The Kindergarten Wars

by Alan Eisenstock

  Katie smiles back. “Good morning.”

  “Here for the tour?”

  “Yes.” She nods at the clipboard. “Katie Miller.”

  “Right here.” He flicks at her name with a fingertip and grins again. “Just pull into any one of those spaces.”

  “Thank you.”

  Katie chooses an open space at the end of the lot. “I’m glad it’s self-parking. I know you pay a lot for private school but I’m thinking, Hunsford has valet parking? That’s a bit much.”

  She climbs down from her SUV while simultaneously checking to make sure she’s armed with her notebook and two pens. Today Katie wears a light blue cashmere sweater and pale jeans, a sunnier, less somber look than the outfit she wore recently for her public school tour. Katie is a force of nature, a five-foot, dark-haired packet of purpose and energy. Look around the room to see who’s in charge and you will inevitably find Katie.

  Katie strides toward the school, her pace at redline. The security guard leans back on his heels and points through a black wire gate. “You’ll be going to the multipurpose room, the blue door on your right.”

  “Thanks,” Katie says.

  “You’re welcome. Enjoy Hunsford.” His smile broadens. He presses a button inside a metal box behind his head. The gate grunts once and swings open with a clang and Katie enters the campus of Hunsford School.

  As the gate clatters behind her, Katie stops. She is instantly struck silent and still by what she sees before her: an open grassy area dotted with small overhanging trees adding occasional shade and a delicate, strangely mystical aura; park benches of varnished wood spaced along a winding concrete pathway; the aroma of eucalyptus and mint, thick, sweet, nurturing, persistent; and a cluster of buildings, immaculate yet lived-in A-frames on the perimeter of the parklike grounds giving a sense of, well, Katie can’t quite put her finger on it. There is, ironically, no sense of school. Instead Katie feels something else, something . . . larger. She feels an immense calm. Contentment. And then it hits her. It’s as if she has wandered through some kind of enchanted garden and has come home. That’s what Hunsford feels like.

  Home.

  For the next thirteen years.

  “I’m in love,” Katie says.

  She steps forward dizzily, then rights herself, realizing that she’s in search of the multipurpose room, where the tour will begin.

  “Blue door,” she mumbles, and veers off to the first building on her right. She opens the door.

  Inside the blue door, twenty prospective parents, all dressed up, women in suits attached to men in suits, mingle, juggling plastic coffee cups. Most of the men looked dazed, distracted. The women appear hungry, eager, on the prowl, mining for clues, digging for information, pining to connect with three other women stationed at strategic locations throughout the room. Two of those women are dressed formally, women who lunch, except for nametags identifying them as “Assistant Director of Admissions” and “President, PA.” The third woman, Brianna, wears a floor-length smock in a muted earth tone. Her nametag reads, “Director of Admissions.”

  “I thought I was early,” Katie mutters. The PA president, spying Katie with a point guard’s peripheral vision, splits off from her conversation and extends a long pale arm. “Welcome to Hunsford. I’m Miranda Gary, president of the Parents’ Association.”

  “Katie Miller.” Katie shakes Miranda’s hand. She encloses Miranda’s fingers tightly, conscious of not wanting her first Hunsford handshake to be moist and fishy. No need. Miranda’s grip is strong, full of confidence and Pilates.

  “So glad to meet you.” Miranda’s smile is genuine, warm, doesn’t feel practiced. “Grab some coffee, a bagel, some fruit, and if you have any questions about how parents become involved here at Hunsford, please feel free to ask. I know you’ve probably already heard a lot on the street”—and here Miranda extricates her hand from Katie’s and makes imaginary quotation marks in the air, something Katie usually finds incredibly annoying—“but Hunsford is truly a community. We want parents to be involved. You are a partner in your child’s education.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Katie says. “A lot of schools want you to hang back a little, or so I’ve heard, but I want to help in any way I can. In the classroom, on field trips, community service, I think that’s so important—”

  “If everyone would take a seat, we’ll get started.” Brianna’s voice. Barely above a whisper but somehow commanding. The din in the room collapses as prospective parents scramble to find chairs around a long metal conference table.

  “We’ll continue this conversation later,” Miranda whispers. She brushes Katie’s shoulder with the palm of her hand and offers a final smile, one of promise. At least that’s how Katie interprets her look. Katie smiles back and mouths, “Okay.”

  There is one seat left at the table, at the far end, directly across from Brianna. Katie eases into the seat and smiles at Brianna, who meets the smile with a slight, conspiratorial nod. Katie feels herself blush, as if she is in high school and the boy she has a crush on has noticed her staring at him. She drops her eyes and peeks at the other parents around the table to see if anyone has noticed her suddenly crimson cheeks. To her relief, everyone is focused on Brianna, their attention rapt, undivided, devoted to her as if she were their cult leader.

  “Welcome to Hunsford,” Brianna says.

  The parents respond in group-speak, ranging from the guttural to one woman’s unfortunate outburst, “Glad to be here!” The other parents laugh, as does Brianna, who rescues the moment and the woman by saying, simply, “Well, I’m glad you’re here, too.”

  She then allows silence to blanket the room as she folds her hands on the table in front of her. She waits. Her eyes are focused front, straight at Katie, and Katie wonders now if she’s sitting in a bad spot. She has to look at Brianna, has to keep eye contact, has to be her focus, because at no point does Brianna look away, disengage, offer her any relief. Brianna speaks now, her eyes locked onto Katie’s.

  “Let me explain what will happen this morning. I am going to give you a brief description of Hunsford, tell you what we’re about, describe our school, our philosophy, our facilities, our curriculum, our kids, and the Hunsford community, and then you will go on a tour, led by one of our parent volunteers. After the tour, you’ll return here and you’ll have an opportunity to ask questions. But because time is short, please save your questions until then. I promise you’ll have plenty of time to have all your questions answered. Okay?”

  Katie nods, Brianna’s partner, her shill, and then, for the first time, she unlocks her eyes from Brianna’s as she fumbles inside her purse in search of a pen and her notepad. She locates them, pulls them out, flips the notebook open to a blank page and smooths it out with the palm of her hand. When she looks up, Brianna’s eyes are gone, fastened like lasers into those of the balding, pale man next to her, who blinks back from beneath a butterscotch-colored unibrow. Katie feels oddly jilted.

  She shakes it off. Brianna begins talking about Hunsford in a slow, almost musical lilt. She has, of course, offered up this information a thousand times before, but her low, whispery speech pattern makes everything about the school, even its ungodly acceptance numbers, sound seductive. Brianna segues into the developmental philosophy behind Hunsford, which she describes as a “devotion to providing a stress-free, yet academic atmosphere while embracing each child in a nurturing little blanket geared toward allowing learning at one’s own pace and promoting gobs of self-esteem.

  “There is no one right way,” Brianna assures the parents before her, spreading her arms like two delicate wings. “We’ve just found that this way has worked for us . . . and we’re beginning our twenty-fifth year.”

  For some reason, perhaps to ease the encroaching tension in the room, this pronouncement breaks everybody up. Brianna allows herself a tiny giggle in chorus with her audience.

  “All right then, why don’t we divide into smaller groups and tour Hunsford? Let’s see, e
verybody on my left, you’ll go with Allison, and those on my right, go with Miranda.”

  And where does that leave me? Katie wonders, a teeny wave of panic rising into her throat. I’m right smack-dab in front of you. She pokes her hand up between a raise and a salute.

  “I’m not sure if I’m on your right or your left.”

  The words rush from Katie unchecked, tucked into a breathy, uncomfortable giggle. Brianna’s eyebrows tepee. Suddenly, happily, she laughs along with Katie. “I see your problem.” Then, without hesitation, calls, “Miranda, take Katie in your group.”

  Katie tilts her head girlishly, allowing a broad smile, and walks over to a dozen parents swarming around Miranda Gary, Hunsford Parents’ Association president.

  “Hi again,” Miranda gushes.

  “Hi,” Katie says, accompanied by a tiny piano wave of her fingers. But as she follows the group out of the multipurpose room onto the Hunsford campus, all she can think is, She knows my name. The director of admissions at Hunsford knows my name.

  The tour itself is magical, as wondrous as Katie’s first cruise through the melodic and somnolent “It’s a Small World” ride at Disneyland when she was five or six. Like the ride’s repetitive, addictive song, the music of Hunsford sticks in your head. And like Disneyland, there is joy here at Hunsford. Katie experiences it everywhere: in the faces of the kindergarten children watched over by two full-time credentialed teachers, one young, pretty, exuberant, the other slightly older, sturdier, more motherly; in the eyes of the teachers themselves, burning with intelligence and commitment and the sheer pleasure of teaching these adorable, spongelike, lucky little ones; in the artwork on the walls, splashes of color and imagination and confidence; in the games played in the grassy, open physical education area, games unrestricted by competition, Miranda explains, games defined by sharing and collaboration and good sportsmanship; in the music room, where unrestricted fugues of experimentation crash through the walls without regard to form; in the snapshots she sees of mind-bending computer art, photography, science, geography, even math. (“We teach math at Hunsford as a living, breathing organism. Numbers are alive.”) In sum, as Katie walks through Hunsford, her mouth agape, her eyes on the verge of watering, she feels the joy of learning. To her mind, Hunsford is what school should be.

  Katie then makes a decision. Steadily but imperceptibly, as if she is running a race and trailing the pack, she starts to move up from her position at the rear of her tour group until she squeezes ahead of them all and is walking side by side with Miranda. Katie doesn’t care if anyone else notices. She knows—or at least she’s been told—two things: when you see your school, you’ll know it, and once you know it, do everything in your power to get in.

  It’s on, Katie thinks. Right now. I’m going to start by making myself known to the Parents’ Association president. As cochair of the PTA at Alex’s preschool, Katie is aware of how certain things operate. She is aware, for example, that she has a powerful voice, a voice that will be heard if she wants a particular family admitted to Bright Stars, her daughter’s preschool. Of course, she has no ultimate control over who will be accepted and who will not. But she knows that her opinion matters to Gracie, director of Bright Stars. She knows that Gracie and Brianna talk and if Katie wants Hunsford, it’s important to get Gracie on her side as soon as possible. Having fallen in love, Katie wastes no time in going for the kill.

  Miranda stops the tour at a third grade classroom. She tiptoes two feet in, locates a chubby ten-year-old in pigtails, and blows her a kiss. The little girl hunches her shoulders in a shrug. Miranda backs into the hall and resumes the tour.

  “My daughter,” she says.

  Katie sighs. “She seems so happy.”

  “She loves it here. She’s made so many friends, and unlike some of the more academic schools”—fingers up again with those cloying air quotes—“that load you down with three hours of homework a night, she has a life.”

  “Three hours of homework a night? In third grade?”

  Miranda shakes her head solemnly. “That’s what you hear.”

  Katie dips her head within an inch of Miranda’s shoulder. By now, they are five feet ahead of the rest of the tour, fast friends, conspirators.

  “Which schools?” Katie whispers.

  “Meryton, Darcy, Pemberley.”

  “I think that’s cruel.”

  Miranda shakes her head again, this time in agreement. “Not to mention the fact that they give grades.”

  Now it’s Katie’s turn to shake her head while Miranda shrugs. “Different strokes for different folks.”

  “Not what I’d want to pay for,” Miranda murmurs.

  An hour later, after the tour, as the parents file into the multipurpose room for the question-and-answer session with Brianna, Katie boldly asks Miranda if they can exchange e-mail addresses. “I feel so comfortable here,” Katie explains.

  As Miranda fumbles through her purse for a business card, Katie senses hesitation, as if she has misread her connection with Miranda. Perhaps she’s overeager, becoming too familiar too soon.

  “That’s okay,” Katie says. “I didn’t mean to impose.”

  Miranda yanks her hand out of her purse as if she’s burned it. “I don’t really e-mail.”

  “You’ll probably see me soon enough anyway,” Katie says, attempting to salvage the moment with a laugh. “I’ll be back with my husband.”

  “So you’re the scout, huh?”

  “Yep,” Katie says. “I scout the schools, then bring Miles if I like a place.”

  “I did the same thing,” Miranda says. “Paul wouldn’t give up a morning of work unless I fell in love.”

  “I’m right there,” Katie says. “I’m in love.”

  Miranda beams. Katie smiles.

  Back on track.

  In the question-and-answer session, Katie asks two questions: “Is Spanish part of the Hunsford curriculum?” (“Yes. We have a full-time Spanish teacher. The children take Spanish three times a week, starting in third grade.”) And “Where do the kids eat when it rains?” which earns an “Excellent question” from Brianna and a supportive smile from Miranda. (“The children eat in their classrooms with their teachers. It’s very fun.”)

  After exactly one hour, Brianna stands and excuses herself, turning the rest of the session over to her second in command, a tall, wild-haired woman named Fontaine. Miraculously, the parents have no more questions, preferring instead to encircle Brianna before she exits. Katie decides to hang back and take her time packing up. She has no intention of leaving Hunsford anonymously, just another face in the crowd. Besides, in truth, she likes it here. She wants to soak everything in, allow the vibe to remain as long as possible. She slowly makes her way to the door, past a trio of Prada-clad desperate housewives hovering around Brianna like vultures, their husbands long gone. As Katie slides by the group, Brianna points a finger in the air and calls to her. “Thanks for coming, Katie. I look forward to meeting Miles and Alex.”

  “Thank you,” Katie says. “I loved it.”

  But she is stunned that Brianna knows not just her name but her husband’s and her daughter’s names as well and that she made a point of saying good-bye to her. Either I made an impression or she’s really good at this, Katie thinks. It’s probably both.

  Katie steps out of the multipurpose room. She takes one last look at the inviting, grassy area in front of her. She feels a sudden twinge of sadness and longing, almost as if she is watching a lover step onto a train en route to a faraway, unknown destination. She turns and is face-to-face with Miranda.

  “It was so nice meeting you, Katie,” Miranda says.

  “Likewise,” Katie says. “You’re a wonderful tour guide.”

  “Oh, thanks. I try.” Miranda pauses, then hands Katie her business card. “My e-mail address. In case you have any questions.”

  Katie’s lip curls up in surprise and then, spontaneously, they hug.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Fron
t of the Brochure

  Every applicant needs a hook. Something that distinguishes you. But I do think the nice, normal, middle-of-the-road family who in the long run would bring a lot to a school gets overlooked.

  —a private school director of admissions

  Ethnic diversity does matter. Especially if the family can pay.

  —a director of admissions, spoken with no awareness of irony

  A Question of Balance

  Does diversity matter?

  Do admissions directors seek to create balanced, diversified kindergarten classes? Does being a child of distinction, as one school refers to ethnic diversity, give an applicant an edge? Or are most private schools bastions of ethnic and economic homogeneity?

  “Our admissions committee has a list of criteria for each year,” one admissions director told me. “We look at girl-boy ratio, the financial aspect, ethnic diversity, and geographical diversity. We like to think that people come from all over the place.”

  The euphemism for diversity, repeated dozens of times by most private school directors of admissions and heads of school, is balance. “We’re going for balance,” said Dana Optt, director of admissions at Pemberley School. “This year I took eight diversity kids. I know I won’t get all of them. I’ll be happy if I get five.”

  Balance, of course, does not mean equality. While Dana and other well-meaning directors of admissions seem genuinely concerned about incorporating children of ethnic diversity into their incoming kindergarten mix, the fact is that private schools such as Pemberley remain steadfastly white.

  “We try,” said Dana, a hint of sadness and frustration in her voice. “But we exist in a different world. We are very far geographically and culturally from the inner city. I try to reach out but I need help.”

  According to an article entitled “Choosing the Right Private School for Your Kids,” published in Black Enterprise magazine, “More and more African-American parents have concluded that the nation’s public schools are failing to meet their children’s needs” and “more and more black parents are pursuing private school options.” The article lists three reasons for African-American parents’ increasing interest in applying to private schools: “Parents want to escape the crime and mediocre education of some public schools”; “They seek an enriched curriculum for their high-achieving youngsters”; and “They demand a rigorous education to increase their children’s chances of getting into a good college.” The article appeared in October 1994. Since then things have not changed.