Dystopian Teacher Tales #7: The educational advocate and her clients

In this scenario, Donald Trump has been elected to a third term, which is something he’s often mentioned during the first portion of his second term. With the complete closure of the federal DOE, something that both Trump and Secretary McMahon have noted as a priority, many Title protections have been returned to states. Similar to recent abortion rights rulings, this allows different states to interpret Title protections differently. In some states, like Alaska, legislators have created “Title amendments” which have re-envisioned what these protections once were. Instead of protecting our most vulnerable students, many of these amendments now serve to protect those from DEI, from transgender participation in sports, and, in this case, from what some parents may view as indoctrination by teachers.

The following story may seem far-fetched at first glance. Yet, considering the active and energetic posting of the new DOE about fund restrictions for states like Oregon and California, it can be imagined that this scenario could actually happen.

In the story, Mr. Courtney’s past is coming back to reckon with him. He is about to be accused of indoctrination in a strange new way.

“You’ve violated my clients’ educational rights, Mr. Courtney,” says the educational advocate sitting across from me at the table. The woman sits straight as a flagpole, hands in her lap. She wears a purple blazer and her dark hair is pulled back in a bun. Around her neck is a gold chain on which hangs a large gold cross.  

“I did what?”

“Rights, Sir,” she says. She says “rights” too fast and “Sir” too slowly for either to be polite. “Mister Courtney, allow me to explain why my clients brought me here today. It may surprise you to know that when our 48th President, Donald Trump, finally and fully shuttered the Department of Education two years ago–”

“I’m aware, Ms. –”

“It’s Missus, Mrs. Armingson. As I was saying, Mr. Courtney, when the DOE closed, patriotic states like Alaska decided to protect their children and by extension their families from a long list of grievances the US Department of Ed essentially ignored for decades. The DOE sent this work back to the states, and the state of Alaska made it our own. Some still seek to deny these rights to the adolescents in their care. Some attempt to gaslight or otherwise intimidate children or parents into believing these new Alaskan state rights do not exist. I came here today to find out why you may be among them and what we plan to do about it.” 

Next to me is our school principal, Mrs. Demmers. She’s young and one of the new corporate carryovers appointed by parent boards in Anchorage. I was told years ago that she was once a manager at a McDonald’s in Los Angeles. But I never looked much into it. Few things surprise me now in education, and the fact she was serving cheeseburgers before Trump made schools into educational fast food honestly would not surprise me. We come from very different backgrounds, but she’s always been professional, respectful. As much as I could hope for from those now in the administrative arena. I am hoping she’ll back me here. Thankfully, she does. Or at least she makes an attempt.

“Now, Mrs. Armingson. Mr. Courtney is a well-respected teacher at our school. He’s been here with us since the founding.”

“Yes,” says Mrs. Armingson. “I know.” She reaches into a well-polished leather satchel at her feet and pulls out a manila folder. “I know all about Mister Courtney. I know about him before the transfer of this school as well.”

My insides are knotted. My skin is growing hot. I remember a very different time in moments like these.  I put my hands on the table.

“I’ve got things to do–” 

I’m halfway to standing, when the principal gives me a tap on the shoulder. 

The advocate sees it. “My clients have a right for me to be here, in their stead. They have a right to this meeting. Parents have a right to know that their child is safe from any and all indoctrination regarding–”

“I know,” I say. “I’m aware of student and parental rights under the Alaskan Parental Rights and Religious Freedom Codes. I know there are title amendments.”

“Good,” says Mrs. Armingson. “This should be quicker than usual then. I’ll continue and we will both be on the same page.” While I exhale in defeat, she opens the file and pulls out several paperclipped packets. “In 2025, you published a scathing review in Edmonth Magazine. Just after the Transgender Indoctrination Law was established, you wrote openly that it was unjust.”

“And?”

“And later the same year, you were found to be in violation of several classroom restrictions, Sir. These included,” she produces a picture from the pile I know well. With a smile she shows it to me. “These included a quote, rainbow pride flag, and a sign typical at the time about quote, science being real. Does that sound about right, Mr. Courtney?”

“Yep,” I say. “Sure sounds like me.”

“I see,” says Ms. Armingson and whether she’s rehearsed it or she’s in some kind of actual shock, she reaches a hand up to her cross.  She takes a breath and then pulls out another sheet of paper. This time she slides it across to me. 

It’s a print copy of an article I wrote in 2025 about students in my English Language Development class.  It’s titled “If ICE Comes to My Classroom, This is What I’ll Do” and I recall it published with a local paper, The Times of San Diego. This was just a few months into Trump’s second term. I wrote that I wouldn’t let immigration officers take students out of my classroom while I stood by. Of course, I had no idea what was to come, but I wanted my families to know that I’d support them. Back then, you could write things like that, without fear of reprisal. At least I thought so. Even then, before the US Supreme Court gave the presidency the right to curtail media content, I lost an ambassadorship position for teachers in DC. Things happened quickly back in 2025.

“This was all in California,” I say.

“Does this matter to you Mr. Courtney?”

“Well, it does to the law, does it not?”

“In point of fact sir, this does and does not. I am only showing you this to establish a basis for the trauma my clients have reported to me.”

“Did you say tra–?”

Ms. Armingson pulls the article back as if she’s seen enough of me seeing enough. Then, she grins at my principal, “I think we’ve established who we’re dealing with here, don’t you?”

Mrs. Demmers doesn’t grin back. It’s a small thing, but it gives me a slight hope this isn’t going where I think it could. The truth is I know a lot about education but very little about recent legislation. Laws have changed rapidly in recent years and when things got pushed back to the states, a lot of confusion ensued. It was similar to what happened with abortion rights. And when media like NPR was defunded it became harder and harder to keep up.

 My principal clears her throat. “Ms. Armingson, this is an initial advocacy meeting. Let’s get to the point, we’re all very –”

“Fine, fine,” interrupts Armingson. She sits back in the chair and crosses her legs. “Mr. Courtney, I am here firstly because one of your students, who the state of Alaska has entrusted into your care for six and a half hours a day, claims you have violated his title six and title nine rights.”

“What?”

“Further, Mr. Courtney, these violations of my client’s civil and educational rights constitute a serious negligence on your part. This is a negligence that leads us to seek your immediate termination as a teacher, and…financial compensation for my client, and his family.”

I find myself unable to focus on anything but Armingson’s face. She looks like she’s enjoying an ice-cream cone instead of telling me she wants to ruin my life. Mrs. Demmers next to me shifts uncomfortably in her seat, coughs, but then goes silent. The room begins to spin.

“Now wait a minute, I know that Hunter is a little upset over what happened the other day, but–”

“Mr. Courtney, in advocacy meetings we do not refer to the students by name. You’ve been briefed.”

“Okay, well the student in question here is not…how exactly have I violated his rights please?” 

“Of course. I’m happy to run through things.” Armingson opens a tablet and scrolls through until she finds what she wanted. “Uh hmm, “Title 6 violations. On January 23rd, Mr. Courtney did knowingly and willingly call my client’s religion, Christianity, a choice. He told the class, and I quote Mr. Courtney, ‘Religion is a choice, kids. Not everyone in the world is a Christian. Not everyone even believes in a god.” 

“We were studying Hebrew culture and discussing the religions of the penpals, the  classes we write to in our global schools program.”

“And this global schools program is approved on the Alaskan board of education anti-indoctrination list?”

“Well, I don’t know. We’ve been doing it for almost ten years. Is there a reason it would be?!”

“Oh, I see. So doing things for a decade means they are okay, Mr. Courtney. By the way, did you offer student families an opportunity to opt-out of this curriculum? As you know–”
“No, I did not. Nor did I send home a letter on the 23rd to see if anyone wanted to opt out of recess. Come on.”

“That was quite the mistake Mr. Courtney. All materials must be made clearly available to parents now in the state of Alaska. Everything that happens in your classroom must be approved, Sir, by the people who trust you to care for their children.”

I say nothing. I’m certain this is going to go from bad to worse.

“There are quite a bit more…violations.. I’ll just take you through a few, ok?” Mrs. Armingson doesn’t look up. “Let’s see, there’s a Title 6.1 violation of the new Alaskan Title six amendment clause. I have a list of dates and times when you discussed terms like evolution, and dated Earth’s history. That’s all fine Mr. Courtney, but sadly, you didn’t give my client’s family a chance to opt out. And now my client is questioning his family’s beliefs about such things. Seems to me, Sir, that you’d know better.”

I say nothing. Nor does Mrs. Demmers.

“Okay, well there’s quite a bit of other Title 6 violations here, things you’ve said, and done in class. On February 14th, you failed to offer an alternative program to your quote  Mr. Courtney’s Twenty-First annual Valentine’s Day Celebration.”

“I sent home the opt-out papers-”

“Sure, Mr. Courtney. My client acknowledges that. But you still have to offer something for children who opt out to experience in lieu. You stuck him in a corner, Sir.”

“I sent him to another room. I didn’t know they’d be testing.”

“Sir, we can debate all this at your hearing. I just want to list the violations, okay with you? Mrs. Demmers?”

My principal nods her head, but she doesn’t look at me.

“The worst of the violations Mr. Courtney is…yes. Title nine violations, Alaskan amendment clauses here…hang on… Forty six of those.”

“Oh, only forty six?” 

Armingson clutches her cross. I still can’t tell if it’s rehearsed or not. 

“Sir, you’ve often used preferred pronouns in your classroom this year, according to my client. Do you deny this?”

“Well no, but–”

“And in class, you took questions during your ‘family life program’ from students who openly expressed doubts about their heterosexuality, is that right?”

“I followed all of the state mandates. I followed all of the training guidelines.”

“Well, you might have followed your conscience a bit here. Because when you took those questions, when you used those pronouns, you actually violated my clients new title 9.2 rights, amended by the state legislature in 2031.”

“How’s that?”

Armingson, as if she has nothing better to do than find legal jargon, scrolls through the tablet again, finds something, and then reads, “Alaskan amendment clause 9.2B,  2031. Classroom discussions that may violate a student’s religious belief as relates to sexuality, or sexual identity, constitutes a violation unless parental permission is received prior.”

“So?”

“So, my client believes that God means for one man and one woman to do the things your students asked you about. And my client is now confused about his family’s beliefs around such things because you did not offer him a chance to opt-out of this talk.”

“You mean Hunter is wondering if he may be…I doubt he is somehow now thinking he is–”
“Wow, Mr. Courtney, no. I am not suggesting that my client believes he may be gay. Just wow. Mrs. Demmers, do you allow such accusations here in your school?”

Mrs. Demmers says nothing. I say nothing. I sigh. I can’t remember when these meetings stopped involving the student. But I do wish the kid was here. Hunter’s a good boy. It’s really sad that we couldn’t just work this out like I would have years ago. But this is the first time I’ve been involved in one of these advocate meetings. I’m starting to think it’s to at least one person’s advantage that the boy isn’t here. Unfortunately for me, that isn’t me today.

“Okay, so I am very sorry to my student for causing him doubt. I will do a better job of–”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work this time, Mr. Courtney. You see your title six and title nine violations aside, the main reason I am here today is title seven.”

“Title seven?”  I have no idea what Armingson is talking about now. I’m no expert but the now defunct federal law, title seven, was supposed to protect teachers from discriminatory hiring practices. At least that’s what I remember from years ago. Title seven should actually protect me. A small flutter of hope vibrates in my brain. But then, its gone. 

“Well, specifically section 7.1B, amended in 2031 in the Alaskan legislature and upheld by state supreme court. You see Mr. Courtney, as you have been ignoring your students’ civil rights, writing propaganda and essentially being reckless with your opt-out permissions, you’ve caused a final issue that is even more serious.”

There’s nothing to say, so I don’t say anything.

Armingson takes out a single sheet of paper, slides it across to me. It’s a short statement, typed. Underneath are seven signatures. 

“Mr. Courtney, as I mentioned in the beginning, I do not just represent student clients today. Title seven, whether you are aware or not, was amended in 2031 too. Teachers may not be discriminated against because of their identity, sure, but that no longer extends to their demonstrated expressions, statements and teachings in class. At least not here in the great state of Alaska.  And now that we have video of your entire year to look through, and by law we can use AI software to track down certain comments very easily, well, we know what you’ve been saying. I represent seven parents in addition to my student client. Each seeks compensation for you violating their rights. By your statements, writings, and expressed beliefs, you’ve discriminated against those who you swore to respect. By not allowing their children to opt out of the indoctrination you’ve been inscribing in students this year, you’ve caused real trauma in their households. These are children you work with, Sir. Children. Alaskan families.”

Mrs. Demmers and I look at each other. I wonder if my face looks as resigned as hers. Armingson leaves the paper with me. I have no idea how this many parents agreed to this. But with the new statutes allowing parents to sue teachers, and with the loss of our teacher union, it doesn’t surprise me. It still saddens me that it’s all come to this. Armingson packs herself up and gets up from her chair. She struts to the door, but turns back when she gets there. “I apologize all, but this was my first appointment today and I can’t afford to get behind. I will send you compensatory damages which we will discuss at the hearing next month. I want you to know Mr. Courtney that I am not just here to collect money for my clients. I am here for their advocacy. They have rights, Sir. And I do hope that whatever happens, you remember this in the future.”

Ms. Armingson then clutches her cross, and for the briefest of moments, I am sure that this is not rehearsed at all. Ms. Armingson believes all of this. She believes everything she said today.

Then, the educational advocate opens the door, walks out of the principal’s office, and out to another school.

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