Elissa Malespina  is an award winning veteran NJ school librarian, and former First VP of the South Orange – Maplewood Board of Education. The views expressed are her own and do not represent any employer or affiliated organization.

In New Jersey, the law is clear: if you reasonably suspect child abuse or neglect, you must report it. As a teacher and former school board member, I was—and still am—a mandatory reporter. That legal duty is spelled out in N.J.S.A. 9:6-8.10, which mandates that any person having reasonable cause to believe that a child has been subjected to abuse or acts of abuse shall report the same immediately to the Division of Child Protection and Permanency (DCPP). 

To ensure that mandated reporters can act without fear of retaliation, the law includes a critical safeguard: confidentiality. As detailed in N.J.S.A. 9:6-8.10a, the name or identifying information of the person making the report shall not be made public unless the reporter consents or a court orders disclosure. This protection exists to encourage reporting, protect children, and shield educators from the type of harm I now live with every day. 

But when I followed the law—when I did exactly what was expected of me—I wasn’t protected. I was punished. 

After receiving a detailed investigative report showing that a 15-year-old Black girl with special needs had been allegedly physically restrained by the principal at Columbia High School in Maplewood, NJ, I did what I was obligated to do: I reported it to the authorities. That decision, based on legal and ethical responsibility, upended my life. 

Shortly after, another school board member publicly outed me as the person who had reported the incident. This act was not only unethical—it was illegal. But instead of accountability for that breach, I became the target. 

My name was plastered across social media, in anonymous smear campaigns, in rallies, and even in The New York Times. People showed up at my home, honking and shouting in the night. My teenage son stood guard on the front steps to protect our family. 

I lost professional opportunities. I lost friends and community support. I was kicked out of my neighborhood Facebook group and was no longer welcome at events I once helped organize. The psychological toll has been brutal: I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD, anxiety, and depression. My body carries the stress—chronic pain, insomnia, fibromyalgia flares—because my brain is always on alert for the next attack. 

I went to court to try to clear my name. But instead of justice, I received a ruling that essentially rewrote what it means to be a mandatory reporter in New Jersey. The judge ruled that because I was a public figure, as a school board member, I could be identified and targeted for making a report. That decision gutted the very confidentiality that mandatory reporters are supposed to rely on. 

This ruling doesn’t just affect me. It sends a message to every teacher, nurse, administrator, or counselor: if you report suspected child abuse, the law might not protect you. You could be doxxed, harassed, isolated, and professionally destroyed. And the courts may say that’s acceptable. 

So I ask: Who will come forward next time? Who will risk their safety, their livelihood, their peace of mind? 

We say we want schools to be safe for children, but safety starts with trust. If educators can’t trust the system to protect them when they speak up, how can we expect them to do the right thing? 

I am still standing, but I am changed. I will not stop fighting—not just for my own name to be cleared, but for the protections every mandatory reporter should be guaranteed under the law. We must enforce the laws already on the books. We must close the loopholes that let others violate them without consequence. 

Because what happened to me should never happen to anyone. And if it can happen to me, it can happen to you.