Drinking the Kool-Aid

When I first heard someone use the phrase “drinking the Kool-Aid” in a staff memo, my jaw nearly hit the teacher’s lounge table. To me, Kool-Aid was the stuff of childhood—sticky red mustaches, paper cups, and endless summer refills. But the phrase? That carried a much darker flavor.

I was working under a brand-new principal—Rich—who was just twenty-nine years old. Of all the qualified candidates who must have applied, somehow he got the job. His résumé boasted a couple years of teaching kindergarten, a freshly minted master’s degree, and a short stint as an assistant principal. He had energy and enthusiasm, sure—but experience? Let’s just say his cup wasn’t exactly running over.

Still, I wanted to be helpful. Supportive. The seasoned teacher helping the new guy find his footing. My classroom had always been my safe place, and my coworkers felt more like family than colleagues. So when I read an email about another principal celebrating that her teachers were “finally drinking the Kool-Aid” when it came to new curriculum changes, I felt compelled to say something.

I walked into Rich’s office and gently explained the tragic Jonestown origins of that phrase—how over 900 people died in 1978 after literally drinking poisoned Flavor Aid. (Not even Kool-Aid, which really got a bad rap out of the deal.) Rich blinked, clearly stunned. He had no idea. He promised to mention it to his colleague, though I suspect it was filed somewhere between “Things Old Teachers Worry About” and “Weird Trivia Lisa Knows.”

That same year, Rich and a senior administrator came to observe a lesson in my classroom. My student teacher later whispered that the senior admin spent the entire observation scrolling through Facebook. Thinking it was worth noting, I mentioned it to Rich—expecting, perhaps naively, some understanding. Instead, he called the student teacher’s university dean himself. Within a week, she was dismissed from her placement for “questioning the authority of an administrator.” She still graduated, but without her teaching certification. Apparently, questioning authority was a cardinal sin.

Then there was the time I told Rich that when adults sit at child-sized tables, everyone should be aware of body space. Picture this: a man well over six feet tall folded into a chair built for a first grader. His knees were practically up to his ears, yet somehow he managed to sit with his legs spread so wide he claimed half the table like a king staking his territory. It was the kind of posture a woman would never assume—especially in a room filled with little chairs, little people, and the faint smell of crayons. It wasn’t just awkward; it felt intrusive, aggressive even, in a space meant to be safe and nurturing.. You’d think I’d suggested we outlaw chairs entirely.

By the next school year, my relationship with Rich had soured faster than unrefrigerated milk. It seemed like he was looking for a target, and my name was printed in bold. I found myself on an “improvement plan,” summoned to his office for mysterious “talks.” The writing was on the wall—or maybe just the inside of my resignation letter, which I turned in on March 15.

Looking back, I realize I wasn’t “drinking the Kool-Aid.” I was the one standing off to the side, saying, “Um…are we sure this is safe?” It turns out that not following the crowd can be hazardous to your career—but it’s much better for your integrity.

And honestly? I’ll take water, thank you. No sugar, no poison, and definitely no “flavor aid.”

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