The question that no one asks: Are teachers safe?
Why I Left the Education System
Part I
“Is he a threat to students?” I thought about this hard. I worked at an overpopulated middle school in The Bronx. “No,” I said. I honestly didn’t think so, but I also wanted to add, “but he is a threat to staff.” My principal cut me off before I can say as much. However, in the months following this question, in the many statements I would make, I emphasized the fact that our staff includes a lot of young women, young professionals, and he is a threat to them. No one wrote that down. No one cared about the teachers.
At 28 years old and fresh from the evolving publishing industry, my first teaching job was at a NYC DOE school, MS 337: The School for Inquiry and Social Justice. Within a month of school starting, an History and Special Education Teacher, Garrett Root, began to say and text me sexually charged comments. He said them as if he was talking about what he had for breakfast. I tried to avoid being alone with him, but when the school is the shape of an “I”, it is difficult to not see someone.
In September 2019, Garrett Root falsely imprisoned and attempted to rape me. He had lured me to where he said the staff’s happy hour was supposed to be, but he really led me into a trap. He asked me if it would be okay for him to drop off his backpack at his apartment since it was only a few blocks down from the bar. I agreed and even asked if I could drop off my giant duffle bag full of school papers and rock climbing gear (my partner and I were scheduled to meet up after the happy hour). I thought nothing of it; friends and I went to each other’s apartments all the time, and this was just to drop off some bags.
Inside his apartment, there was a physical altercation in which he tried to choke me with a lanyard, took off my clothes, threw me into a television, kicked me in the ribs multiple times, and wrestled me for the upper hand. I’m a fighter and I eventually overtook him, but I couldn’t leave. I was locked in.
I’m good at bartering. I told him we could forget everything happened if he’d let me go. No. He was adamant. I had to pick one of three things:
- Have sex with him.
- Perform oral sex.
- Watch him masturbate to me.
When I made a beeline for the door, he grabbed me. Another altercation. I had practiced for this since I was a child with an older brother and all male cousins and every morning in ninth and tenth grades with good friends. I know how to spar and wrestle and pick locks. I just needed time to slip a card or a hair pin. Oh wait, all my belongings were outside the door.
I maintained higher ground and ran through possibilities of how to break the lock. I don’t remember how I got out, but I remember falling over the threshold and running out of there with my belongings. I sent my location to my partner; I was ten blocks from his work office. It’s an emergency, I texted.
As a new teacher trying to prove they deserve to be there, I kept silent, except during the many panic attacks I had during the school days. I hid in the closet of my classroom and the staff bathroom. I sobbed for hours every day. My body stopped being able to do my job and its own job, like my mind had already done. About a month proceeding the assault, I showed up to work three hours late because I was stuck in a cycle of sleep paralysis and panic since 3:00 that morning. I had no choice but to tell my administration, Principal Tara Joye and Vice Principal Almoree Hercules.
In less than half an hour, I was called to my principal’s office. Then I was interrogated by seven police officers, hauled into a cop car, and driven to the famous NYC Special Victims Unit.
My students saw me escorted out of the building. I have no idea what went through their minds, but I doubt me being a victim of someone only meters from them crossed their imaginations.
I was tricked by the NYPD and NYC DOE to close my case. After hours upon days of interrogation by administration, the NYC DOE, and NYPD — as if I was the perpetrator — I was so tired. I recounted the events so many times over the course of weeks, during school time, I confused myself and conflated moments I had recalled so clearly earlier. This, according to my therapist, was due to trauma. My brain was protecting me from combusting.
At the SVU, that first day I told my principal and vice principal, I was forced by the detective to make a cold call, which is a really backwards tactic in which the victim calls the perpetrator and act like nothing happened so that police “could gain intel.” I pointed out that it was still school hours, so Garrett would most likely not answer, not to mentioned that everyone knew I was hauled off by seven cops. The detective told me to anyway, so I did. Voicemail. Hang up. I signed the papers in front of me. All of them. I had no idea I threw out my own case. Even when the detective had kept up the ruse past the holidays.
The fallout —
NYPD: Case closed.
NYC DOE: Scrap the evidence.
My school: Don’t believe me. Don’t help me.
Moving forward, Principal Tara Joye and Vice Principal Almoree Hercules did next to nothing to separate Garrett and me. We still had professional developments together and taught the same students. I kept going. I persevered. I deserved to be there. I was strong, wasn’t I?
Yes, but I was deeply traumatized. For the next two years, nearly every night, I saw a demon in my shower: Showerman. Immediately after divulging my story to everyone, panic attacks worsened to full meltdowns. I didn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Flashbacks when I was awake and night terrors when I was asleep. Self-harm became a daily occurrence. My partner tried his best to be there for me, but he couldn’t stop me from completely, uncontrollably spiraling.
In December, I landed in the hospital with an oxygen tank. Pneumonia. I spat up blood during class, didn’t know I was feeling terrible because I always felt terrible, and kept on grading papers before the term ended. The DOE limits your days off when you first sign on, like hazing: you could not take off more than two days in a row. I texted my administration from the hospital. They said they’ll see me tomorrow. My doctor said I needed a week. I said I couldn’t. And I walked out of the hospital and went to work the next day.
My mental health team had been advising me to leave the school, but if I did, I would lose my Transitional B license and not be able to get my Teaching License that May. One more semester. The rest of the school year. If I had known COVID would hit and we’d all be in lockdown, and I’d never have to see Garrett’s ugly face again, I may have stayed. Actually, I really would have stayed.
My last day at MS 337 was Friday, January 3, 2020. I lost my license, got dropped from my teaching program, and had to complete my last semester out of pocket and without certification. Even though I was unemployed, I was safe from Garrett (physically, at least) and I got the break that I needed.
Mr. Garrett Root became the soccer coach.
As much as I grew to love teaching, I promised myself I’d stay away. I told myself my future children would never go to a NYC DOE school because I wouldn’t know if they’d spend most of their time with a predator.
Three years later, I broke one of my promises and reentered the classroom, trauma in the rearview. However, when the same patterns bubbled to the surface, I wasn’t going to be the victim again.
Part II
Uncommon Schools is a charter school system with locations predominantly in Brooklyn and Manhattan and serves underserved Black and Latinx students from middle school to high school. Wow, this is great, right?
That’s what I thought when I applied to be an English Teacher at Uncommon Preparatory Charter High School in Canarsie, Brooklyn. This would be my first time back inside a classroom in three years. I was nervous to say the least. I even briefly told my new principal, Sarah Sladek, about my experience in my previous school and my apprehension about going back to school. She assured me that would not happen here.
Within the first couple days, I was introduced to all the teachers and staff I’d be working with . I befriended two teachers, one of History and one of Special Education. The latter one mainly taught self-contained classes and co-taught in certain content areas.
My friend, say George, and I both took the same trek home, except I had to hop onto another transfer to make it into Queens. But we made the time go by and bitched about the struggles of a severely strict curriculum (scripted lessons, even) and overloaded work. He easily had the workload of two teachers. We also both went to the same university, not quite overlapping, and I was in graduate school and he was an undergraduate.
It was an easy friendship that allowed for conversations about work and our personal lives. We hung out once or twice. It was a friendship I needed at the time.
The Special Education Teacher, Beau Bernis, was great to bitch about work as well. He told me what is wrong with the school and how the school’s actual mission is about harsh discipline and making Black and Brown students act more “white”. I saw this too, in how one skipped class would earn a student a week of in-school suspension. I saw this in the curriculum and how everything was scripted down to the minute. Students were told to sit up straight, set up their desks like diagram shown, and how students’ personalities and struggles did not fit in the classroom.
Beau lured me in to talking about my personal life, but not in the way George did. Beau called me, not just texted. He talked about his mental health, leading me to divulge some of my depression and anxieties.
It was less than two weeks into me being at Uncommon that Beau asked me during a phone call if I would have sex with him for $1000. He knew about my miserable financial situation and how, once upon a time, was involved in some sex work in order to pay my NYC rent. The proposal struck me with images of all the bodies I had to touch just to get by and all the deals I’d made and the men who took more than what was agreed upon.
But $1,000 would help a lot toward paying for back rent I owed, not to mention the debt I incurred from vet bills when my dog had been sick and passed away just a month prior. My flight or fight response kicked in, the quick math of survival.
I laughed it off. “No,” he said, “I mean it. Money doesn’t matter.”
The words were an echo of something I’d heard a few years before from a man who paid me to be his date. Then he wanted more than that. Money is no option, he’d said. I was desperate then, and I was desperate now. But the difference was, Beau was my coworker; these men were shadows in the dark.
I declined. Beau seemed miffed about it for a day or two, which I chalked up to a bruised ego. During professional development meetings, I stayed with George more. Beau saw that we were getting closer, not romantically, but I’m not sure what Beau saw from the outside.
They both knew I had a partner, long-distance and low-communication. George supported me in helping me keep busy by taking care of myself and going out. Beau tried to support me in my bed but never in my heart, though I never let Beau get that close to me.
Miraculously, my partner said he could visit. These dates are barely planned, like 24 hours’ notice. I was so happy after not seeing my partner for months. I told George and Beau, and when my partner texted me the day of to cancel due to work, I cried in the bathroom. I should be used to this by now, but it still hurt. George invited me to hang out that night instead, but Beau had a “prior obligation,” which was not spending time with George.
My partner was able to visit the following week, hours I treasured and replayed over and over again until the next time. He sprays his side of the bed with his cologne because he knows I like to keep his scent lingering. He leaves behind his undershirt because he knows I like that on the difficult days. I don’t touch his side of the bed.
He’s gone as quickly as he arrives, and my heart hurts. Not even 36 hours after my partner had left, Beau called. He felt depressed, real depressed, suicidal even, he said. He skipped activities with friends and couldn’t get out of bed. I know the feeling. He said he was scared and asked if he could come over.
Warning bells rung in my ears: Apartment. Locked. Rape. Fighting. Shower demon.
I heard a whisper, He could die. Several years prior, a supposed friend threatened to kill himself if I didn’t love him back. I didn’t. He’d come to my apartment, both arms dripping blood from razor cuts. I’d bandaged him up and tried to get him to seek help. I’d woken up naked in my bed alone. What the fuck happened?
More warning bells, this time sirens. But he could die. Because of me. I told Beau he could come over just for a bit. We watched a movie and ate pizza. I asked him to go home. He said it was far away. I told him that I’d already said he couldn’t stay. Beau walked into my bedroom and lay on my partner’s side of the bed. I screamed and moved him to my side. My heart was pounding.
We talked about him leaving: the train, an Uber, a Lyft. He fell asleep. I lay awake the whole night, lifting my body over the bedsheets to touch as little surface area as possible. I cried.
Beau slid onto my partner’s side of the bed. And when he woke up, I told him to leave and that he breached my boundaries I set before he’d gotten to my apartment. He offered to buy me breakfast. I knew I wouldn’t eat otherwise, so I agreed, only if he would go home afterward. He did.
I ran to my apartment to smell my partner’s side of the bed. As much as I had tried to maintain its integrity all night, any remnants of him was gone, replaced by Beau and regret and emptiness. Beau wanted to erase my partner. Beau wanted me to forget the comfort my partner gives me from so many miles away.
I texted Beau how angry I was, how he tricked me into entering my private space and took something so important to me. He hadn’t been suicidal; he just wanted to put that burden on me. I saw the patterns.
In the days after, there was another proposal for sex from Beau. George suggested what to say in a text, that if my boundary was crossed again, I’d talk to HR. I nodded. It was happening all over again.
Beau grew angry with me when I “threatened” to speak with HR. One student, say Jeff, had gradually become a regular in my classroom rather than Beau’s, or Mr. Bernis. Jeff is transgender, and we often talked about queerness and our experiences living in our bodies that don’t reflect who we are. Several students came to me to discuss queerness in their lives, in school, and in society. I created another mini GSA. I mention Jeff because Beau targeted him during quarter exams. Beau found his most vulnerable part of him, just like Beau did to me, and ripped it from him.
During exams, Beau deadnamed Jeff in front of everyone and refused to take responsibility for his mistake and change the seating chart. Beau treated him like Jeff was a nuisance. Even sadder, Principal Sarah Sladek was also in that classroom at that time. Jeff left the room unnoticed.
As George and I were walking through the hallway to make copies, I saw Jeff visibly upset: head down, backpack on, hood up, making a beeline for the staircase. Gently, I asked Jeff why he wasn’t in a classroom. He recounted this story. He was hurt and betrayed by a teacher, who was once his biggest advocate, as well as administration who only pretended to care about transgender students. I guided Jeff back into class and encouraged him to try his best. Then I sought out staff members who could help him. Jeff ended up taking his exam in another room.
After school, I went to Principal Sladek’s office to talk about the incident. She claimed she did not know about it, even though it happened in the same classroom she was in. She feigned ignorance and chalked up the issue to a logistical mix up. I advocated for all teachers to have access to every student’s preferred name. As for Beau, Principal Sladek wanted me to talk to him to hash out the “misunderstanding”, not that I asked for this.
This was a principal, once again, pushing their work onto teachers. Conflict resolution requires administration and a meeting. Needless to say, when I tried to flag down Beau after my meeting with the principal, he ignored me, saying everything was good. Bullshit.
The next afternoon, after exams, Jeff rushed into my classroom. He showed me a text message from Beau, or Mr. Bernis, a teacher. It was not a class-wide text about homework or surprise quiz. Beau instructed Jeff to tell me that Beau and Jeff are on good terms. This is miles beyond inappropriate. Jeff is a student and a minor; he should not bear the burden of teacher drama.
Jeff said that he didn’t forgive Beau. In a text, Jeff wrote, “We still got beef.” I quickly ushered him to Principal Sladek’s office and told her about the text exchange. She looked at it and took a picture of it. I never got that picture. Principal Sladek dismissed Jeff, but I stayed behind. Jeff’s agency to not forgive an authority figure for mentally and emotionally hurting him was discarded.
I stated that the text from Beau to a student was inappropriate. Principal Sladek claimed it was “technically not illegal.” I asked her if she wanted it to get to that point or stop it now. Again, she put it on me to talk to Beau, to which I declined. She ushered me out of her office and said she would talk with Beau. Right.
Within a day or two, Beau sent a series of ill-intentioned texts against my partner. Beau said he wasn’t good for me, that he is this and that. Beau also sent angry text messages that I wasn’t taking him up on his advances. The boundary had been crossed. I held my breath and requested an urgent meeting with Principal Sladek and HR.
George helped me gather evidence. The next day was grading exams day, but I managed to get a meeting time. HR was present via Zoom. Principal Sladek and Director of Operations Daniella Gafen were present. I asked for George to sit in with me. I divulged everything, all of this information, this series of red flags and warning signs. It was happening again.
I went home that evening, a Friday. By Sunday night, I was put on a “mental health leave” and was required to provide documentation of my mental state to continue teaching. I did. For two weeks, I was on leave. But that same Sunday night, George was fired.
HR said there would be an investigation, but according to other teachers, they did not talk to Beau or any of the other teachers or Jeff. There was no investigation. Again. On February 15, 2022, I was terminated for reporting sexual harassment by another teacher that happened over the span of a month and a half.
When I asked why, an HR rep said they found no evidence of sexual harassment in their investigation, thus I was fired. When I asked for clarification, the HR rep rudely said I made the whole thing up, thus I was fired. Two different reasons for my termination. Both, lies. I wasn’t going to back down this time.
A friend recommended a law firm. I handed over all the evidence: text messages, call logs, the timeframe Beau was at my apartment because of “suicidal ideation”. It was a slam dunk case.
However, I could not hand over my conversations with my partner. They don’t belong to us. Because of me “withholding evidence” or “contempt of court,” I could not seek full litigation. I was fucked by the school system, again, and fucked by the government. I would not get what I deserve.
Uncommon Schools and I settled out of court for a hilariously low amount of money. No back pay, no emotional distress, no punitive damages. And my refusal to sign an NDA, to not lock and key my own story, lowered the amount even more. Let’s just say I still had to borrow money from my brother to move.
Uncommon Schools didn’t feel anything. Like Garrett, Beau Bernis is still employed at the same school. Cis-gender, straight white men, unable to obtain sexual encounters any other way than harassing someone “weaker”. But I’m not weaker. Yes, both events really fucking hurt, and I may never return to education, and my employment record has been deeply scarred, but I am not destroyed. I’m Phoenix, remember?
Part III
This is not a New York City issue. If you think this is not happening in your town, your schools district, or your state, think again. If you think government organizations, like education and police, are not leading a coordinated charge, please believe that you are wrong.
This is a warning to parents/guardians to research as much as you can about the schools your children go to and the staff who work in the building. Know that public charter schools are no better than the Department of Education’s public school system or how these entities are united with law enforcement to uphold the false integrity of education. They will no sooner toss away your case as they did mine.
As much as it is important for parents/guardians to know about child abusers, it is also imperative for everyone to know if adults are also a danger to other adults, namely their peers, including teachers and support staff. It is not enough to ask for one person’s opinion of whether or not their violent experience with another teacher can be inflicted upon a student. That demonstrates a fear of liability, not a desire for a safe learning and working environment.
In my experience, the only thing that motivated these men, other than sex and dominance, is the promise of not getting caught. And even if they were to get caught, their status as straight white men who make schools “more appealing”, ones who teach Special Education because they’re so damn “empathetic”, their manipulation of the system will save them every time unless we crack down on all accusations of abuse or harm.
This is a reminder that straight white men wield a power marginalized persons will never understand. And that doesn’t stop at the doors of an institution. It only grows exponentially.
Keeping Mr. Garrett Root and Mr. Beau Bernis on staff — hell, even administration staff Principal Tara Joye, Vice Principal Almoree Hercules, and Principal Sarah Sladek — keeping them employed in their capacities shows that they perpetuate and cover up sex crimes so they can keep their reputations squeaky clean. Keeping these admins to run their schools proves education is a commodity that doesn’t care about your children or their staff.
Why was Mr. Root promoted to soccer coach instead of being listed as a sex offender? Why were Mr. Bernis’ texts to a student and minor not taken seriously when so many trans youth are dying every day? And why do these administrations still have a place in our schools?
This is why we can’t have nice things.
