Dear UFT, We Need To Talk.

A goodbye letter to the union I loved, and the organization I no longer recognize.

There are some goodbyes you know are coming. There are others you never imagined you’d have to say. As of today, I am officially no longer a member of the United Federation of Teachers. After nearly 30 years, that’s a weird sentence to write and even weirder to say out loud. I have been offered and accepted a new position with NYC Public Schools and will now be represented by a different union.

The UFT was a huge part of my life. I joined in 1997 as a paraprofessional, and over the years, my relationship with the union grew into something much bigger than being a member, I ultimately became a staffer.

It was part of who I was. I was invested. For years, I genuinely believed we were on the same team. No, actually, just that I was part of the team. Then came the cold truth. The UFT of today is not the UFT I met in 1997. Don’t get me wrong, change is necessary. Change for the better. I know that statement will make some people uncomfortable. Maybe some will disagree with me. That’s okay.

This isn’t an attempt to tell anyone what they should think about the UFT. It’s me telling you what my relationship with the UFT became, and I thought about how strange it is to spend nearly 30 years building something together, and then one day realize that the relationship you remember isn’t the relationship you’re in anymore.

So, I decided to write a letter. Not a grievance, a complaint, a campaign statement, or a political attack. A letter. A love letter. A breakup letter. A letter to an old friend or maybe an old partner, that I once believed I would be standing beside forever.

It’s personal, and yes, there’s some pain in it, but underneath all of that is something else. I still care. I still believe in the idea of a strong union. I still believe in collective action. I still believe in what workers can accomplish when they stand together, and I still believe the UFT has enormous potential. That’s why I hope this letter does more than make someone sad or even angry. I hope it makes people think. I hope it makes some people uncomfortable. I hope it opens a few eyes.

Most of all, I hope it makes people take a good, hard look at their own relationship with their union, or any organization they have devoted themselves to, and ask some uncomfortable questions: Is this relationship still what I thought it was? Are we still working toward the same purpose? Am I being heard? Am I being valued? Perhaps most importantly, is this relationship still good for me?

To me, a union should be more than collecting dues, negotiating contracts, and just calling itself a labor union, it should have a moral compass. It should be an active part of the labor movement, willing to organize, fight, challenge the status quo, and use its power for something bigger than itself, especially a union made up largely of women, who deserve so much more.

Sometimes the hardest thing isn’t realizing that a relationship has changed. It’s admitting that it has. So, UFT, after almost 30 years together, I think it’s finally time we talk.

Here is my letter to you.

Dear UFT,

I guess this is the part where I finally say the things I’ve been holding in for a long time. This is probably the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because, for almost 30 years, you were a huge part of my life.

We met in 1997. I was young then. A paraprofessional who believed that if you worked hard, stood up for people, and did the right thing, you could make a difference. Then there was you. Strong, wise, something I could look up to. We got close pretty quickly. You saw something in me that I didn’t always see in myself. You encouraged me to get involved and pushed me toward leadership. You sent me to organizing and leadership trainings and introduced me to people I never imagined I would meet.

You opened doors, and I walked through them. Together, we went places. You put me on state and national committees. You sent me around the country to organize, to train, to build relationships, and to learn. From Oregon to Puerto Rico and so many places in between. I met incredible leaders, organizers, educators, paraprofessionals, and activists because of you.

We built relationships, we built movements, we fought for people. Together. For a long time, it really felt like it was you and me against the world, and I loved that. I believed in what we were doing, and most of all I believed we could change the world. Maybe that sounds a little dramatic, but when you’re young and passionate and surrounded by people who believe in something bigger than themselves, you really do think you can. Even if we couldn’t change the whole world, we could change someone’s world.

A member’s world, a coworker’s, a family’s. That was enough for me. You gave me opportunities I never imagined I would have. You helped me find my voice and helped me become a leader. You introduced me to people and experiences that changed the trajectory of my life.

For that, I will always be grateful, but somewhere along the way, something changed. You changed. At first, I tried not to notice. I told myself things were different. People, organizations, and relationships change every day. That’s life, but then you started leaving me out.

The conversations I used to be part of were happening without me. The meetings I once had a seat at no longer had a chair with my name on it. Other people started taking my place. People who hadn’t invested the time I had. Who didn’t have the history we had. People who didn’t know the lessons we had learned together, and I started wondering, did all those years really mean that little? Twenty-plus years couldn’t disappear overnight. They did start to fade, and then came the moment I never thought would happen.

You dumped me. Just like that. After everything. All the years. After everything I had given you. You turned your back on me, and I thought that was the worst part. I was wrong, because then came the shunning. The attempts to dim my light and the attempts to put me in a corner.

The feeling that maybe the goal was to make me disappear. To make people forget. Forget about the work, the organizing, the relationships. To forget that I had been standing beside you for decades. I didn’t disappear, and maybe that’s what bothered you.

So then you tried something else. You tried to bury me. You tried to kill me. Not literally, of course, but you tried to kill my voice. My reputation, and my ability to lead. Definitely my place in the organization. You tried to make me believe that the years I had invested didn’t matter anymore.

I never thought it would come to that, and yet, through all of it, I stayed. I stayed by your side until the very end, because some part of me was still holding on to that kid from 1997. The one who believed it was still you and me against the world. I kept thinking maybe I could change your mind. That I could make you remember, and I could make you see what I saw.

Maybe the purpose I fell in love with was still in there somewhere, and then I realized something. Maybe it wasn’t you, at least, not entirely. There were other people in the room. People whispering in your ear. People speaking for you. People telling you what to think. People acting on your behalf, and somewhere along the way, you stopped listening to the people who built you.

You started listening to the people who benefited personally from the power, access, and positions you could give them, and that’s when I realized something else.

They aren’t just hurting me. They’re hurting you. Slowly, and quietly, from the inside. They’ve made the relationship more about themselves than it is about you. More about power than purpose and about positions than people. More about who gets to sit at the table than who we’re supposed to be fighting for, and that’s the part that breaks my heart, because I still believe in you.

I really do. After everything. I still see your potential and still believe in what you could be. I still believe in what a strong, united union can do for working people, and I still believe in what we were supposed to be, but you have to open your eyes.

You have to start asking questions. You have to look carefully at the people whispering in your ear, because some of them are leading you somewhere you were never supposed to go, and UFT, you need to remember who you were before all of this.

Remember your beginning, the people who came before you, your founders. What they sacrificed. Remember why they built you. They didn’t build you so that a handful of people could have power. They built you because working people needed a voice and because workers needed someone willing to fight when fighting wasn’t easy. They built you because solidarity was supposed to mean something.

Somewhere along the way, you’ve drifted. You’ve drifted way too far. So this is goodbye. Not an angry goodbye or a bitter goodbye. A goodbye from someone who loved you enough to tell you the truth. I forgive you. I forgive the meetings I wasn’t invited to. I forgive the conversations I was left out of. I forgive the doors that were closed. I forgive the attempts to silence me. I forgive the attempts to bury me, and I forgive the fact that, after nearly 30 years, you decided I wasn’t worth fighting for.

Holding on to all of that anger would mean you’re still controlling me, and you’re not. I’m cutting the ties. I’m moving forward. I’m going to look at you in the rearview mirror and keep going, and maybe that’s the strangest part of this whole thing. I don’t hate you. I don’t even want you to fail. Quite the opposite. I want you to succeed, to find your way back, to remember what made people fall in love with you in the first place.

I want you to remember that a union isn’t a building. It isn’t a title. Not a position. It isn’t a slate or a handful of people sitting around a table. A union is its people. Its members. The people who pay dues. Who show up. The people who go to work every day, who need someone to stand beside them when they can’t stand alone.

That’s the UFT I fell in love with. That’s the UFT I spent nearly 30 years fighting for. Maybe one day, our paths will cross again. The wounds will heal, and one day we can sit across from each other and talk. Maybe even work together again. Not because I’ve forgotten what happened, but because you’ve remembered who you are.

When we had purpose. When we were on the same page. When it really was you and me against the world. Until then, stay strong. Do some soul-searching. Open your eyes. Listen to your members. Listen to the people who don’t always agree with you, and most importantly, remember where you came from.

Remember your founders, their sacrifices, what they built, because UFT, I still believe there’s something great inside of you. You’ve got a lot of work to do to find it again.

As for me? I’m okay. I’m walking away with the memories. The lessons learned. The friendships made. All the battles. The victories and the losses. The people whose lives we touched, and the knowledge that I gave you everything I had for almost 30 years.

So this really is my final letter. No more begging. No more explaining. No more trying to make you remember who I was. You know who I was. You just forgot, and maybe someday you’ll remember.

Until then...Goodbye, UFT. Thank you for the memories. Thank you for the opportunities. Thank you for helping make me who I am, and thank you for teaching me one of life’s hardest lessons, sometimes you can love something deeply and still know it’s time to walk away.

Take care of yourself, and I hope you find your way home.

—Hector