A public school teacher simply can’t bear the idea that a student openly supports President Donald Trump. So she naturally abused her position of authority to publish a scathing poem calling a student a “weed” for existing.
Sally Toner who teaches and lives "in the DMV area" (matching information from a blog page and Linkedin would place her as a high school teacher in Virginia's Loudoun County School District) named her Trump-hating poem, A Lesson for John - perhaps after one of her own students (assuming “John” is his actual name. We don't know for sure, as Toner has not replied to MRC's request for comment).
Toner's piece, published by a literary journal meant to inspire other teachers, gives off vibes akin to the Facebook ramblings of a suicidal wine aunt.
“That other teacher said you don’t have a soul,” she begins, calling her student a “cocky self-important little Trumper.” That’s quite the projection coming from an adult congratulating herself for supposedly teaching a “lesson” by picking fights with a child.
“You sit in the front,” seethes the teacher who is apparently triggered that he's “a head taller” than her.
Oh no! Not a student who… participates in class!
“Your mind [is] so tiny in the tiniest room at the end of the tiniest hall in the building,” she continues, claiming “you look smaller when you disregard the opinions of others” (says the woman announcing her pure hatred for her student over his personal opinions).
“Teachers are not supposed to reveal their political views. The literature speaks for itself–but you make it so hard,” she whines, gaslighting the student for failing to control herself.
Here’s a lesson for you, Sally. If it’s too hard for you to act like an adult and put your personal biases aside, you probably shouldn’t be trusted with an entire class of impressionable kids whom you’re supposed to protect. Especially, when you hold a personal vendetta against one of those students.
Yet she furthers the case for her removal.
“A teacher emphasizes the culture of mutual respect she has built in this space of unreliable narrators,” the poem goes on (Her respect seems to be missing).
In the same breath she admits she calls on her student “as little as possible,” applauding herself for “hold[ing] my breath when I can’t ignore your raised hand anymore, knowing you’ll defend his [Trump’s] vitriol.”
“You stare down the English language learners who congregate at the entrance to my hallway. They stop their chatter in Spanish, Arabic, Farsi, Vietnamese, and part the waters. You nod, walk through, offering a curt “thank you,” her hate poem continues.
(God forbid, someone says… “Thank you!” So rude!)
“You might be able to say that to one of them in their native tongue. Not that you’d try,” she complained. Then you sit down in English class and prattle on about the American Dream.”
What better way to reassure us all that she belongs in the classroom than by admitting next, that she “walked into school” after Election Day “hung over?!”
“You don’t say a word,” she complained about the student, who likely didn’t care less that her eyes were “welling up.”
“You just hang that head of perfect hair and walk into room 308 after me. And even though your guy has won, for the rest of the year, you will never mention his name again,” she complained.
Yes, maybe because he doesn’t suffer Trump Derangement Syndrome.
