Texas Teachers Silenced for Speaking Out—Abbott's Crackdown Sparks Lawsuit

Paul Riverbank, 1/9/2026Teachers face firings, lawsuits, and national debate over online speech and First Amendment rights.

In Texas, the atmosphere in public schools shifted abruptly after the assassination hit social media. It was all over Twitter by sunrise—teachers making statements ranging from the sharply political to the purely emotional, and, depending on one’s point of view, crossing unspoken lines or just exercising their rights. The American Federation of Teachers found itself, albeit reluctantly, in the center of a legal firestorm. Not by choice, but—as Zeph Capo, Texas AFT’s president, declared—by necessity: “Somewhere and somehow, our state’s leaders lost their way.”

What happened was this: the Texas Education Agency launched what it called “thorough reviews” into educators’ online remarks related to Kirk’s death. Investigations, suspensions, even firings followed, as Mike Morath, leading the Agency, reminded districts that “such posts could constitute a violation of the Educators’ Code of Ethics.” Not everyone agreed. The union, bristling at what it saw as an attack on constitutional freedoms, went to court. Capo accused the state of putting sanitized public image above the livelihoods and personal safety of teachers, who had begun facing not just disciplinary measures but also threats—doxxing, harassment, the whole ugly package. “Our members are scared,” he told a local news station, voice at once exasperated and defiant.

Then Randi Weingarten, head of the national AFT, weighed in with one of those statements that winds up on cable news chyrons: “The Constitution, for it to have any meaning at all, has to work for all Americans, not just some. You don’t lose your rights when you decide to become a teacher.” Her tone was unmistakably fierce, a jarring counterpoint to the official statements coming out of statehouse press rooms.

Meanwhile, over in the Governor’s mansion, Greg Abbott was making his own case. He warned that over a hundred teachers might lose their certifications for posts he viewed as veering into dangerous territory—celebrating or calling for violence. The message from his office: schools must be protected, full stop. No warm words about nuance or grey areas—at least not publicly.

Just a few hundred miles away, Tennessee found itself handling the same national tempest, but made a different set of mistakes. Here, the main character is Darren Michael—a tenured professor at Austin Peay State. His online contribution? Essentially, a hyperlink and a faintly loaded ellipsis. Little else. Yet even that was too much: after U.S. Senator Marsha Blackburn flagged his post online, she publicized his identity, resume and all, directly tagging his university. By day’s end, Michael was terminated, accused of having “caused significant reputational damage.”

But terminating a tenured professor at a public university isn’t a straightforward affair. Administrators skipped mandated due process. Within weeks, the backlash forced the university into settlement talks—resulting in a $500,000 payout, a formal apology from university president Mike Licari, and Michael’s return to work. The president’s words, in a letter that didn’t exactly disguise his chagrin, acknowledged the failing: “We did not follow the required tenure termination process... I deeply regret and apologize for the impact this has had on Professor Michael and our campus community.”

Those watching the legal wrangling (and there were plenty) drew a simple lesson. Jonathan Horpedahl, commenting from the Arkansas Center for Research in Economics, put it bluntly: “Academic freedom lives! (And it pays, sometimes).” Follow process, or get out the checkbook; such were the new realities.

Texas and Tennessee are hardly alone in this new skirmish over public speech and online expression. In Maine, one teacher lost her job via a sharply divided school board vote. Florida schools saw suspensions. Lawsuits cropped up in every region like wildflowers—and not the cheery kind. The connecting thread in these stories was often less about what was said and more about how quickly superintendents, deans, and board chairs scrambled under the gaze of politicians and viral outrage.

All of this leaves schools—and the people who run them—balancing between two broad imperatives: stop discourse from crossing into real-world harm, and still protect employees who bring experience and, sometimes, uncomfortable viewpoints to their roles. It’s never comfortable, and the margin for error, as these cases reveal, is razor thin.

A decade ago, an intemperate joke or ill-judged reference by a teacher might have lingered unremarked at the end of a staff meeting. Today, a screenshot can turn a comment into national controversy before morning coffee. Politicians seize on the moments, unions rally to defense, and the students themselves are left in the midst—sometimes confused, sometimes energized, always affected.

So, what’s next? The outcome of that Texas lawsuit will be crucial, not just for the teachers involved, but for setting precedent on whether—and how—public employees can be monitored or disciplined for their speech online. Meanwhile, the costly debacle at Austin Peay serves as a cautionary tale, echoing through HR offices and faculty lounges: exactly follow the rules, or expect a bill in the six figures.

If anything is clear amidst all this, it’s that the push and pull between speech and standards in education isn’t going to resolve anytime soon. And for all the talk of chilling effects—or, on the flip side, the need for boundaries—the lines remain blurry. When a single post can jeopardize a career or prompt a state-wide legal battle, the responsibilities (and vulnerabilities) of educators change, sometimes overnight.

For now, in the shadow of courtrooms and the glare of the public eye, every school district and university is reconsidering not just what’s allowed, but what’s wise, and above all, how quickly to react. The debate will continue. And if the past few months are any sign, the next case won’t look quite like the last.

There’s been a strange and sometimes unsettling turning point in U.S. education over the last few months—almost as if every school hallway now echoes with debates that, a generation ago, would’ve been strictly the business of constitutionally minded law professors. But this time, the story broke wide open not in a courtroom, but in everyday classrooms, bringing the aftermath of Charlie Kirk’s death into staff rooms from Texas to Tennessee, and well beyond.In Texas, the atmosphere in public schools shifted abruptly after the assassination hit social media. It was all over Twitter by sunrise—teachers making statements ranging from the sharply political to the purely emotional, and, depending on one’s point of view, crossing unspoken lines or just exercising their rights. The American Federation of Teachers found itself, albeit reluctantly, in the center of a legal firestorm. Not by choice, but—as Zeph Capo, Texas AFT’s president, declared—by necessity: “Somewhere and somehow, our state’s leaders lost their way.”What happened was this: the Texas Education Agency launched what it called “thorough reviews” into educators’ online remarks related to Kirk’s death. Investigations, suspensions, even firings followed, as Mike Morath, leading the Agency, reminded districts that “such posts could constitute a violation of the Educators’ Code of Ethics.” Not everyone agreed. The union, bristling at what it saw as an attack on constitutional freedoms, went to court. Capo accused the state of putting sanitized public image above the livelihoods and personal safety of teachers, who had begun facing not just disciplinary measures but also threats—doxxing, harassment, the whole ugly package. “Our members are scared,” he told a local news station, voice at once exasperated and defiant.Then Randi Weingarten, head of the national AFT, weighed in with one of those statements that winds up on cable news chyrons: “The Constitution, for it to have any meaning at all, has to work for all Americans, not just some. You don’t lose your rights when you decide to become a teacher.” Her tone was unmistakably fierce, a jarring counterpoint to the official statements coming out of statehouse press rooms.Meanwhile, over in the Governor’s mansion, Greg Abbott was making his own case. He warned that over a hundred teachers might lose their certifications for posts he viewed as veering into dangerous territory—celebrating or calling for violence. The message from his office: schools must be protected, full stop. No warm words about nuance or grey areas—at least not publicly.Just a few hundred miles away, Tennessee found itself handling the same national tempest, but made a different set of mistakes. Here, the main character is Darren Michael—a tenured professor at Austin Peay State. His online contribution? Essentially, a hyperlink and a faintly loaded ellipsis. Little else. Yet even that was too much: after U.S. Senator Marsha Blackburn flagged his post online, she publicized his identity, resume and all, directly tagging his university. By day’s end, Michael was terminated, accused of having “caused significant reputational damage.”But terminating a tenured professor at a public university isn’t a straightforward affair. Administrators skipped mandated due process. Within weeks, the backlash forced the university into settlement talks—resulting in a $500,000 payout, a formal apology from university president Mike Licari, and Michael’s return to work. The president’s words, in a letter that didn’t exactly disguise his chagrin, acknowledged the failing: “We did not follow the required tenure termination process... I deeply regret and apologize for the impact this has had on Professor Michael and our campus community.”Those watching the legal wrangling (and there were plenty) drew a simple lesson. Jonathan Horpedahl, commenting from the Arkansas Center for Research in Economics, put it bluntly: “Academic freedom lives! (And it pays, sometimes).” Follow process, or get out the checkbook; such were the new realities.Texas and Tennessee are hardly alone in this new skirmish over public speech and online expression. In Maine, one teacher lost her job via a sharply divided school board vote. Florida schools saw suspensions. Lawsuits cropped up in every region like wildflowers—and not the cheery kind. The connecting thread in these stories was often less about what was said and more about how quickly superintendents, deans, and board chairs scrambled under the gaze of politicians and viral outrage.All of this leaves schools—and the people who run them—balancing between two broad imperatives: stop discourse from crossing into real-world harm, and still protect employees who bring experience and, sometimes, uncomfortable viewpoints to their roles. It’s never comfortable, and the margin for error, as these cases reveal, is razor thin.A decade ago, an intemperate joke or ill-judged reference by a teacher might have lingered unremarked at the end of a staff meeting. Today, a screenshot can turn a comment into national controversy before morning coffee. Politicians seize on the moments, unions rally to defense, and the students themselves are left in the midst—sometimes confused, sometimes energized, always affected.So, what’s next? The outcome of that Texas lawsuit will be crucial, not just for the teachers involved, but for setting precedent on whether—and how—public employees can be monitored or disciplined for their speech online. Meanwhile, the costly debacle at Austin Peay serves as a cautionary tale, echoing through HR offices and faculty lounges: exactly follow the rules, or expect a bill in the six figures.If anything is clear amidst all this, it’s that the push and pull between speech and standards in education isn’t going to resolve anytime soon. And for all the talk of chilling effects—or, on the flip side, the need for boundaries—the lines remain blurry. When a single post can jeopardize a career or prompt a state-wide legal battle, the responsibilities (and vulnerabilities) of educators change, sometimes overnight.For now, in the shadow of courtrooms and the glare of the public eye, every school district and university is reconsidering not just what’s allowed, but what’s wise, and above all, how quickly to react. The debate will continue. And if the past few months are any sign, the next case won’t look quite like the last.