“Write about my school!” my daughter says, all excited, as I’m trying to get her to bed.
I’ve told her before what I do for a living, but it’s never made quite the impression as right now. Unfortunately, “right now” is nearly 9 p.m. -- way too late for a first grader on a school night -- so I dismiss her suggestion, as parents are prone to do, with an “OK. Sure, I will.”
The next night at dinner, she’s drawing a picture.
“How do you spell ‘elementary?’”
I tell her.
“Three Es?”
“Yes, three Es.”
She gives the crayon drawing to me, and it does indeed look like the entrance to her elementary school in Arlington, Va. Great, I say. I’ll take it to work.
“It’s to remind you to write about my school,” she emphasizes.
I was going to write today about this article in Education Next and its monumentally unfair comparison of -- of all people -- Richard Rothstein, a dogged advocate for poor children, and Charles Murray, co-author of the infamous Bell Curve. See, Ed Next says, they both say there are limits on what schools can do to help the poor, and…. But that can wait. I’ll tell you instead about my daughter’s school, McKinley Elementary, and her first day of kindergarten last year.
Like all parents preparing to enter the world of public education, we were, to put it mildly, nervous. And a lot of our fears were concentrated on the thought of putting our just-turned-5-year-old on that big yellow bus. (Would she be scared? Probably, seeing as how we were reacting.)
The first day came, and it was raining in torrents. But we felt we had to put her on the bus anyway, even though we could have easily driven her. The kindergarten teachers were supposed to ride the buses that day, we reasoned, and if she missed it she might be even more frightened on Day Two.
So there we were -- my wife and I, our elder daughter in her newly purchased raincoat, her then-2-year-old sister in her stroller with the plastic tarp all over it -- trudging through the downpour to the bus stop.
The bus arrived and it was … huge. And, as my daughter gamely stepped on, we realized that she was the only child on the bus, even though it had made at least four stops. Evidently, the other parents had sensibly decided to drive their kids to school.
Oh, and there was no teacher, either. We had it wrong: The teachers were riding the buses home, in the afternoon.
Mr. Jose, the kindly bus driver nearing retirement, could read our faces. He looked down at us, a near-silhouette in the driver’s seat.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll take care of your baby.”
And that was it; the huge yellow bus turned the corner with a roar, and we said goodbye. I can’t adequately describe the emotions I felt at that moment, but I’m sure you can understand. It was a mix of apprehension and pride, a little sadness, and this overwhelming feeling that were joining something much bigger than us.
As school board members, teachers, principals, and administrators, you serve that “something much bigger than ourselves” that is public school. There is no one -- no one -- who has a more important job than you.
You take care of my baby.
Lawrence Hardy, Senior Editor