Next year, when my girls start fifth grade, they will be going to a new school. In point of fact, they will be attending my school, which is located just across the street from their old school, but in some ways, is in a totally different world.
Their old school is a well-regarded public school in a struggling urban system. Their old school has asbestos in the pipes, so you can’t drink from the water fountains. Their old school is co-ed, with about a hundred kids in each grade for elementary school and even more per grade in middle school. Their old school has been our welcoming and wonderful community for the past five years, the place we have gone to see art shows and plays, donate school supplies and help out at fundraisers, the place where we’ve met treasured friends and learned the ropes of this whole school thing.
Their new school is much smaller, quieter, all girls. Their new school is “independent” and “prep” and expensive, though our cost of attending will be lower, due to our connection to the school. Their new school has been the source of my own career’s blossoming, and my girls have roamed the halls and made friends with teachers and gazed, starry-eyed, at the older girls on the fields and sidewalks. But they don’t know the other girls, and I don’t know their parents, and we don’t know the culture of that division of the school, especially from the parent/family side. Our excitement is tempered with a little fear of the unknown.
We are thrilled to have the girls come to my school, a place we hope will be full of friends and opportunities and will prepare them for academic success in the next chapter of their lives. But it can’t be denied that leaving their old school behind, and our familiar place in it, is bittersweet. This experience has shown me once again that a school is really defined by the people in it.


