Part 36: Closed doors.

Elysha discovers a secret that I've been keeping for two years.

The “Teachers” chapter included an excerpt about me planning for my Connecticut Teacher of the Year site visit.

Each of the three finalists had a team of about a dozen judges from the state spend the day in our schools, observing us teach and meeting with teachers, administrators, parents, and students.

It was a big deal.

One of the more important days of my life.

It was also the final means by which a winner would ultimately be selected.

Unfortunately, I never had a chance.

It was entirely possible I never had a chance, even before the site visit. My fellow finalists each had more than 30 years of teaching experience.

I had six.

My chances may have been slim from the start.

But my chances of winning were doomed when two of my colleagues and fellow third-grade teachers, including the teacher who cheated on those cognitive tests, closed their doors to the committee and refused to be interviewed that day.

I had no idea any of this was happening. I was busy teaching my kids and answering questions from the committee. It was only days later that I was informed by the principal and several colleagues about their actions.

“They torpedoed any chance you had of winning,” my principal explained. “They made it clear to the committee that they didn’t believe you should win.”

Several teachers told me the same.

Every one of these teachers was appalled by their actions.

I only learned about this after receiving the phone call informing me that I had not been chosen as Connecticut’s Teacher of the Year. My principal and colleagues decided to keep this information to themselves until the decision had been made, hoping against hope that I might still win.

Despite the actions of these two teachers, the site visit went brilliantly. I ended my day in the company of the committee, who spent more than an hour with me. They read letters of support written on my behalf and reported on the exceedingly kind things said about me by colleagues, students, and parents throughout the day.

I had tears in my eyes as they told me what was written and said. It was the kind of moment that I wish for every teacher at some point in their career.

Except for those who attempt to destroy the careers of their colleagues through lies, mischaracterizations, and fabrications, all while hiding behind the cowardice of anonymity.

Maybe not them.

Elysha is scooping dinner into bowls when I remind her about what my colleagues did to me that day. “It might be another clue about who is responsible for all of this,” I say.

But as soon as I begin speaking, I see the look on her face, and I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.

I had never told Elysha about those closed doors and refusals to be interviewed.

Wanting to protect her from the knowledge that two people whom we work alongside every day betrayed me, I had kept their actions — like that terrible post-it note I found affixed on my door — to myself.

Why burden her with that awful bit of information?

It probably had something to do with shame, too.

I was ashamed to discover that two people whom I had been teaching alongside for six years — one of whom I had helped in a multitude of personal and professional ways over the years — had stolen my opportunity at the recognition of a lifetime.

I had no idea why they might have done this to me, but I was embarrassed and ashamed by their actions.

I assumed that I must’ve done something wrong.

It was probably my fault.

The idiot who had spent part of his life homeless and in jail had done it again.

I wasn’t sure exactly what I had done, but it must’ve been something. Why would teachers undermine a colleague on such an important day?

One of them was the same person whom I — and presumably Paul — suspect is the author of the letters and packet.

It’s possible that the other teacher whose door remained closed that day is also responsible for this anonymous attack, though it would break my heart to discover so.

I suspect my heart will be broken many times before this is all over.

“You never told me that,” Elysha says.

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry,” I explain that I was trying to protect her. I didn’t want her to be plagued by the knowledge that fellow teachers purposefully ruined my chances of becoming Connecticut’s Teacher of the Year.

It would’ve made every day hard for her.

I’m remarkably adept at putting ugly things in boxes and placing them on metaphorical shelves in my mind, which allows me to work alongside people who I know have done me wrong.

And it’s not the first time I’ve had to do this. It’s remarkable to me how often someone says something rotten about me to a friend and colleague who knows and loves me, thinking that information won’t make its way back to me.

It’s bizarre.

Maybe these monsters have friends who lack loyalty and honor.

Maybe they lack friends entirely, which is why they are so bitter and angry.

But in each case, I take that information and put it away, allowing me to continue moving through the world, knowing what happened without allowing it to interfere with my relationship with that person.

Keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer.

Elysha is not happy about my concealing this information from her. She understands and appreciates the sentiment, but the thought of me knowing things like the post-it note and this betrayal of my colleagues and someone I once considered a friend isn’t something she wants me to carry alone.

I get it.

If the shoe were on the other foot, I wouldn’t want Elysha concealing these things from me.

“Is there anything else you’re not telling me?” Elysha asks.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Good,” she says, “Let’s eat and read another chapter,” she says.

Sounds like a good way to ruin Elysha’s good rice.