A4 EZ RE THE WASHINGTON POST.SATURDAY, MAY 28 , 2022
PHOTOS BY SCOTT MCINTYRE FOR THE WASHINGTON POST
Nicolette Solomon l ooks through letters from her former students that she saved in a shoe box at home in Miami. Younger than many of her former colleagues, she had found
it easier to understand students’ extracurricular obsessions, such as TikTok challenges and dances, and she made a point to ask about their hobbies and vacations.Nicolette and H ayley Solomon s ay they feel the most comfortable as a gay couple in the Coconut Grove
neighborhood, because many of Miami’s older residents hold deeply conservative beliefs.who said it.
Solomon lost the prize to an-
other teacher who had worked at
the school for less than a year,
Arriete said. “A lot of people
didn’t vote because she is openly
gay, and that is wrong,” she said.
“I am 100 percent sure she lost
because of that.”
Then in fall 2021, when Solo-
mon went to a colleague for ad-
vice about a transgender stu-
dent’s request for a gender-neu-
tral bathroom, the staffer’s face
darkened.
“Let me give you a tip,” the
woman said. “Don’t talk about
anything LGBT. Don’t do it. Par-
ents can get upset. Don’t do that.”
Feeling terrified, Solomon did
not think of protesting. “Oh,” she
said, “sure.”
Asked about these incidents,
Miami-Dade schools spokeswom-
an Jaquelyn Calzadilla wrote in a
statement Wednesday that the
school district has policies “that
expressly prohibit discrimination
and harassment” and that the
school board “strives to provide a
workplace and educational envi-
ronment free from” both. She
noted that Miami-Dade “has nev-
er required, either directly or
indirectly, that teachers in same-
sex marriages refrain from men-
tioning or acknowledging their
marriages in class.”
Five months later, Florida
made Solomon’s colleague’s sug-
gestion into state law.The things that stick
On Feb. 2, Solomon handed in
her letter of resignation, effective
immediately.
The final straw was when her
supervisor implied she would
face consequences for taking a
week’s leave so she could get
fertility treatments; she and Hay-
ley were trying to have a baby. But
the bigger problem was it no
longer felt possible to be lesbian
and a teacher in Florida. The
years of homophobic comments
from her colleagues now seemed
enshrined in state law, their mes-
sage — “you don’t belong here” —
triumphant and irresistible.
Her students cried when she
told them. Some handed her let-
ters at the end of her last day, in
which they apologized for past
bad behavior and asked if she
would change her mind.
“I want you to stay,” one stu-
dent wrote, above a drawing of six
small hearts.
Until she read that note, Solo-
mon had managed to hold in her
tears.
Since then, she has spent most
of her time hunting for a job on
LinkedIn and traveling to a long
string of fertility-related doctor’s
appointments. For now, she and
her wife are surviving on Hayley’s
salary, although it won’t cover
them both for much longer. Hop-
ing to make some extra cash,
Solomon has begun designing
and selling dog collars on Etsy.
She still thinks about her stu-
dents most days. But of the more
than 630 jobs she has applied for
in the past five months, not a
single one was as a public-school
teacher.
She will never teach again,
Solomon said. Not in Florida.picture. When students present-
ed her with this proof, Solomon
briefly confirmed the marriage,
then moved the conversation to
other topics. Once, she brought
Hayley and her mother to a “Win-
ter Fest” family event, but the
women left after less than an
hour.
The only other times Solomon
revealed she was married to a
woman was when students came
to her in her capacity as a liaison
for the School Allies for Equity, or
SAFE, program.
Filling this role meant tacking
a rainbow-colored sticker on her
door — and making herself avail-
able to discuss LGBTQ identities
and problems with any students
who wanted to talk.
“I just felt like I’d be a good
person to do that,” Solomon said.
“No one else was gay at the school,
you know — no one else knew
anything about that.”
Over the years, a half-dozen
children came out to her as gay or
transgender. Most told her infor-
mally, blurting it out by her desk.
With every student, her first
question was, “Do your parents
know?” If the answer was “no,”
and if Solomon ascertained the
student’s household was likely to
be accepting, she encouraged the
student to come out to their par-
ents. In these conversations, if
students asked, Solomon admit-
ted she was a lesbian, happily
married to another woman.
Solomon herself came out fully
in college; in high school, she told
only a handful of people closest to
her. Sometimes she thought
about how much it would have
helped to discuss her sexuality
with an openly LGBTQ teacher in
grade school: “I definitely would
have gone to that person, because
I would have known they’d be
accepting.”
But as Solomon’s students
made her feel needed, some of her
colleagues were doing the oppo-
site.
Early in the job, one teacher —
who figured out Solomon was gay
after watching Hayley help Solo-
mon cart supplies into her class-
room — told her in the middle of a
casual conversation, “I like you as
a person, but I don’t support gay
marriage.” Stunned, all Solomon
could think to say was, “Okay.”
Some time after that, third-
grade teacher Arriete said, an-
other staffer struck up a conversa-
tion about Solomon. The woman
asked if Arriete knew Solomon
was married to a woman, adding
that same-sex relations were
against her religion and “not
right in God’s eyes.” Arriete,
whose brother is gay, walked
away rather than start an argu-
ment.
Later, Arriete nominated Solo-
mon for a “Rookie Teacher of the
Year” prize, awarded through a
faculty-wide vote. In a biography
accompanying her submission,
Solomon detailed her marriage to
Hayley, as well as her stint work-
ing for an LGBTQ rights group. As
staff members were sitting down
to vote, Arriete said she heard
another teacher mutter that she
refused to vote for Solomon “be-
cause she’s gay.” Arriete looked
behind her but couldn’t identify‘Because she’s gay’
From the start, there was a part
of her life that Solomon hid from
her students.
For the first three years of her
teaching job, no one told her
explicitly to conceal the fact she
was married to a woman. Solo-
mon did it on her own, scared of
sparking “drama,” she said.
She knew that Florida leans
Republican and that, although
Miami is supposed to be a “blue
bubble,” many of the city’s older
residents hold deeply conserva-
tive beliefs, including a dislike of
LGBTQ people. Neither she nor
her wife felt comfortable holding
hands in public — not even in
their neighborhood — unless they
were walking through a small
slice of Coconut Grove.
So when students, spotting Sol-omon’s wedding ring, asked for
her husband’s name, she laughed
it off with an eliding joke. When a
student asked if she’d been to
Rhode Island — which she had,
because Hayley’s family is from
there — she cut the conversation
short. Still, some students figured
it out: some by looking up her
wedding video or her Instagram,
which mentioned her wife, and
some by catching sight of her
phone background, a weddingbeen nervous at first but discov-
ered a natural ability to connect
with the children. She was young-
er than many of her colleagues
and found it easier to understand
students’ extracurricular obses-
sions, such as TikTok challenges
and dances. She also made a point
of asking them about their hob-
bies and vacations.
One of Solomon’s colleagues,
third-grade teacher Gelany Arri-
ete, 38, said in an interview that
Solomon seemed sweet and shy
initially but soon gained confi-
dence as a teacher. Arriete said
Solomon had a “special way of
interacting with kids” that set
them at ease.
“I remember one incident, she
did have a student who was gay,”
Arriete said. “And she made him
feel so comfortable, even though
the other kids would make fun of
him.”
Students wrote Solomon notes
expressing devotion, which she
saved in a shoe box: “Some people
say you are only nice because your
young,” wrote one girl. “But the
truth is you have a amazing per-
sonality and a amazing warm
heart.” Another student wrote:
“Mrs. Solomon is special... very
organizd and shes fun.... She
does not emberes me like other
teachers.”
Solomon also kept the message
that arrived from a mother, writ-
ten in orange ink on a gilt-edged
white postcard. Other teachers
had warned her that parents in
their ritzy sector of Miami, where
the median household income
tops $150,000, can be pushy and
demanding — so Solomon was
astonished by the message.
“I am so filled with gratitude
for all that you have done for my
daughter,” the woman wrote.
“And taking the time to answer all
my questions, calls and messag-
es.”
The mother closed with, “I be-
lieve that education is the best
gift to receive” — and as she read
it, Solomon believed it was her
calling to give.‘The best gift to receive’
Solomon, now 28, found her
way to teaching through her work
for a nonprofit called the Alliance
for GLBTQ Youth.
In that role, which she started
just after graduating from Florida
International University with a
degree in psychology, Solomon
traveled into schools and coun-
seled LGBTQ students, helping
transgender children change
their names and gay, lesbian or
queer children come out to par-
ents and peers.
Soon Solomon realized her fa-
vorite part of the job was being
inside schools, spending time
with young people. She began to
wonder, “Why not become a
teacher?” — and scored a position
teaching fourth grade in Miami-
Dade County Public Schools
starting in 2018, the year she got
married.
She found her wife, Hayley,
through the dating website Ok-
Cupid. The first date was a disas-
ter — Hayley talked endlessly
about an ex-girlfriend — but the
two women kept texting after-
ward, compelled by some force
neither understood. On their sec-
ond date, Solomon brought Hay-
ley a home-cooked meal.
A few days later, the women
moved in together. Six months
later, they were engaged. After
they married, they bought their
“forever home” in Miami, close to
an LGBTQ-friendly neighbor-
hood called Coconut Grove and
just 20 minutes from Solomon’s
school. Her wife, employed by a
tech company, was able to work
from home.
The couple redid the house,
kitting out the kitchen in white
tile and adding large glass doors
that led to a sheltered backyard
with artificial grass and strings of
outdoor lights that swung in the
Miami breezes. They hoped to
raise children there, sending
them through the Miami-Dade
school system.
Meanwhile, Solomon was fall-
ing in love with teaching. She hadstatement that the bill was “hate-
ful.” Gov. Ron DeSantis (R)
signed it into law March 28,
vowing as he did so that children
in his state would “get an educa-
tion, not an indoctrination.”
The new law was both broad
and vague, outlawing “classroom
instruction... on sexual orienta-
tion or gender identity in kinder-
garten through grade 3” and stip-
ulating these lessons must be
“age-appropriate or developmen-
tally appropriate” for all older
students. But it was specific when
it came to punishment: Parents
could sue school districts for vio-
lating the law. It would inspire a
wave of copycat legislation —
Alabama’s governor signed a
near-identical measure into law
in April, and similar bills are
pending in at least 19 other states.
Although Florida’s law does
not take effect until July 1, LGBTQ
teachers in Florida felt its impact
immediately. In Orlando, a sixth-
grade science teacher decided to
resign this spring after parents
wrote a letter complaining that
he had acknowledged his same-
sex marriage at school. In Cape
Coral, a middle-school art teacher
lost her job after admitting her
own pansexuality to students.
In Miami, Solomon read the
text of the law closely. She found it
upsetting, but not because she
planned to talk — or had ever
talked — about gender identity,
sexual orientation or LGBTQ is-
sues in the classroom. Although
Solomon’s straight colleagues of-
ten made casual references to
their husbands in the course of
teaching, she had never dared to
mention her wife to students.
Part of her reluctance came
from the lack of support — veer-
ing into open animosity — she
had faced from some colleagues
ever since her first week on the
job. She had long ago learned to
nod and smile, swallowing her
feelings, when other teachers told
Solomon that her marriage was a
violation, that it broke God’s
rules, that it went against their
religion and the way they be-
lieved the world should be.
Pondering the impact of the
new Florida law, Solomon re-
called how fourth-graders love to
ask questions about their teach-
ers’ private lives. She remem-
bered the time some of her stu-
dents Googled her name and
somehow found her wedding vid-
eo on Vimeo, which she hadn’t
realized was publicly available.
Solomon thought about how, un-
der the new law, a parent lawsuit
could stem from just one awk-
ward exchange about her person-
al life.
But she also recalled the stu-
dents she had grown to love over
her four years of teaching. She
thought about the handwritten
letter one of her first students, a
boy, once handed her: “So I have a
secret that is that I am gay!” She
thought about how, as far as she
knew, she was the only LGBTQ
teacher in the school.
Feeling sure of nothing, Solo-
mon pulled up LinkedIn and be-
gan scrolling for jobs.
TEACHER FROM A
Fla. woman caught between identity and calling“A lot of people didn’tvote because she isopenly gay, and that iswrong. I a m 100 percentsure she lost becauseof that.”
Third-grade teacher Gelany
Arriete, on the reason she believes
Solomon didn’t win the faculty-wide
award for “Rookie Teacher of the
Year”