In the shadowed corridors of educational advocacy, where policy meets ideology, a leaked training document from the National Education Association (NEA) has ignited fresh outrage. Titled "Advancing LGBTQ+ Justice and Transgender Advocacy," the materials for an upcoming December 2-4 workshop reveal a stark admission: gender identity dogma feels alien to the union's "traditional progressive base." This confession, buried in participant handouts obtained by parents' rights group Defending Education, underscores a deeper malaise in American schooling—one that federal overreach has only exacerbated. As the Trump administration accelerates its bold plan to shutter the U.S. Department of Education (DOE), these revelations serve as a clarion call. Closing the DOE isn't just fiscal prudence; it's a reclamation of education from the clutches of partisan activism.
The NEA, with its 3 million members spanning every state, positions itself as the vanguard of teaching professionals. Yet, the leaked documents paint a picture of an organization more attuned to cultural warfare than classroom crises. At a time when two-thirds of U.S. students lag in reading proficiency, chronic absenteeism surges, and behavioral disruptions reach epidemic levels, the union's "Focus Academies" series prioritizes crafting a "race-class-gender narrative" to combat perceived "villains."
These villains? Vague stand-ins like "certain politicians" and "some people in power," accused of exploiting divisions to hoard influence. The training urges educators to "name the villains who violate our values," framing opposition to transgender inclusion in sports and bathrooms as dehumanizing stereotypes rooted in "coded language."
One section candidly acknowledges the uphill battle: "Our opposition wins the debate … against any and all arguments we have tried for our side" on transgender athletes' eligibility.
Polls cited in the materials show a third of even sympathetic audiences favoring a hybrid of sex- and gender-based rules—a "contradictory" stance born from the "individualistic lens of competition" clashing with the "collective good" of progressive orthodoxy. To bridge this, the NEA provides a Cornell University-sourced guide for workplace gender transitions and tips for "subtly orient[ing] people towards our worldview," such as "pluralizing and personalizing genders" over abstract binaries.
This isn't mere sensitivity training; it's a blueprint for narrative control. The handouts decry "colorblind messaging" in LGBTQ+ advocacy as tacitly conservative, arguing it silos trans issues from race and class struggles. Focus groups, the documents claim, reveal low familiarity with transgender experiences even among progressives, often associating them with whiteness—a racial dimension that alienates Black and Latinx communities.
Terms like "two-spirit," a sacred Indigenous concept, come with stern warnings against appropriation by non-Native trans individuals. Scenarios posed to attendees include navigating a mother's fury over her transgender daughter's exclusion from lockdown drills in sex-segregated locker rooms, or countering "groomer" smears against librarians stocking queer literature.
Erika Sanzi, senior director of communications at Defending Education, lambasts this as vilifying "half the country," a far cry from the NEA's 1906 congressional charter to "elevate the character and advance the interests of the profession of teaching."
Indeed, the union's evolution into what Sanzi calls a "far-left insane asylum" has prompted bipartisan scrutiny. This summer, Rep. Mark Harris (R-N.C.) and Sen. Marsha Blackburn (R-Tenn.) introduced the National Education Association Charter Repeal Act, a one-line bill stripping the NEA's federal imprimatur.
Blackburn decried the NEA's votes to combat "Trump’s embrace of fascism," promote LGBTQ+ events in schools, and cut ties with the Anti-Defamation League as proof it's "a partisan organization" peddling "woke gender ideology, antisemitism, and left-wing propaganda."
The bill, echoed in prior Congresses, boasts 19 GOP House cosponsors but awaits traction in a divided Senate.
The NEA's silence on queries about arming Republicans with repeal fodder speaks volumes. But this scandal isn't isolated; it's symptomatic of federal tentacles entwining local curricula with ideological mandates. Enter the Trump administration's November 18, 2025, bombshell: a sweeping interagency pivot to dismantle the DOE, fulfilling President Trump's campaign vow to "return education to the states."
In a closed-door briefing, Education Secretary Linda McMahon outlined six new agreements shifting core functions to the Departments of Labor, Interior, Health and Human Services, and State.
The Office of Elementary and Secondary Education, overseeing K-12 academics and equity programs, heads to Labor. Postsecondary Education, guardian of college access and loans, follows suit. Even the Indian Education Office migrates to Interior, aligning indigenous programs with tribal lands management.
McMahon hailed this as "bold action to break up the federal education bureaucracy," streamlining delivery while slashing red tape.
It's a "proof of concept," officials say, proving the DOE's 1979 creation—a Carter-era experiment in centralized control—has outlived its utility.
Trump's March executive order kickstarted the process with job cuts; now, these handoffs sidestep Congress, though full closure demands legislative buy-in.
Lindsey Burke, deputy chief of staff and Project 2025 co-author, led the charge, emphasizing efficiency for "students and taxpayers."
Critics howl foul. NEA President Becky Pringle blasted the move as "illegal" and a betrayal during American Education Week, robbing students of "equal access to educational opportunity."
California officials and advocates decry it as "disruptive, confusing, and inefficient," warning of chaos in grant administration and civil rights enforcement.
NPR reports potential legal salvos, given Congress's statutory mandates for these offices' DOE housing.
The Washington Post questions the rhetoric: Is this truly "returning education to the states," or bureaucratic musical chairs?
Yet, proponents see salvation. The DOE, with its $80 billion annual budget, has ballooned into a compliance machine, doling out funds laced with strings—like Title IX reinterpretations enforcing gender identity policies that clash with state laws and parental rights. The NEA's training exemplifies this: a federally chartered behemoth prioritizing "transgender advocacy" over literacy, its narratives infiltrating classrooms via grants and guidelines. By offloading to mission-aligned agencies—Labor for workforce prep, HHS for special needs—the administration aims to excise ideological bloat, empowering states to tailor education sans Washington diktats.
Consider the ripple effects. In sports, the NEA's admitted messaging failures mirror DOE-fueled battles, where federal dollars pressure schools to adopt trans-inclusive policies, alienating communities per the handouts' own focus groups.
Dismantling restores local control: Texas could reinforce biological fairness; California, expansive inclusivity. No more "villains" list from D.C., just tailored solutions.
This convergence—NEA's introspective mea culpa on gender's progressive disconnect and Trump's DOE takedown—heralds a pivot. Education, once a state bastion, succumbed to federal creep post-Sputnik, birthing the DOE amid desegregation noble but now a Trojan horse for activism. As McMahon tours 50 states gathering best practices, the vision crystallizes: refocus on "students, families, and schools," sans the "moral panic" the NEA decries in conservatives.
Opponents warn of equity erosion, but history tempers fears. Pre-DOE, states managed ably; civil rights advanced via courts, not bureaucrats. The NEA's pivot from pedagogy to politics, as in its charter repeal fodder, justifies excision. Closing the DOE, paired with NEA reforms, could exorcise dogma, fostering a system where gender narratives yield to grammar lessons, and "collective good" means proficient pupils, not coerced consensus.
As 2025 wanes, these dual reckonings demand vigilance. Will Congress greenlight closure? Legal fights loom, but momentum builds. For parents weary of "pre-attendance packages" on the Gender Unicorn, and educators buried in federal forms, relief beckons. Education's future hangs in the balance—not in union workshops or agency silos, but in liberated statehouses, where tradition and progress can coexist without federal fiat.
Editorial comments expressed in this column are the sole opinion of the writer.
