Most likely, this letter finds you deep beneath the surface of the Earth, feasting on the rotting corpses of once fresh, amiable, and enthusiastic educators. You are a well-fed lot, and you should be proud of your efforts as they pertain to crushing the life-force from your hired
Don't bother resurfacing. My already withered and wizened body and spirit have suffered under your Morlock-ian administrative practices, and if you come looking for me, I'll be long gone. So what you're holding, what you're drooling on, is my official letter of resignation.
I could list, in any order you wish, the myriad of grievances, edicts, and choke-holds you brought upon me over the years, but I'm tired. And your literacy is questionable as most of your 'professional' correspondences border on email garble and surreptitious 'observations' from darkened corners of the hallway.
Education used to be my passion, my calling, my purpose, but you and your cabal transformed that word into my nightmare, my depression, and my helplessness.
But I will give you credit. You deftly isolated your staff, gussied them up with the veil of job security, and then chopped, chiseled, and quartered them one at a time until each succumbed or fled.
Consider my exodus the latter of the two results, but I flee from the scene with a greater sense of dignity and self-worth than you ever attempted to instill in your staff. My initial trepidation about an uncertain future will most assuredly wash away clean as the minutes away from your feeding ground grow greater and greater.
My altruistic (look it up, and no, it's not a viable food source) nature mourns for the others that stay behind, that lack the needed courage and fortitude to do as I am doing today. Should their minds feel the inexorable feeling of doom that pervades every molecule of your institution, then I'm hopeful that they will choose the course I take today.
And then they'll say, "Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better. " - Albert Camus