GOP Leaders Crack Down on School’s ‘Coordinated Middle Finger’ to State Law

Paul Riverbank, 12/12/2025North Carolina lawmakers confront school boards in a high-stakes battle over parental rights laws.

Jones, never one to waste time on pleasantries, zeroed in on the Chapel Hill-Carrboro City Schools board with the kind of blunt language that leaves no room for misunderstanding. “You chose to deceive the public, and now you’re here because you got caught,” he shot across the room, accusing the board not just of sidestepping Senate Bill 49, but of staging a kind of open rebellion against its most contentious provisions.

This latest law, called the Parents’ Bill of Rights, had already sown controversy when it swept through the legislature last August. Officially, it drew hard lines: primary classrooms were out-of-bounds for lessons on sexual orientation or gender identity, and parents were guaranteed a say if their children asked to be called by a different name or pronoun. Unofficially, it placed school districts in a thicket of bureaucratic obligations and political scrutiny.

Superintendent Rodney Trice and School Board Chair George Griffin made their case in calm, even tones. They insisted their intentions weren’t rebellious, just misunderstood—yes, there had been confusion over how to implement certain sections, but the board had since shored up all gaps. In a carefully worded apology, Griffin conceded he might have fumbled an earlier comment that questioned the law’s enforceability, but he assured the panel the district now was “in compliance.”

But politics is rarely simple. Archived emails and scattered public comments painted a more complicated picture. At one point, Griffin had called the new law “discriminatory.” In a February email, he referenced those dicey sections—the ones about pronoun notification—as being delayed or possibly set aside entirely. This, for lawmakers like Jones, was less a misunderstanding than a conscious choice.

The hearing’s fever pitch, though, arrived not over procedure, but over which books had appeared in the district’s recommended reading. Jones hauled in a stack. Among them was a picture book featuring a Black Santa and his White husband—offensive, in some eyes, only because state law might now ban children from seeing same-sex couples in primary grades. Another book was read aloud, one passage declaring, “some boys have a penis but not all boys do,” quoted by Jones as evidence that schools were pushing “adult” themes onto grade schoolers.

There’s always a moment in these hearings when a line is drawn and nobody seems willing—or able—to step across. Trice, for his part, said the district’s own lists didn’t actually promote these books, claiming that graphic content, if it appeared at all, had slipped through unnoticed. “We don’t think these are age-appropriate,” he offered, but hesitated when pressed: “I do not know whether the books were actually recommended by the district.”

With tempers rising, Rep. Jeff McNeely chimed in: “So you thought the law that we gave you was multiple choice? You could kind of choose what you liked?” An accusation, perhaps—but it was also a question hanging heavily over every school administrator in the room.

By the time the committee adjourned, it hadn’t just aired a dispute about statutes and policy. The hearing had cracked open a rawer truth about the competing roles of parents, administrators, and lawmakers. And as Jones delivered his ultimatum—promising that the General Assembly would exhaust “every tool, every statute, and every ounce of our authority”—it was clear the day’s session was less about compliance than control.

National advocates have weighed in, warning about “secret-transition” policies and the risk of parents being excluded from pivotal decisions about their own children. Meanwhile, supporters of local school boards argue these laws force educators into impossible positions, balancing state mandates and the sometimes conflicting wishes of diverse families.

What everyone seems to agree on is this: the law is cut-and-dried in its text, but far less so in its implementation. In North Carolina and beyond, where every book list and teacher email is suddenly subject to public inspection, the boundaries of education are being redrawn one confrontation at a time. It’s clear now that the classroom has become the latest arena for America’s political anxieties, with no signs of retreat from either side.

Lights blazed down on a tense scene in Raleigh this week, where North Carolina’s education conversation took on the edge of a courtroom drama. Lawmakers had summoned local school leaders for a hearing—ostensibly about compliance, but as soon as House Majority Leader Brenden Jones took the floor, it was clear that what simmered below was a much larger battle over who holds the keys to the classroom.Jones, never one to waste time on pleasantries, zeroed in on the Chapel Hill-Carrboro City Schools board with the kind of blunt language that leaves no room for misunderstanding. “You chose to deceive the public, and now you’re here because you got caught,” he shot across the room, accusing the board not just of sidestepping Senate Bill 49, but of staging a kind of open rebellion against its most contentious provisions.This latest law, called the Parents’ Bill of Rights, had already sown controversy when it swept through the legislature last August. Officially, it drew hard lines: primary classrooms were out-of-bounds for lessons on sexual orientation or gender identity, and parents were guaranteed a say if their children asked to be called by a different name or pronoun. Unofficially, it placed school districts in a thicket of bureaucratic obligations and political scrutiny.Superintendent Rodney Trice and School Board Chair George Griffin made their case in calm, even tones. They insisted their intentions weren’t rebellious, just misunderstood—yes, there had been confusion over how to implement certain sections, but the board had since shored up all gaps. In a carefully worded apology, Griffin conceded he might have fumbled an earlier comment that questioned the law’s enforceability, but he assured the panel the district now was “in compliance.”But politics is rarely simple. Archived emails and scattered public comments painted a more complicated picture. At one point, Griffin had called the new law “discriminatory.” In a February email, he referenced those dicey sections—the ones about pronoun notification—as being delayed or possibly set aside entirely. This, for lawmakers like Jones, was less a misunderstanding than a conscious choice.The hearing’s fever pitch, though, arrived not over procedure, but over which books had appeared in the district’s recommended reading. Jones hauled in a stack. Among them was a picture book featuring a Black Santa and his White husband—offensive, in some eyes, only because state law might now ban children from seeing same-sex couples in primary grades. Another book was read aloud, one passage declaring, “some boys have a penis but not all boys do,” quoted by Jones as evidence that schools were pushing “adult” themes onto grade schoolers.There’s always a moment in these hearings when a line is drawn and nobody seems willing—or able—to step across. Trice, for his part, said the district’s own lists didn’t actually promote these books, claiming that graphic content, if it appeared at all, had slipped through unnoticed. “We don’t think these are age-appropriate,” he offered, but hesitated when pressed: “I do not know whether the books were actually recommended by the district.”With tempers rising, Rep. Jeff McNeely chimed in: “So you thought the law that we gave you was multiple choice? You could kind of choose what you liked?” An accusation, perhaps—but it was also a question hanging heavily over every school administrator in the room.By the time the committee adjourned, it hadn’t just aired a dispute about statutes and policy. The hearing had cracked open a rawer truth about the competing roles of parents, administrators, and lawmakers. And as Jones delivered his ultimatum—promising that the General Assembly would exhaust “every tool, every statute, and every ounce of our authority”—it was clear the day’s session was less about compliance than control.National advocates have weighed in, warning about “secret-transition” policies and the risk of parents being excluded from pivotal decisions about their own children. Meanwhile, supporters of local school boards argue these laws force educators into impossible positions, balancing state mandates and the sometimes conflicting wishes of diverse families.What everyone seems to agree on is this: the law is cut-and-dried in its text, but far less so in its implementation. In North Carolina and beyond, where every book list and teacher email is suddenly subject to public inspection, the boundaries of education are being redrawn one confrontation at a time. It’s clear now that the classroom has become the latest arena for America’s political anxieties, with no signs of retreat from either side.