Teaching Honest History in Florida Means Walking a Political Tightrope

I’ve spent over a decade teaching history in Pinellas County in private and public school settings. I love this work—introducing young people to the story of our nation, in all its beauty and contradiction. But in today’s climate, teaching history is no longer just about what happened. It’s about who controls the story.
Here in Florida, the past few years have brought a tidal wave of legislation and policy changes that make it harder to do this job with integrity. Whether it’s the so-called “Stop WOKE Act” or new curriculum standards that downplay the horrors of slavery, the message to educators is loud and clear: Stick to the script. Don’t make anyone uncomfortable. Avoid the inconvenient truths.
But history isn’t comfortable. And it shouldn’t be.

Classrooms Aren’t Battlefields—They’re Mirrors
My classroom is a place where students encounter the words of Frederick Douglass, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Chief Joseph—not because I’m trying to push a political agenda, but because these voices are the backbone of our collective story. When students read primary sources and wrestle with what they mean, they learn to think critically. They learn that democracy is messy. That progress takes struggle. That patriotism isn’t about blind loyalty but the courage to question.
I don’t tell students what to believe. I present evidence, ask questions, and encourage respectful discussion. For example, when we examine Reconstruction or Jim Crow laws, I ask students: What do these policies suggest about the goals of those in power? How do they align—or clash—with the Constitution’s promises?
In this environment, discomfort isn’t a problem to avoid—it’s a sign that students are engaging deeply, wrestling with the past in meaningful ways.
But increasingly, teachers like me are forced to walk a fine line. One misstep—a parent complaint, a misunderstood assignment, a social media post taken out of context—can become a professional hazard. That pressure doesn’t just affect what we teach; it affects how we feel about our work. I know excellent educators who are burning out or leaving the profession altogether, not because they stopped caring, but because the emotional toll of teaching truth in a hostile climate became too great.

This Is About More Than Schools
Let’s be clear: what’s happening in our classrooms reflects broader national trends—but it also deeply affects local communities like ours in St. Petersburg.
When we restrict how history is taught, we’re not just limiting content—we’re narrowing students’ ability to participate fully in civic life. How can they vote wisely, advocate effectively, or lead courageously if they’ve been given only a half-told version of our nation’s past?
True civic education isn’t about test prep or textbook memorization. It’s about learning how to think, how to listen, and how to wrestle with complex truths. That work is messy, and it doesn’t fit neatly into political slogans. But it’s essential to a functioning democracy.
Pinellas County is full of passionate, thoughtful educators who want to teach history honestly. We need support—from parents, from neighbors, from local leaders—who understand that democracy depends on an educated public. We need community members willing to show up at school board meetings, write letters, speak out, and stand with teachers who are simply doing their jobs.
We don’t need protection from discomfort; we need the tools to grow through it.
As a teacher, I’ll keep doing everything I can to teach with honesty, integrity, and care. But I can’t do it alone. If we want a generation of students who can think critically and act ethically, we have to create the conditions that make that possible.
What’s at stake isn’t just curriculum. It’s our civic soul.