On September 15, 2025, Texas classrooms found themselves at the epicenter of a stormy national debate over free expression, religious freedom, and the boundaries of public education. Two new state laws—Senate Bill 10 and Senate Bill 12—have upended the daily routines of teachers, administrators, and students, forcing them to navigate a maze of mandates, ambiguous language, and shifting cultural expectations.
Senate Bill 10, passed by Republican lawmakers, requires every public elementary and secondary school classroom in Texas to display a durable and conspicuous poster of the Ten Commandments. Supporters of the law, according to reporting by The Texas Tribune, argue it is a much-needed return to “moral clarity.” Opponents, however, see it as a direct challenge to the constitutional principle separating church and state, and a test case for the First Amendment’s Establishment Clause.
Meanwhile, Senate Bill 12, effective September 1, 2025, prohibits programs, discussions, and performances related to race, ethnicity, gender identity, and sexual orientation in public K-12 schools. As EdSurge notes, this broad and subjective law has left Texas educators scrambling to interpret what is—and isn’t—permissible in their classrooms. The result? A patchwork of compliance, creative resistance, and, above all, uncertainty.
April Jones, a ninth-grade algebra teacher in San Antonio, exemplifies the dilemma facing many Texas teachers. Her classroom, once filled with posters celebrating diversity and mathematical achievement, became a battleground when administrators asked her to remove a "Hate Has No Home Here" sign. The sign, which included hearts colored to resemble the Pride and Transgender Pride flags, drew scrutiny from her district and online observers. Jones refused to fully remove the sign, instead folding the bottom to hide the hearts. "It does almost feel like a defeat, but with the new law, you just don’t know," she explained, according to EdSurge. Her act of partial defiance garnered media attention and strong community support, highlighting the complex interplay between personal conviction and professional obligation.
Jones’ story is far from unique. Across Texas, teachers have responded to the new mandates with a blend of silent protest, ingenuity, and, at times, outright defiance. In one Dallas suburb, an art teacher complied with the Ten Commandments poster requirement by flanking it with teachings from Buddhism, Hinduism, and Islam. "Children deserve to see the beauty of Buddhism, Islam, Hinduism," said Austin writer Bob Peck, who has designed alternative posters featuring tenets of multiple religions and sold them to teachers via Etsy. For some educators, these gestures are less about rebellion and more about restoring balance and inclusivity to their classrooms.
Other teachers have chosen more overt forms of protest. One southeast Texas teacher admitted to hanging the mandated Ten Commandments poster upside down, a quiet but unmistakable signal of dissent. Yet, as federal litigation challenging the constitutionality of Senate Bill 10 continues, ambiguity reigns. Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton warned earlier this month that schools not involved in lawsuits must comply with the law, even though no enforcement mechanism currently exists. Teachers are left to wonder what, if any, consequences await those who refuse to comply.
The impact of these laws ripples far beyond Texas. PEN America, a nonprofit focused on free expression, has identified more than a dozen states considering or passing similar restrictions in 2025. Florida, Arkansas, Alabama, Utah, Idaho, and Montana have enacted laws banning the display of flags or banners related to political viewpoints, sexual orientation, and gender identity in schools. In Montana, for example, House Bill 25-819 explicitly prohibits flags representing any political party, race, sexual orientation, gender, or political ideology. As Madison Markham of PEN America told EdSurge, "The bills aren’t necessarily saying, ‘No LGBTQ+ flags or Black Lives Matter flags,’ but that’s really implied, especially when you look at what the sponsors of the bills are saying."
The culture war over classroom expression has even spilled into the digital realm. The 2023 Texas READER Act standardized how vendors label digital products for public schools, leading to sometimes absurd results. Earlier this year, the Lamar Consolidated Independent School District near Houston blocked access to a lesson about Virginia because the state flag, which depicts the Roman goddess Virtus with a bare breast, violated the district’s library materials policy. Anne Russey, co-founder of the Texas Freedom to Read Project, investigated and found the district had gone to great lengths to overcomply with the new law, even adding more detailed descriptions of what constitutes a breast. "As parents, we don’t believe children need access at their schools to sexually explicit material or books that are pervasively vulgar," Russey said. "But we don’t think the Virginia flag qualifies as that, and I don’t think most people think that it qualifies."
Such incidents have contributed to what many see as a disturbing trend: the erosion of instructional autonomy in K-12 settings. According to a recent study by FirstBook, there is a correlation between book bans and declining student reading engagement at a time when national literacy rates are already slipping. Teachers, feeling constrained by new laws and district policies, are increasingly considering leaving the profession or moving to private and charter schools. But as Rachel Perera of the Brookings Institute cautions, "Teachers should be a lot more wary of private school systems. The default assumption of trust in the private sector leadership is often not warranted."
The legal landscape remains murky. Jenna Leventhal, senior policy counsel at the ACLU, notes that the First Amendment provides more robust protection for students than for teachers, especially in public schools. "Let’s say you have a category of speech that you are banning," Leventhal explained. "Someone has to decide what fits in that category of speech and what doesn’t. And when you give that opportunity to the government, it’s ripe for abuse." The lack of clear guidance from lawmakers and courts means that, in practice, teachers and administrators must make difficult judgment calls—often with little support or clarity.
Despite these challenges, many educators remain committed to fostering welcoming, inclusive classrooms. April Jones, for example, continues to prioritize building relationships with her students. "If a kid likes coming to your class or likes chatting with you or seeing you, they’re more likely to learn from you," Jones told EdSurge. Yet, she now finds herself weighing every conversation, especially when students broach sensitive topics. "Now, when Jones’ students start to tell her something, she is cautious. She sometimes fields questions from students by asking if their parents know what they’re about to say. ‘Because if not,’ she warns them, ‘depending on what you tell me, they’re going to.’"
The story playing out in Texas classrooms is not just about posters, flags, or lesson plans. It’s about the fundamental questions of who decides what values, histories, and identities are visible—and valued—in public schools. As teachers, parents, students, and policymakers grapple with these questions, one thing is certain: the real lesson is unfolding not on the walls, but in the choices educators and communities make every day.
