We need brave teachers — I was lucky to have one
Guest Column by Dr. Jason Peplinski
February 9, 2026
Mrs. Spearing was my third-grade teacher at Suttons Bay Elementary — the kind of teacher who made the classroom feel softer just by being in it. Every Friday afternoon she would turn off the lights, settle onto a stool with her guitar, and sing to us. Her voice was not loud, but it was clear and warm, like it knew exactly where it needed to go. Even as a kid, I knew it was beautiful.
That same year, in P.E., I asked Mrs. Blough if I could do a dance routine to Olivia Newton-John’s “Let’s Get Physical.” That song was all the rage! I wore my headband, my wristbands, and the leg warmers I thought were incredible. It was the kind of outfit only a kid can wear with total sincerity. The adults around me must have exchanged glances, seeing something about me I had not yet named, something they knew they could not entirely shield me from.
After the class, someone, who I will not name here, called me a faggot. I did not know what the word meant, not really, but every part of me understood it was not meant with kindness. The sting of it followed me all the way back to Mrs. Spearing’s room. When she dimmed the lights and started singing, I put my head down on the desk, trying to disappear into the melody.
At the end of the day, when the other children rushed out, I remained in my seat for a moment, my eyes still wet from crying. Mrs. Spearing walked over and rested her hand lightly on the edge of my desk. In what I now understand was an act of real courage for a teacher in the early 1980s, in a public school in northern Michigan, she said, “One day, Jason, people will better understand.” I did not know what her words meant at the time, but I felt the gentleness behind them. At that moment, I felt seen.
Teachers like her, teachers who create a quiet refuge in a world that is not always gentle, matter more than they may ever realize. For a little gay boy who could not yet imagine a place for himself in a town that could not imagine one for him either, those brief moments of safety meant everything. Their significance revealed itself only years later, but their impact was already shaping the person I would become.
Today, it is more important than ever that teachers refuse to shy away from allyship with students like my third grade self. Children who feel different, or uncertain, or afraid are watching the adults around them for signs of safety. They need teachers who stand with courage, who choose compassion even when it feels easier to remain silent.
Being brave in support of students is not an extra task, it is the heart of the work. Every gentle word, every moment of protection, every signal that a child is seen and valued can shape a life in ways that last for decades. I know this because Mrs. Spearing did exactly that. Her quiet strength, her music, her kindness in a darkened classroom became a promise I carried forward. Teachers today have that same power, and I hope they lean into it with the same grace she offered me.
My lifelong work as an educator has become a way for me to be what I once needed as a child for others who stand where I once stood. It has given me the opportunity to speak around the country about inclusion, affirmation, and the profound responsibility adults hold in shaping a child’s sense of belonging. Every time I guide a district, support a teacher, or stand beside a student who feels unseen, I am honoring the quiet bravery Mrs. Spearing showed me. The way she cared for me became the measure for how I would care for other people’s children, and her kindness continues to ripple outward through the work I do today.
Jason Peplinski, Ed.D., is the co-director of ACSA’s New Superintendent Seminar Series and a retired superintendent (Simi Valley Unified School District).
Protecting My Third-Grade Self
By Dr. Jason Peplinski
I think back to that little kid in Suttons Bay,
the one who walked the halls cautiously,
hearing the echo of his own difference
long before he had a word for it.
A town small enough to know every face,
yet somehow too small
to imagine a boy like me
growing into a life that fits.
There were no examples of myself
in the pews,
on the playground,
in the stories adults told
about who you should be
and plenty of who you must never become.
So I learned early
to fold pieces of myself away,
to pray harder,
to bargain with a God I questioned
might not have room for me
after all.
The conflict lived inside my ribs,
faith pressed against truth,
shame pressed against hope.
Some days I felt like
I was trying to unlearn myself,
as if erasing the evidence
could make me worthy
in the eyes of a world
that never looked back with understanding.
But now,
now I return to that third-grade boy,
the one sitting unknown
with questions too big for his small hands.
I bend down beside him
and tell him what no one told me:
that he is not wrong,
that he is not broken,
that he is allowed to exist
in fullness and light.
I tell him
that one day he will grow strong enough
to protect the child he once was,
strong enough
to hold space for the boy
who survived without a map,
strong enough
to love himself
in the way he always deserved.
And I let him know
that the world becomes bigger
big enough for him,
big enough for who he becomes
when he finally unfolds.