student wrote “you” numerous times, addressed a teacher, and included my photo at the end. The principal reluctantly conceded my point.

She then said I couldn’t assume the photo of me that the sophomore posted on Twitter was tied to the seniors who first spread my pictures because sophomores don’t talk to seniors. I bypassed this bizarre statement and identified several infractions the student had committed, any one of which warranted expulsion according to the Student Handbook. The principal said those consequences were merely “guidelines.”

The principal gave the tweeting student a mere a slap on the wrist. Meanwhile, I continued to suffer through anxiety and depressive spells. Soon after, students began making not-so-veiled references in class to the tweets and my profile, with some even incorporating them into group projects and presentations. I returned to the principal one last time. I asked to partner with her in crafting policies that would help prevent teachers from being mistreated in the future. She was noncommittal. When I said I believed a lack of earlier consequences led to increasing disrespect, she claimed I was blaming her for all that had happened, positioning me as the aggressor and her the victim. I felt gaslighted at every turn.

From that point forward, she would only say “hello” to me. For my part, I avoided her as much as possible, afraid she would use anything she could to get rid of me. I knew how easy it was to become one of “The Disappeared” — the darkly comical name many faculty gave to those teachers and staff who were fired or forced out, and never heard from again.

At the end of the year I checked my personnel file. As should have been expected, there was nothing negative or critical. My various performance reviews were included, all of which were overwhelmingly positive.

Cura personalis

Some harassment continued at the beginning of the 2016–17 school year, including a student shouting “fruit!” from the back of one of my classes, to snickers and smirks. Nonetheless, things were generally calmer. Then, in February, the school received abrupt news that a beloved teacher of 26 years — also a gay man — had just been fired without explanation, becoming the latest member of The Disappeared.

Soon after, I had class with a small group of seniors who arrived at class distraught over the sudden loss of their teacher, pleading to process the sorrow and frustration they were feeling. I resisted at first, but then realized that sometimes a teacher has to set aside lesson plans for a moment and listen to students, especially in the spirit of cura personalis, a Jesuit concept meaning care for students as whole, integrated persons. I allowed them to process as long as they didn’t discuss the details of the teacher’s firing or engage in gossip.

My students felt the Administration was not transparent and did not adequately listen to them, and that adults who did listen seemed to disappear. At one point, a student asked to make a comment, which I allowed. Without naming anyone, she said she knew a male student had sexually assaulted a female student off campus. I was stunned. I asked if she had reported the incident. She replied that she was bringing up the issue because a group of students had reported it to the Administration, but they felt nothing had been done in response. I said I couldn’t believe the Administration would do nothing, and that students should be able to feel comfortable sharing their concerns with administrators. I reminded them the Administration had been responsive to the concerns raised by students of color the previous year. I never thought a student would share such a story in class, but it revealed to me just how much students felt there was a culture of secrecy and taboo at the school, leading their concerns to bubble up in unexpected places.

My students emphasized that sexual assault was a critical issue in their lives, but one rarely discussed at school. As college was just around the corner for them, we discussed the high incidence of sexual assault on college campuses, and proposed concrete strategies for preventing it. We then reflected upon how our Ignatius school community might respond to the problem of sexual assault in a meaningful way.

These students were the most focused and engaged I had ever seen them as they brainstormed how to stand up for one another. That is precisely what a Jesuit education is all about: utilizing one’s intellect in the service of others. Several of those students have since thanked me for turning an awkward topic into a teaching moment, and for truly listening to them. I am proud of how we as a class handled that unexpected situation.

An Impossible Decision

I relayed the sexual assault report to the principal’s office after class. A while later, the principal pulled me from class into a room of administrators, one taking detailed notes. I asked to have an additional administrator of my choosing present, which was begrudgingly allowed. The principal instantly peppered me with several accusatory, leading questions. It seemed she was on a fishing expedition, but she came up empty. Before releasing me, she said the school had already addressed the assault report. She then informed me that she would be questioning some of my students to check my story.

A few days later, the principal told me my contract would not be renewed for the following year. She said that while I had been a “good teacher” and was slated to receive tenure, “we,” which I understood to mean she and the president, felt that I simply didn’t “fit with the mission.” Despite telling me a year prior that nothing would be in my file about being outed and harassed for being gay, the first justification she gave for dismissing me was that I had “showed poor judgment” by having a dating profile.

The principal then acknowledged my “good judgment” in quickly reporting the assault, but her second reason for not renewing my contract was that I had “allowed the discussion to go on at all.” She said I should have immediately shut down the student’s report and told her to speak with me after class. Not only did it happen very fast, but silencing a student attempting to report a sexual assault, just after students complained of not being taken seriously by adults at the school, did not seem prudent. I, too, wish the story had not been shared in class, but not even the best teachers can predict what will come out of a student’s mouth. Good teachers do know, however, how to turn an unexpected situation into an opportunity for growth and genuine learning.

The principal also said that I was “negative” and “undermined authority.” When I asked for a single example of such behavior, she replied, “I don’t have to give you examples, Matt.”

I then asked the principal what my students she had interrogated said, and she had to admit they confirmed my account. In fact, they said I handled the situation with care and that I clearly supported the Administration, telling the class they should always feel they can trust their administrators — just the opposite of negativity or undermining authority.

At this point I said I thought I was being dismissed for being gay — a point the principal neither confirmed nor denied. I then gave a retrospective of my relationship with the principal, explaining how positively it had begun and how excited I was to come work for her. But when I said the Administration became hostile after I reported harassment, she abruptly cut me off.

While this entire experience was traumatizing, one element has particularly haunted me. The principal claimed not to renew my contract in part because of how a sexual assault report was shared with me. I, and my students, had already testified that the student’s report was wholly unexpected and unsolicited. It seemed that I was being blamed because the way in which the report was shared with me was inconvenient for the Administration. I felt that as a teacher, I had been faced with an impossible decision: report the assault and lose my job, or hold onto my job by keeping silent. I feared a dangerous precedent was being set.

The principal told me I had two options: I could finish the year, or I could resign. Resigning would have relieved the school of most, if not all, legal liability. I said I would continue serving my students. As if to confirm the concerns of my students over a culture of silence at the school, the principal forbade me to share anything with them about being disciplined or dismissed. I was to face my classes each day as a dead man walking.

Too Close to the Truth

I suspected this was all an elaborate ruse to conceal that I was being fired because my sexual orientation had become public knowledge — a common reason Catholic schools fire LGBT workers — and because the school knew it did not adequately address the anti-gay harassment I had reported. I felt that administrators were piling on accusations to make it appear my dismissal was somehow justified. Everything was happening so fast and with so little explanation, my head was spinning.

The following Friday, I went to speak with a trusted administrator out of desperation, and learned that before the principal had any knowledge of the report shared in my class, she had already informed administrators that she was not going to renew my contract, solely because of my online dating profile. I felt things had just become much clearer.

The principal and vice president of mission called me that Sunday to say I was being terminated, effective immediately. After first trying to get me to guess why I was being fired, the principal said I had been “insubordinate” by seeking clarification on my dismissal from a superior — indeed, just the opposite of insubordination. She also gave another reason: I mentioned considering legal action. Firing me for contemplating a legal response to discrimination revealed just how retaliatory my termination truly was.

I asked why she hadn’t followed our explicitly-stated policy of “progressive discipline” for employees, which the Administration had elaborately rolled out a year or so prior. This took her aback. After fumbling for words, she said the Administration just didn’t feel that was the course they wanted to take. I requested that she send me a written report outlining all the charges against me. She simply responded, “Matt, there is no written report.”

I requested my personnel file be sent to me. Even then, after being fired, there was nothing negative whatsoever in my file, no trace of any of the charges the Administration had used to so easily discard me.

I was also sent a non-disclosure agreement. If I didn’t sign it, my salary would be immediately cut off and I would receive no job recommendations, likely shutting me out of future work in Catholic schools. If I did sign it, I could receive a “neutral” job recommendation and the rest of my year’s salary, but only in exchange for remaining silent in perpetuity and foregoing any legal action. If I broke silence after signing, I could be fined $10,000 for each individual infraction. It appeared the school wanted to buy my silence. Unfortunately for them, my integrity was not for sale.

Excerpt from the non-disclosure agreement:

Revealing Responses

After my story was released, the principal sent an e-mail to faculty. She wrote, “I can assure you [Mr. Tedeschi] was treated fairly at all times by the Administration of the School, and we wish him all the best in his future career.”

The president and principal also sent a letter home to parents that was posted to Ignatius’ website. They wrote, “Our school handbook states: Saint Ignatius strives to provide a supportive environment where all students and faculty are respected on the basis of personal characteristics that include ethnicity, socioeconomic status, physical ability, sexual orientation and gender.” There was just one problem: the quotation was altered. An almost identical sentence is found in the Student Handbook, but it only mentions students and only applies to students. That original sentence lacks the words “and faculty,” which were simply added into the letter to make the Handbook appear more inclusive than it is. The administrators closed by avowing, “As a Catholic community we remain committed to respecting the dignity of each human being.”

Letter from the president and principal to parents, as it appeared on the Ignatius website: