By Leslie Williamson | Jewish Times | May 7, 2026
Teaching in American schools has never been easy. But in recent years, it has become something else entirely for educators like me. As a Jewish teacher, I have watched my workplace shift from a place of purpose and community into one where I have, at times, felt unsafe, isolated and unheard.
For the final nine years of my 23-year career, I taught at the same school in the Frederick County Public School system. I came to that classroom with the same commitment that drives so many educators: to support my students, to challenge them, and to help them grow into thoughtful citizens. What I did not expect was to also have to defend my Jewish identity and dignity.
In my very first year at that school, a student called me a “damn Jew.” The words were not whispered; they were delivered with clarity and intent. The response from the administration of the school was minimal. There was no meaningful accountability, no broader acknowledgment of the harm such language carries. The message, intentional or not, was that this kind of hatred could be ignored.
Unfortunately, it did not end there.
This past year, a student handed in an assignment to me, with a swastika drawn on the top of the paper. I reported it immediately. While some consequences followed, it marked the beginning of something far more troubling. Over the next five months, at least 18 additional swastikas appeared throughout the school. Some were drawn on desks and walls, some were written in books, and some were found on loose papers. Each one was a reminder that antisemitism was not an isolated incident but a growing presence.
Administrators conducted investigations, but the outcomes were always the same. No one accepted responsibility or cooperated in getting the truth known. The symbols remained, as did my fear.
At one point, I told the administration plainly that I was afraid to come to work. The response I received was, “What do you think is going to happen to you at school?” It is a question that reveals a fundamental misunderstanding. Fear does not require certainty. It grows in environments where warning signs are ignored, where patterns are dismissed, and where those affected are made to feel unreasonable for raising concerns.
As the incidents escalated, so did my request for support. I reached out beyond the school to the central office, hoping for leadership that would recognize the seriousness of the situation. Instead, I was met with responses that ranged from detached to deeply disheartening. One official told me he could not understand my experience because he was not Jewish. Another suggested I should learn forgiveness, while a representative for the school system dismissed a swastika as “a child’s silly doodle.” I was also told, plainly, that my options, if I was not satisfied, were to resign or retire.
That was the extent of the support offered from my employer, Frederick County Public Schools. No one in leadership took concrete proactive steps addressed to educate employees and students on antisemitism, let alone eradicate it. There was never any meaningful training that fit the circumstances for teachers or students. I was viewed more as a troublemaker than as a victim of antisemitism.
It was around that time that I reached out to StandWithUs, an international nonpartisan nonprofit organization that supports those facing antisemitism. Their attorneys listened to me in a way I had not experienced elsewhere and helped guide me as I tried to navigate what had become an overwhelming situation. StandWithUs connected me with a local attorney and together they informed me of my legal rights.
The impact of antisemitism extended beyond my own personal experiences. I am aware of at least three Jewish families in the school community whose children also endured antisemitism in the same school where I was teaching. For two of those families, the situation became so untenable that they felt compelled to remove their children from the school system entirely. And importantly, this school was not the only one in Frederick County Public Schools to experience these issues; other schools in the system have also faced, and continue to face, incidents of antisemitism. This is not an isolated problem confined to a single building; it reflects a broader pattern that demands attention. Even this school year, the presence of swastikas has continued, underscoring how persistent and unresolved the problem remains.
After 23 years in education with Frederick County Public Schools, I was compelled to retire, at least two years earlier than I had planned. It was not a choice driven by burnout or a loss of passion for teaching. It was a decision forced upon me by the Frederick County School system.
My experience is not just about one school or one district. It reflects a broader issue: the failure to confront antisemitism with the seriousness it demands. Swastikas are not pranks or silly children doodles. Religious slurs are not harmless words that can be easily forgotten. They are part of a long history of hatred that has led to violence, persecution and mass murder. When these acts are minimized or ignored, it sends a message not just to those targeted, but also to those watching, that such behavior is tolerable.
Schools are meant to be places of safety, learning and growth. That responsibility extends to everyone within their walls, including teachers. Addressing antisemitism and all forms of hate requires more than quiet investigations and surface-level responses. It demands clear policies, consistent consequences and a willingness to listen to those whose legal rights are violated.
I did not expect my career in education to end this way. But I am sharing my story because silence allows these patterns to continue. We, as a civilized society, must never forget. If schools are to live up to their promise, they must do better not only in what they teach, but in what they are willing to confront.
Leslie Williamson is a retired teacher who served Frederick County Public Schools in Maryland for over 23 years. Leslie founded a nonprofit service organization called Kids These Days, Inc.
