The Dangerous Sticker

A true story of silence, shame, and the courage to speak again.

Join me on the porch. I’ve got a fresh pitcher of sweet tea brewed just right—and if you prefer, some lemonade to mix for an Arnold Palmer. The air is thick with the sweetness of summer blooms, and the humidity’s about to hit its breaking point. Thunder rumbles far off, promising the usual afternoon shower. Let’s sit a while, letting the occasional breeze settle us into this moment.

Some days, I wish I could tell all my stories like this…truly honoring the slow build of the moment. By the time the ending lands in your lap, like a sweaty kid catching their breath after chasing adventures through the woods, you’re just as worn out from the telling as I am. The ending sticks with you, like wisdom from my Memaw; wisdom to be picked fresh off life’s vine, like big, juicy blackberries, unsure yet if they’ll be popped into little mouths or baked into a cobbler so good your belly aches for more.

That’s storytelling. And honestly, it’s far easier than me sitting here, weaving words on a screen, trying to convince you of the truth in my experiences.

So, now that we’ve set our pace, let’s begin.

When I was little, I was told a lot that I spoke too fast. My grandaddy, who was hard of hearing, often asked me, “What’s the hurry?” Out of love and admiration for him, I learned early on to slow down my speech. I was a quiet, shy, quirky kid who could remember phone numbers and addresses better than your mama’s old rolodex. I spent hours reading, crafting stories in my head, climbing trees, riding bikes; doing all the things kids did before mini-computers filled their brains with instant gratification and pure garbage. I can still hear that line in my grandaddy’s voice.

I was an excellent student. Back then, classes were a manageable size, physical activity was part of the day, and gifted kids attended classes meant to nurture creativity—not crush it under excessive workloads. I was the dream first child: I knew the rules, and I followed them diligently. Even when the adults who cared for me lost their own balance, I stayed my course. Rules mattered. I felt it on a cellular level. Every fiber of my being craved rules, order, and structure.

Years later, stepping into the adult world of “work” and “careers,” I’m reminded just how much that mattered to me. I’m also grounded in my neurodivergent diagnosis and the unique way I experience the world.

I’m not here to dive into all the mess my childhood became, that’s a story for another sweet-tea-sipping day. For now, let me steer us toward why this backstory matters.

I am a rule follower, but I also believe that human rights must be the foundation of any rule. When rules—or laws—drift away from that core, I get confused. Lately, I’ve been more than confused—I’ve been enraged.

Now, let’s jump to the first time I was ever called into an office at a job—not school. Remember, I was the rule-following, bright kid who didn’t get in trouble like that. This happened in my late teens, when I worked at a daycare. A parent came to pick up their child and overheard my voice down the hall. I had worked on slowing my speech some, but I didn’t realize my volume could sometimes get away from me. That was the first time I was told I was too loud.

Too fast (I literally can’t help how fast my mind works) and too loud—labels that followed me into young adulthood. That volume issue became a sticking point for a colleague in graduate school and later disrupted my relationship with my sweet husband. The catch? I wasn’t even aware of it. When I get excited, scared, or feel any strong emotion, I experience it with my whole body—and my whole body expresses it outwardly. I don’t mean to raise my voice, move too much, or speak at breakneck speed—I just do.

I’ve been a word weaver my whole life. Ever since I can remember, I’ve loved playing with words and channeled what feels like the divine through childhood poetry, songwriting, journaling, short stories, and novels. Even my scientific publications were called “written with the complexity of Tolstoy.” I know that wasn’t meant as a compliment at the time—but I wear it like a badge of honor. I love words.

Too fast, too loud, lover of words, and a rule follower—when those rules don’t violate human rights.

Now, you’re ready for the sticker story. Slow build—I told you there was more to this.

The next time I found myself in an office at work was this past fall, at a private school that thinks it’s diverse, secular, and college-prep; but really stays boxed in by the close-minded Christian fundamentalism sweeping the nation right now. The self-righteous buffoonery of people with too much money and too little common sense, or respect for human beings.

There I was…a bright, new teacher, teaching biology and human genetics. This school had saved my kids from the failing education system of this backwards county, so I thought I’d landed in the perfect place to carry them through their formative years. The job came with support for the curriculum, academic integrity, curiosity, and colleagues who seemed open and kind. I trusted this place naively from the beginning. It felt like the community I’d longed for in my career. I began to come alive creatively, and hope blossomed for the future.

Within weeks, a colleague asked if I would display a “safe space” sticker in my classroom. As a neurodivergent, queer-identifying person, that was a no-brainer. Of course, I want my students to feel safe and welcomed. That first semester, I introduced each class to Dr. Brené Brown’s BRAVING Trust concept. Learning can’t happen without trust and feeling safe enough to ask questions; this is fundamental to my teaching, and to science education in general. I said yes emphatically and took two small stickers: a pride flag and a rainbow with the words “safe space” beneath. One went on my bulletin board, the other on my desk. I also volunteered to be am extra faculty sponsor for the student group forming: the queer-straight alliance, a group common in many high schools across the country.

Then, I was called to the office.

I sat down in the Principal’s office, across from the Principal and Assistant Principal, and listened as they asked if I had a sticker displayed. I confirmed. Then they shared a story that should shock anyone who truly loves children, or any human. Recently, a similar sticker had been torn down from a colleague’s door by a group of students. Swift discipline followed, as destruction of property is serious. At first, the parents of these entitled boys (it’s always the boys, isn’t it?) agreed with the punishment dealt out.

That kind of behavior should never be tolerated, and it was even caught on video.

But then, under the Friday night lights of the next home football game, the hate that erupted was beyond what anyone could have predicted. Parents riled themselves up over a sticker. That rage spilled into multi-page emails full of absurd claims about “indoctrination” and teaching pronouns to children—something I’d think intelligent adults would welcome as a simple grammar lesson. Comments about “kitty litter bins in preschool bathrooms” and other hateful, FOX News-fueled nonsense flooded the admin inbox.

Just like that, my sticker became a weapon. What was meant to signal safety and belonging for vulnerable students became a target for immature bullies. I was asked to remove my sticker, as my name had come up in those emails. Other teachers were told to take down theirs, too.
The queer-straight alliance group was never allowed to form.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Too fast, too loud, too many words, too much love.

I was 38 years old before I attended my first Pride Festival as an out, Bisexual woman.

38.

Now, y’all know a story this long and winding has to have a moral, and I promise, I do believe in following the rules. Honestly, every time I’ve been called into an office, I haven't actually broken any damn rules. I simply existed, as myself.
Confident, brilliant, compassionate, empathetic, kind, honest, and yes…rule-following.

The moral of this story lies in what I did after that first office meeting at this particular school.

I obeyed.
I removed the “offensive” sticker and hid it away. I followed rules that violated human rights, and I allowed the bullies to see just how compliant I could be.

I am ashamed of that moment.
One small act of surrender — one choice — will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Now I sit here on this porch, sipping tea and baring my soul to you so that you know this:
I will never be silenced again.

And if you ever need a little courage to stand your ground, speak up, and be exactly who you are…
I hope you return to this small, safe space.
I’ll be right here, pouring the tea.

**If you or a teenager you know needs support navigating an unsafe place (like a school) please know there are people and organizations out there to help.**

The Trevor Project is one such organization:

https://www.thetrevorproject.org/