“Poor Father. He’s doing the work of three men and sleeping like half of one. And I’m barely keeping up myself—five hours a day at the high school, then evening school until nearly ten, and piles of papers after that. Then grading. Always grading. But I love it. I do. There’s a kind of satisfaction in being exhausted for something that matters.
This town doesn’t make it easy though. Especially now. Father’s finally found proof—real, scientific, undeniable proof— The water isn’t safe. It’s not some theory. He has the numbers, the samples, the science. and instead of celebrating him, they’re circling like dogs. Uncle Peter says it’ll ruin the resort. Says we’ll lose our funding. Says we have to think long term. He means tax revenue. He means smiling investors and shiny newsletters. He doesn’t mean children. All because it might mess up their pretty brochures and luxury wellness packages.
I’d like to see Uncle Peter try to bury this. He wants to smooth it over, tell people it’s a misunderstanding, blame it on testing errors. He’ll do anything to protect his little empire of weak minds and backroom deals. If I thought it would help, I’d march down to his office and dare him to arrest me. I’d say, “You want to silence your own niece? Fine. But don’t expect me to call you family after that.”
I don’t understand my mother sometimes. She says we have to be careful, that Father has a responsibility to us, to survival. She says keep quiet. Think about survival. I guess I don’t blame her. She remembers what it’s like to be broke, truly broke, not theatrical broke. But what good is survival in a place where you have to lie to stay employed? To be liked? I thought she believed in him like I do.
The worst part? I teach kids who are already getting sick. I see them every day. Coughing, scratching, zoning out in class. Some days I swear I can smell the chemicals on their clothes. Kids who drink from the fountains and play down by the creek and come back with rashes and breathing problems. And I think—what happens when they can’t concentrate? What happens when their little bodies absorb just enough poison to keep them behind forever? There’s a boy in my first period named Logan. He told me, “My mom says the water tastes like metal, but we boil it so it’s probably okay.” And then he asked me if lead makes your teeth fall out. He’s seven.
People always say children are our future, but if that’s true, why are we always asking them to carry the weight of our bad decisions?
I heard a teacher once say—during the hearings in Flint—“We can’t teach kids who are too sick to learn. We’re testing poisoned children and calling them failures.”
And another woman, from Louisiana, she said, “We don’t need another science lab, we need clean air and a nurse that doesn’t only come once a week.”
That stuck with me. Because we fight for books and pencils and Wi-Fi—but none of that means anything if the kids are too tired or too sick or too scared to use them.
And the press—don’t even get me started. One day they’re quoting Dad like he’s the second coming of Louis Pasteur, and the next they’re publishing Uncle Peter’s version like it’s gospel truth. They say it’s about balance. But what kind of balance gives more ink to spin than to science? they’re just stoking outrage to sell more headlines. They’ll make a martyr of my father if it moves copies—and then forget about him when the next scandal breaks.
And yet… that money from the Springs could build us a new wing. Could restock the library. Could mean full-time staff, functioning heat, a roof that doesn’t leak. I can’t pretend that doesn’t matter. I’ve taught long enough to know that a healthy mind still needs a healthy place to grow. I want better for them. I want books and clean desks and teachers who stay. I want school boards with money to spend and a reason to stay in this town.
But I know what pays for that. The resort. The taxes. The investments. The same money that comes with strings tied to silence.
I believe in Father. I want to fight. I want to stand up in front of every classroom and say, “You can speak the truth and survive.” I want to believe we can stay. That the truth will win out. That doing what’s right doesn’t mean burning it all down. But sometimes I wonder if I’m just being naive. If I’m standing in front of a wildfire holding a watering can and calling it justice.
Maybe this town isn’t ready for him. Maybe they’re not ready for me either. But we’re here. And we’re not going away.
