I keep what I call an obituary list.

It’s where I send people who are no longer worth my time, my energy, or my peace. No drama. No theatrical exits. Just quiet removal.

Please note: nobody ends up on that list by accident. I watch. I observe. I build a whole RICO case—patterns, inconsistencies, choices, and harm. Never mistake my silence as weakness. I’m usually taking mental notes. And when the evidence is clear that someone costs me more than they contribute to my well-bring or others, I’m done. That’s when they get added.

The hardest names to write down are teachers, especially when they look like me.
Far too often, we are our own worst enemies.

I recently watched a teacher—working in one of the most segregated school systems in the country (not Pennsylvania)—make the sweeping claim that “most” teachers are mediocre. In the same breath, they blamed unions for “forcing” teachers to comply with administration.
That’s not oppression. That’s a contract you signed to lead, to be better, to do better in service of others.

You get to benefit from collective bargaining while publicly sneering at the very profession that protects your paycheck, your due process, and your classroom autonomy. You don’t get to generalize educators as mediocre while doing nothing to uplift, mentor, organize, protest, or defend them.

Especially not now.

Not during record teacher shortages.

Not while the profession is under coordinated attack.

Not while educators are being legislated, surveilled, silenced, and burned out.

You do not build the profession by tearing it down from within. You do not protect students by demeaning their teachers—your co-workers. And you do not get access to my time if your platform is rooted in contempt instead of care, while hidden in the guise of “being human”.

So yes—some names end up on the obituary list.

Not out of spite.

Out of self-preservation.

Including friends. 

I often tell my kids, friends are like clothes…some you will always be able to wear. They are your refuge and comfort. Some you outgrow. Light a candle, mourn them, leave them at the curb, then move on. Never sacrifice your peace.
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Peace is non-negotiable. Protect your borders.

    There is a quiet skill that does not get enough attention in our public conversations: the emotional intelligence to know when you have overstepped—and the wisdom to step back without needing to win.
    We talk a lot about calling people out. Less so about calling people in. The difference matters.
    Being called in assumes there is space for reflection, growth, and repair. It assumes the person has the emotional maturity to listen, self-assess, and recalibrate. Being called out, on the other hand, often happens when someone refuses to pause—when the need to be right overrides the responsibility to do no harm.
    Some years ago, I found myself in a space that illustrated this distinction painfully well.
A white teacher shared a story about a squirrel nesting in her classroom window. She described it as a “livable lesson” for her students—an organic moment of curiosity, observation, and learning. In her telling, she referred to the squirrel as her spirit animal.
    An Indigenous woman in the group took offense and stated that spirit animals were part of her culture, and that the white teacher had no right to claim that language.
    Here’s where emotional intelligence—and discernment—should have entered the conversation.
    Spirit animals are not exclusive to one culture. Variations of animal symbolism, guides, and spiritual metaphors exist across many indigenous cultures globally, as well as in non-indigenous traditions. While specific practices are culturally rooted and deserve respect, the idea itself cannot be singularly claimed.
    And more critically—how did anyone in that space know the cultural identity of the woman telling the story? Appearance is not ancestry. Passing is real. Mixed identities are real. Adoption is real. Diaspora is real. Assuming someone’s cultural legitimacy—or illegitimacy—based on how they look is itself a form of harm.
    This was a moment ripe for a call in.
    A call in might have sounded like curiosity instead of accusation.
    It might have invited clarification instead of correction.
    It might have acknowledged discomfort without assigning malice.
    But that requires restraint. It requires recognizing that not every moment of discomfort is an act of violence—and that not every perceived misstep demands public discipline.
    Calling someone in means trusting that growth is possible. Calling someone out often happens when trust has already been abandoned.
    What derails so many of these moments is the refusal to pause. The insistence on being right. The doubling down that turns a potential learning moment into a power struggle.
    Overstepping doesn’t become the real problem until someone refuses to notice they’ve done it.
    As educators, writers, and people who claim to care about community, we have to ask ourselves: Am I protecting understanding—or am I protecting my ego?
    Emotional intelligence is not about silence. It’s about discernment. It’s about knowing when correction educates and when it simply performs. It’s about recognizing when the goal should be connection, not conquest.
    If we want spaces that are truly inclusive, we have to build them with humility. That means leaving room for nuance, resisting the urge to assume, and remembering that calling someone in is often the braver—and harder—choice.
    Because growth doesn’t come from being publicly right.
    It comes from being willing to listen, learn, and step back when needed.