JENN SUAREZ STOLE MY IDENTITY

And I am so fucking over it

Several months ago, Jennifer Alexandra Suarez, a special education teacher in the Austin Independent School District, who works at Travis Early College High School in South Austin, stole my identity. Her bestie and special ed colleague, Annamarie Francis, joined in. They conducted their thievery on the clock, meaning my tax dollars went to paying these people to attack me. 

Before I get into the story, it’s important for me to take a moment here and address my reputation as the world’s #1 grudge holder. Thing is, “grudge” is not the correct word. My deal is, if you actively fuck me over, if you go after me and try to ruin my reputation, and, most especially, if you do this after having been on the receiving end of my equally renowned kindness well then, I have two words for you:

FUCK YOU.

I’m currently reading “So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed” by my favorite journalist, Jon Ronson. The book opens with JR dealing with some assholes who stole his identity. He won out, felt triumphant, but then decided to dig deeper. He focuses on the story of Michael, a journalist who stumbles upon information that Jonah, a famous author, is a plagiarist. Michael doesn’t want to wreck Jonah’s life by outing home, but, on the other hand, the guy is making a fortune off of being a liar.

It’s a lot to think about. I am publicly naming my attackers here only after much thought and a good deal of effort over the past months to handle this quietly. I have attempted to go through AISD to have them do something. They have done nothing that I am aware of. I have written to so many tentacles of AISD that I have lost track. The principal—now gone—at the time of the identity theft did respond to me swiftly, which I appreciated. But then she dropped it and as far as I can see, there were no real consequences for these women.

Beyond wanting them fired purely for the satisfaction of witnessing accountability in action, there is a much more important reason they need to be removed from the classroom. See, here is the thing about me—information I have shared with many, possibly all, of the administrators to whom I wrote: I knew they would take my letters as vendetta based. So I owned that. Absolutely I have a vendetta against these bitches. No question about it.

But the thing is, sometimes, when the earth is at just the right angle and the sun is shining and the angels are singing, one realizes that one’s vendetta actually is serving as a warning bell for a much bigger issue. The issue of which I speak is this: Jenn Suarez loves to gossip about, mock, and impersonate her disabled students.

Now, how do I know this? Well, here’s the longer story.

I met Jenn in AA. I can already hear you AA members screaming that I am not allowed to say that. But I am. Because, in a future post, I will detail how badly AA fucked up my life, and how the rooms are especially dangerous for women. The short version is that over the course of two years in the program, I was preyed upon by so many sickos that I feel duty bound to tell you, if you want to get sober, DM me and I’ll give you some great alternatives. (I have been sober for coming up on a quarter of a century.)

Jenn wanted to be friends and I agreed, but with boundaries. Though I had not yet acquired my black belt in boundaries (the experience with Jenn would greatly accelerate that path) I did let her know that I was working on my own shit and had limited time. She weaseled her way in anyway, forever telling me how this, that or the other person was ruining her life. I listened. I watched her grow. I was happy for her.

What I appreciated most about her was the hard work she did as a schoolteacher, working with a group of disabled, low income, high risk kids. I knew all about the miracles she performed because, I only see in hindsight, part of her manipulation of me hinged on this. She knows my primary goal is to live a life of service. So she ramped up these classroom stories as a way to create commonality, a common tool of con artists.

To the point that I got swept up in her tales. When she told me her students didn’t have enough supplies, I activated my social media and supplies poured in from around the country. When she told me they were all so sad because they couldn’t afford prom, again, I went to work and pulled in thousands of dollars and many donated prom clothes.

Jenn loved me when I was falling for her shit and she must have delighted in just what an easy mark I can be. Having groomed me to the point of believing she was the Saint Angel Teacher of the Universe, she next came to me crying with two problems. The first: her landlord was selling her house and there was no way she could find an affordable place that would allow her to bring her aggressive dog. The second: she had some mysterious medical condition that was going to require surgery at some vague future date and she really needed to save up money.

This happened to be during the year I won the lottery. Not literally. But I received a large sum of money which I very consciously decided to use to make the world a little better for so many people who were extra suffering during lockdown. I employed many people, though my business was all but closed. I provided school tuitions, equipment, universal living wages, and even vacations. I treated people the way I always treat people unless they give me a reason not to. I was kind. I was empathetic.

Empathy, my friends, might just be the most dangerous elixir there is. 

I told Jenn she could move to the ranch and also oversee weddings, for which I would pay her handsomely. At the time, I was living in Shitville. I had just lost two ranch employees who were ripping me off blind. The timing was great. I was so grateful for her help and equally grateful to be able to help her out.

Things seemed to be going pretty well. Jenn did sometimes beg off at the last minute from work, leaving me in a bind. And when she did work, she would text me about how horrible the people were. She loved to tell me she could handle these non-disabled (her word) people by employing tactics used on her “crazy kids.” (Also her words.)

I moved back to the ranch not long after Jenn moved in. Things seemed swell at first. We laughed. We roller skated. We had fun. I did start to notice things I hadn’t seen when we lived apart. 

At the time, there were a couple of young guys living at the ranch. The Lover Brothers were in their twenties, big time Trumpers, and legally (if not biologically) kin, one having been adopted by the other’s mother. I mention this only for wonderful texture, not judgement, though the part about them being Trumpers didn’t set well with me. But I focused on their talents and willingness to do chores I did not wish to. We all got along just fine.

Unbeknownst to me, Jenn and the Lover Brothers were conspiring behind my back, doing everything they could to get me to fire Rompe, a friend I’d brought in to manage my thirty acres. Before too long I spotted a pattern. Anytime I made a request of Jenn and the Lover Brothers, if I mentioned Rompe’s name there would be visible recoil, wincing, and then some biting remark about how incapable Rompe was.

These people hated Rompe so much and they were more than happy to tell me about it, never stopping to consider how such vileness reflected on them.

I gave their complaints more weight than I should have. I began watching things more closely. Having been duped an embarrassing number of times in my life by opportunistic men (and women but men especially), though it felt like a weird betrayal to me, I called some of my oldest, closest friends—known as my Inner Sanctum—to ask for reality checks. Was Rompe actually a bad guy? Was he ripping me off?

To a one, my kindest, sagest friends all sang Rompe’s praises. They were so relieved I had someone to do the heavy lifting, someone who showed up every day. Someone who, most importantly, made me laugh and smile, and who set out to complete an assignment before I even got the words out of my mouth.

And then I figured it out. This was Rompe’s sin. He showed up every day. Every day he did the heavy lifting. His presence fucked things up for everyone else because he got so much done that I couldn’t help but notice just how little everyone else was doing. He was making them look bad, but this wasn’t an active plot on his part. Like me, Rompe is a motherfucking go-getter. In fact we call ourselves twins. 

Jenn and the Lover Brothers continued to complain about Rompe, though I warned them not to. One Sunday I hosted one of my jazz brunches. Rompe was there and gave informal tours to show off all he had done. And he had done so much. He told the guests about all of our plans, including a brewery and a pizzeria. 

The next day, Jenn confronted me. She had overheard Rompe and she wanted me to know that a brewery and pizza joint was “not convenient” to her “lifestyle.” I just looked at her. I’m sorry, bitch, whose ranch is this?

Then she tearfully apologized, explaining that her imagination had gotten the better of her and she’d gone to the Lover Brothers and cried and cried over how Rompe’s plans would mean she would be subject to nightly gang rapes by bikers who would gather at our scumbag bar. The boys, already anti-fans of Rompe, got further stirred up, which was a bigger problem than it might have been, given that one claimed to have PTSD and, also, a gun. (Eventually, in large part because they succummbed to Jenn’s lies and turned on me, the Lover Brothers were dismissed.)

I explained to Jenn that first of all, she really fucked up when she told them these obvious lies. Second of all, we weren’t planning a gang-rape themed biker bar. More like, you know, Central Market playscape on a Sunday afternoon. And, not only that, but that Rompe and I share the joyful past time of perpetually coming up with new business ideas. We are entrepreneurs. We love to imagine. And I reminded her that—contrary to what seemed to be her feeling—the ranch was mine, not hers. I could and would do with it whatever I please.

Around this time, Jenn had two different sets of guests come to the ranch. Back then, I charged a little north of $1,000 per night to rent the whole place. These folks stayed for free. So, all told, a savings of $14,000 for Jenn, who very much had them make themselves at home. They partied so hard they broke the refrigerator, for which Jenn apologized, and which she promised to have repaired. She never did. 

Things got so weird and so uncomfortable after that, that though the entire property is mine all mine, I spent all day every day locked in my 13 foot camper with five dogs who cumulatively weigh 350 pounds. Being near her was so creepy and so upsetting. I told her she needed to move out but, fuck me and my empathy, I decided it would only be right to give her a couple of months to find a new place. I mean, I know finding housing is hard. Just because I couldn’t stand her by now was not, in my opinion, a reason to toss her out with no notice. Oh my fair-mindedness gets me in so much trouble. 

Rather than be grateful for this extension, Jenn continued to heat up the drama pie and serve it at regular intervals. As for the surgery she kept referring to—if it ever happened, it did not incapacitate her as she explained it would, back when she was weaseling her way onto my property. The date came and went. I could see from the window of my camper no discernible change in her physical capacity. Either she lied about the surgery, or it was very minor. I googled the name of the procedure and learned it costs around $3000 cash and takes about 4 minutes to complete. I thought about Jenn’s AISD health benefits. And I thought about the time I caught her at the dining room table, not knowing I was listening, going on and on about her Botox procedures, which, for the record, cost a lot of money. 

This in turn made me wonder if the real reason she gave me her sob story was so that she could stay at the ranch forever and spend her money not on rent but plastic surgery. I did not, as you might imagine, appreciate this.

I shortened the time she could stay. A lot. I told her to get the fuck out in a week. I avoided her and avoided her and stayed in my camper until, at last, I had to come out. I had a group of paying guests on the way and needed to ready the house. Forced to go inside, I ran into her. Noting the refrigerator—which I needed for my guests—was still broken, I could not contain myself. I yelled.

You do not want to be the person who triggers me into yelling. Trust me.

I never threatened her. I never touched her. I only yelled about one thing. She promised to fix the refrigerator months before, she had not, fuck her, and get the fuck out. Next thing I know, a sheriff’s deputy is at my front gate, followed by a backup unit. Jenn decided to call the law because I yelled.

I had no fear around the cops. I had done nothing wrong. I asked one if he had ever raised his voice. He said sure. I asked if the person he yelled at called the cops. He said no. I let him and the backup onto the property. Jenn, all tears and tits and dimples, pounced upon them. They fell for it. I stood listening to her tell them lie after lie. I held up my phone and said, “Look! Right here! I have a text from her that proves she’s lying.”

But I am the old lady. Jenn is Miss Botox. They told me to move away. They kept looking at her tits. And dimples. They told me I had to stay away from her all day. On my own property. On a day when I needed to prepare for guests.

When Jenn finally left, she took everything, including the remote control to my overhead light and ceiling fan. Have you ever tried replacing a remote like that? It sucks. 

Shortly after this, a Facebook page appeared under the name Spiked Gillespie. Look closer. See that “d” at the end of “my” name? The page, created to “destroy” me, was clearly the work of Jenn. A drunk toddler could have pieced this together. Why? Because initially the page had six followers. One was a reader of mine who legitimately got confused and signed up. One was a private investigator I hired who appeared under a pseudonym. One was my now roommate, old friend, and video collaborator Chad. One was unknown to me. And the fifth? Well that was Annamarie Francis, Jenn’s best friend.

Annamarie posted hand clap emojis and compliments galore, egging on the fake me to continue with the assault. Meanwhile, I was receiving HUNDREDS of notes from concerned readers, alerting me to the fact they had been invited to follow this fake page, that my identity had been stolen, a crime. Facebook received hundreds of complaints. For over a week the autoreply was the same—they would not be taking it down. 

Here is something very funny about that page, and very telling about me. I could see they were scouring google to find “evidence” of what a “shitty person” I am. They could find nothing but a book review, written in 1999, by a sick man who chose to use his words to condemn me as a human, rather than actually discuss my book. This lack of “evidence” is far from proof that I have never done a shitty thing in my life. I have done plenty of shitty things in my life. But here’s the deal: I always tell on myself first. I do not keep secrets. I do not live a life constructed with lies. 

In short: I own my shit.

The thing people fear most about me is this: my honesty. And the people who fear me? They live on dishonesty. 

Despite their inability to gain much traction, I nonetheless felt violated. I WAS violated. Have you ever had your identity stolen? It is so fucking creepy. And unsettling. 

With this gesture on Jenn’s part, all my empathy flew out the window. I activated my nearly photographic memory. I began to piece together, far too late, how she had hooked me and strung me along. And in these memories, something else came up. Again and again and again. 

I began recalling, with near total recall and in great detail, a vicious habit of Jenn’s. Every time I saw her, before she turned her viciousness on me, she would launch into Tales from the Classroom. She would recite, chapter and verse, the names of the kids, their diagnoses, their parents names. She told me about self-harming, suicide attempts, psychiatric hospitalizations. She mocked them and impersonated them. 

And—why had I never seen this before? (Because I have a blind spot when it comes to narcissists)—in every single story she was the only one who could ever do anything right. The other teachers? Terrible. The administration? Heads up their asses. She was always the only one in these stories who could do anything right. Her kids, she assured me, worshipped her. 

I was so swept up in these stories, so wanted to believe she was The Miracle Worker, that I continued to be supportive. She told me about one kid so often (he has a very unusual name so I will not use it here) that I took it upon myself to send in art supplies for him, since, according to Jenn, his home life was so horrifically shitty. 

When I wrote to the principal back in April, I apologized to her. I admitted I felt like I had participated in some kind of betrayal of the kids. I should have noticed Jenn was violating their privacy. Instead, I guess I chalked her stories up to letting off steam. 

Until.

One day, Jenn arrived home with her knickers in a super twist. She informed me that one of her students was, she was certain, being groomed for prostitution by a transgender woman “on the east side.” Further, this transgender groomer was, she said, the new lover of her ex-boyfriend. She was so upset she was seriously considering taking matters into her own hands. This is exactly what she said. Into her own hands.

On that day, I did stop her mid-story. I explained to her that her desire to go to the east side and punch out a transgender woman (or anyone for that matter) was not particularly prudent. Surely, I suggested, AISD has some sort of protocol for reporting suspected abuse? Jenn was hearing none of it. She was going to take care of it.

Beyond the initial response of the principal who went on to, it seems, do nothing, it took me a long time to get responses from AISD. So I decided I would try to get some media coverage for the story, the story being that this AISD special ed teacher has violated every privacy law out there regarding students. During this expedition of pitching writers I know who work on a national scale, one day my phone rang and lo, caller ID told me it was Jason Stanford.

Jason Stanford is an amazing writer—he used to be Steve Adler’s writer. Jason has his own substack and you should check it out. When I saw his name on my phone, I thought, “That’s odd. I wonder how he heard about this.” Because I assumed he was calling as a journalist. No. Jason, it turns out, also works in communications for AISD. We became friends when I performed his wedding many, many years ago. I respect the crap out of Jason.

We had a reasonable discussion and that was that. I thought if anyone can get something done, it’s Jason. I received notification from someone that some committee would be looking into things. Though I would have been more satisfied to see her driven out of town on a stick, I let it go then. Because I really, really am trying to settle into this otherwise incredibly peaceful life I have carefully created for myself.

Then came the start of school, and with it, a flurry of mail to the ranch. All of this mail is for Jenn, who, in addition to having stolen my identity, continues to use my address. Usually she receives what appear to be collections notices from medical facilities and state offices. I throw those away. But the new batch is full of correspondence from AISD.

These AISD notifications triggered the fuck out of me. How dare she continue to use my address. How dare the district continue to allow her and her buddy to teach students. I know what a legitimately sick fuck she is—my best guess is borderline personality disorder—and she is literally a danger to her students. How would they feel if they knew how much she mocked them, limped around the house impersonating them, convinced she was their queen?

And how would their parents feel to know what I know about them? Or what I’ve been told about them and their drug addictions and violence in the home? I’m pretty sure they would not like that. I’m pretty sure they would agree with me that this woman needs to be removed from the classroom. 

I am telling my story here today for a few reasons. Firstly, I got to get it out of my system. I was doing so well with healing from so much trauma. Now every day the mail comes and every day because it is school season there is more mail for Jenn. Mail from her employer. Who should not be her employer. 

I’m telling my story in part out of sheer, spiteful revenge—absolutely. But I’m also telling it because those kids’ are having their privacy perpetually violated. I have sent emails, screenshots, etc to the AISD attorney who called me last week after I sent another round of emails to administrators. I have proof of everything of which I speak. No one in AISD seems particularly concerned.

So for now, I am putting my story here. If you are a parent of a Travis High School parent and would like to know more, you can email me: spikegillespie@gmail.com. I will be glad to supply you with all of the hard evidence I have. And I’ll tell you what Jenn said about you and your kid. 

Hopefully this will be enough. But if I have to print up a thousand fliers and distribute them at a School Board Meeting, well, then that is what I will do.

It’s hard for me sometimes, being one who Calls Things Out. But my tolerance for bullshit is now officially gone. If someone can be so stupid as to continue to use my address after privately and publicly attacking me, calling the cops (who eventually left because, you got it, they figured out Jenn was lying), spreading perpetual lies, and STEALING MY IDENTITY, then I am going to do something about it. 

So, in conclusion: Fuck you Jenn. Fuck you Annamarie. The fact you can openly steal my identity and still be teaching is not a testament to how clever y’all are, but to how very, very broken the education system is.