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Watch List
Mar. 4th, 2009 09:19 amMy grandson attends kindergarten in one of those city schools that's on the federal "watch list." The irony of it is that the little boy's dad, who lives with us, insisted that his son was NOT going to attend the school HE did, even though it's the one assigned for our part of the city and the school district makes you jump through your own butt hole before they'll authorize such a change.
My son's reasoning was that he was compelled to fight EVERY SINGLE DAY that he went there due, presumably, to his caucasian ancestry. My response was, "Jay, you fought every single day in EVERY school you ever went to." (And, in my opinion, the school actually had some decent resources BECAUSE it was perceived as serving an at-risk population of blacks and poor whites.)
As usual, though, he wasn't hearing it and somehow managed to get our grandson enrolled in what had been considered the "better" school when he was a kid. A few weeks after he'd accomplished this, we got a letter from the school district saying that the school he'd transferred his son to was on the watch list and parents had the right to request transfer to one of the better-performing schools in the city. At the top of the list, of those better-performing schools, was my son's old school.
Now granted, my son never attended the school where my grandson is enrolled. But the little boy is classified as a "walker" and, because the school is several blocks from home, I've been there numerous times this year to drop him off and pick him up. And every time I do, I get the distinct impression that the parents I see are very much like the ones I used to see at my son's old school.
MAYBE it's a little more mixed, economically, with some of the black parents looking a little more affluent than their counterparts of a decade or two ago. But there's still that same heartbreaking fringe, perhaps slightly more marginalized because of that contrast, of kids of all races and ethnicities whose parents are making ends meet with food stamps and rent vouchers.
Anyway, our day started with a hurried, early morning stop at the local mini-mart to pick up juice boxes and something non-trans-fatty and non-sugar-rushy for the snack the little boy is supposed to bring in once a month. And because we'd forgotten to pick them up earlier at the discount place, the four boxes of banana-nut muffins and two boxes of fruit juice drinks killed the better part of twenty dollars. But although I walked out of the store lamenting the cost, I knew I didn't want my grandson to endure the embarassment of showing up without his snacks on the assigned day, either.
When we got to the school, I put the two bags down next to his coat hook outside the classroom, where the kids stow their bookbags and winter footware before entering the classroom. As I did so, this adorable little girl a few spaces down says, "Hi, Jason, is this your snack day?" And he, who sometimes gets teased by the often inappropriate adults in his life, for being a little "chick magnet," mumbled something in the affirmative.
Then the little girl looks at me with wide, beautiful eyes and says, with frank regret in her voice, "My mommy ALWAYS forgets MY snack day."
Then it was my turn to mumble something about how, yeah, we almost forgot ours too. After which I handed the bags to one of the teachers who happened to be in the hallway and got the hell out of there...
My son's reasoning was that he was compelled to fight EVERY SINGLE DAY that he went there due, presumably, to his caucasian ancestry. My response was, "Jay, you fought every single day in EVERY school you ever went to." (And, in my opinion, the school actually had some decent resources BECAUSE it was perceived as serving an at-risk population of blacks and poor whites.)
As usual, though, he wasn't hearing it and somehow managed to get our grandson enrolled in what had been considered the "better" school when he was a kid. A few weeks after he'd accomplished this, we got a letter from the school district saying that the school he'd transferred his son to was on the watch list and parents had the right to request transfer to one of the better-performing schools in the city. At the top of the list, of those better-performing schools, was my son's old school.
Now granted, my son never attended the school where my grandson is enrolled. But the little boy is classified as a "walker" and, because the school is several blocks from home, I've been there numerous times this year to drop him off and pick him up. And every time I do, I get the distinct impression that the parents I see are very much like the ones I used to see at my son's old school.
MAYBE it's a little more mixed, economically, with some of the black parents looking a little more affluent than their counterparts of a decade or two ago. But there's still that same heartbreaking fringe, perhaps slightly more marginalized because of that contrast, of kids of all races and ethnicities whose parents are making ends meet with food stamps and rent vouchers.
Anyway, our day started with a hurried, early morning stop at the local mini-mart to pick up juice boxes and something non-trans-fatty and non-sugar-rushy for the snack the little boy is supposed to bring in once a month. And because we'd forgotten to pick them up earlier at the discount place, the four boxes of banana-nut muffins and two boxes of fruit juice drinks killed the better part of twenty dollars. But although I walked out of the store lamenting the cost, I knew I didn't want my grandson to endure the embarassment of showing up without his snacks on the assigned day, either.
When we got to the school, I put the two bags down next to his coat hook outside the classroom, where the kids stow their bookbags and winter footware before entering the classroom. As I did so, this adorable little girl a few spaces down says, "Hi, Jason, is this your snack day?" And he, who sometimes gets teased by the often inappropriate adults in his life, for being a little "chick magnet," mumbled something in the affirmative.
Then the little girl looks at me with wide, beautiful eyes and says, with frank regret in her voice, "My mommy ALWAYS forgets MY snack day."
Then it was my turn to mumble something about how, yeah, we almost forgot ours too. After which I handed the bags to one of the teachers who happened to be in the hallway and got the hell out of there...
