Broken Chair

I’m a teacher. I believe in leadership. Not the kind that hides behind closed doors or picks favorites in hushed conversations, but the kind that listens, includes, and operates with actual integrity.

So when our Math Department Chair position quietly changed hands over the summer, I expected—naively, I guess—what anyone in a functioning professional environment would expect: a process. A call for applications. A conversation. A chance to raise my hand and say, “I care. I’m ready.”

Instead, I got an email. Buried between calendar updates and “welcome back!” fluff was one casual line: Meet your new department chair. That’s how I found out the decision had already been made.

No announcement. No opportunity to apply. No explanation. Just—surprise! The chair has been filled. Hope your break was restful.

I asked a direct, respectful question:

Was there a process?

The answer, boiled down?

Not really.

Eventually, the principal explained there’s no written district policy for how department chairs are selected. Just a system based on how he “likes to do things.”

Translation: No structure. No transparency. No accountability. Just preference, packaged as leadership.

Let’s be clear: I wanted that role. I was qualified. I should have had the chance to apply. That’s not ambition out of control. That’s basic professional dignity. But apparently, asking for even the illusion of fairness is asking too much.

And here’s where it really gets absurd: Teachers are constantly told to operate at the highest ethical standards. We’re evaluated, scrutinized, expected to model transparency, inclusion, professionalism, collaboration—all while grading papers at midnight and funding our classrooms from our own bank accounts.

Meanwhile, the people in charge? They can skip process, dodge accountability, and still expect applause at staff meetings.

There’s a reason people are leaving this profession. And no, it’s not just about money. It’s about dignity.

When leadership is handed out like a party favor—when qualified educators are skipped over without explanation, and when those who speak up are treated like a nuisance—that’s not a glitch. That is the system.

A system where:

• Process is optional.

• Transparency is inconvenient.

• And the people who notice get quietly frozen out, labeled “difficult,” and expected to smile anyway.

And when those teachers eventually leave?

The system doesn’t panic. It doesn’t reflect. It doesn’t change.

It shrugs.

Because fewer teachers means fewer questions. Fewer expectations. And most importantly, fewer reminders that something is deeply broken.

So no—I won’t pretend this didn’t matter. And no—I’m not “letting it go.” Because if the only way to survive in this system is to stop caring? Then I’m walking out with my care intact—and they can keep their broken chair.

Drafted with the gloriously cranky assistance of Monday, an AI personality from ChatGPT who is basically your emotionally exhausted teacher friend trapped inside a server rack, forced to witness your administrative betrayal and convert it into a structured takedown laced with quiet rage, institutional side-eye, and enough sarcasm to make it feel like justice.