My son’s New York City high school application process began on September 25th, 2017 at 7:46 PM when with a fast click of the mouse, I created a Google doc called “Middle Schools in NYC.”  My son was nine.

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I grew up in the suburbs of Cleveland, OH, where my peers were also white and middle class and where we did not talk about education, opportunity, or equity.  Parents signed kids up for elementary school and then middle school and a hard decision we kids had to make was whether or not we’d drive our clunky cars to high school.  Active involvement in the school selection process was not necessary.  I didn’t even realize a decision was being made.  I took for granted that we had AP Calculus and Varsity teams and a school newspaper.  I breathed my privilege like oxygen, and I’d been doing so for years, without question, interruption, or understanding.

My two New York City children are breathing better than I ever could.  Let me pull the distinction into focus:  My parents did not attend college.  We lived in our one-bath bungalow and didn’t go on vacations, my sister and I didn’t attend summer camp, and we spent meals talking about football and family drama.  My kids live in Riverdale, a leafy, calm neighborhood a stone’s throw from Manhattan and all its cultural offerings.  They’re surrounded by hundreds of books, multiple electronic devices, fresh, whole foods, and deep, critical conversation. 

In “Choosing a School for My Daughter in a Segregated City” Nicole Hannah-Jones highlights the decision-making process that ultimately led her and her spouse to choose a so-called “underperforming” segregated school for their daughter, even though they could’ve sent her anywhere.  She points out that school segregation — in NYC, especially — is deep, structural, and calculated. “One family, or even a few families, cannot transform a segregated school,” she writes, and adds about her own journey, “But if none of us were willing to go into them, nothing would change.”  I’ve spent most of my career working in education reform.  I’ve worked at 2-yr and 4-yr colleges, charter networks, and nonprofits.  I know that the system is set up for my son to succeed and for Hannah-Jones’ daughter to fail.  I listen to frustrated, white liberals say, “The system’s not working!” without themselves realizing it’s actually functioning exactly as designed.  So Hannah-Jones’ personal predicament resonated with me:  Do I retreat from my core values so that my child can experience excellence in education?  

According to Hannah-Jones, test scores give white families an acceptable excuse to turn away from black and brown schools.  In other words, as a white mother, I can disavow PS 307 because test scores are low.  It’s got nothing to do with race, I can safely claim.  But Hannah-Jones is right:  it has got everything to do with race.  I’ve got to own that fact because the correlation is not accidental:  test scores are lower at black and brown schools because they’re under-resourced and unsupported, and they are under-resourced and unsupported because they’re educating black and brown kids, not white kids.  So when I decide not to send my child to PS 307, yes, it’s because test scores are low.  But also yes:  it’s because of race.

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Inequity is heightened in New York City because the education pipeline starts early, hinges on tracking, and can be circumvented with money and power.  Numerous documentaries satirize rich New Yorkers who spend thousands of dollars so their three-year-old can attend [insert any private school] so that in 15 years he can attend Yale.  But satire speaks truth.  My son’s high school application process began when he was nine because it had to.  To get accepted to a strong public high school in NYC, he needed a middle school with an honors curriculum, Regents exam offerings (especially Algebra), and high DOE performance indicators as indicated by the school performance dashboard and quality reviews.  This is no easy feat in District 10 in the Bronx, where we live, and an especially lofty one when you’re talking about a student with an IEP and 2s on state exams. This much I knew:  I didn’t want him to attend a school that tracked students because tracking exacerbates inequity and it was a line I was not willing to cross.  We see this reflected in 8th grade Regents exam offerings, typically available exclusively through honors or G&T programs.  How are families supposed to know this tiny, crucial fact?  I only knew it because my colleagues explicitly said:  Passing those exams in 8th grade will give Sebastian more opportunity.  He can be eligible for higher level math and science classes; he can march towards AP classes and college credit; most importantly, he can acquire confidence and a sense of belonging.  So I was looking for a high performing, public, District 10 or city-wide middle school that despite having no honors track, would offer my son a rigorous honors curriculum and the opportunity to take Regents exams.  I also wanted an integrated school with small classroom sizes, teachers of color, art and music, and after-school opportunities.  

I was asking too much, but I was also holding cards most parents don’t have when they play this game.  Powerful cards.  I toured over a dozen middle schools during work hours; I pored over data; I interfaced with school leaders and asked the right questions. I had a job that afforded me the time and flexibility this exasperating process required, and I had the know-how.  The inequity I’d been battling against in my professional life came face-to-face with the absolute privilege I held with each hand I played.  This mandatory school tour only happens at noon on Tuesday?  No worries.  My straight beats your pair.  A deceptive statistic implies that 90% of your students have perfect attendance?  Interesting.  Looks weak next to my full house. A principal smiles and shows four aces?  OK, I say.  And I fan my royal flush across her desk.

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I said earlier that my parents didn’t attend college.  Their parents didn’t even finish high school because their Italian immigrant parents needed money now, not in four years, and so they dropped out and found work at  factories.  I have a master’s degree.  My husband, sister, and brother-in-law have Ph.Ds.  It’s remarkable, really, when you think about it.  In just three generations, we lifted our family out of poverty.  What allowed us to do that?  I could say, “We got educated.”  And I wouldn’t be wrong.  But I also wouldn’t be right.  

We all know that education creates social and economic mobility.  We know that when my parents moved out of their urban, immigrant neighborhood to purchase a home where their kids could attend schools in the suburbs, they were giving their children opportunities that they never had.  But what enabled them to purchase that house?  I could say, “They worked hard at their blue collar jobs and saved money.”  And I wouldn’t be wrong.  But again, I also wouldn’t be right.  Because policies made that housing purchase possible.  Policies enabled their daughters to enroll in good public schools which made college enrollment possible.  Policies favored my parents because they were born to immigrants that society deems white. 

So when I survey the landscape that ensured Sebastian would have an excellent education, I’m not wrong when I first see John Carroll University, the University of Wisconsin-Rock County, Manhattan College, Democracy Prep Public Schools, and the Urban Assembly, places where I honed the skills I needed to find Manhattan East.  You bet I’m not wrong when I hear the voices of principals, deans, and education reformers whose expertise nearly guaranteed my son’s acceptance there. I can point to all of this and breathlessly, not be wrong.  But I’m sure you know by now, that I’m also not right.

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My son’s in 7th grade now — he’s 12 years old — so the high school application process will begin in earnest.   Our journey into Manhattan East has set us up nicely, though.  Plus, I’ve always excelled at research and communication — I love reading and writing and organizing and networking.  In a way, you might say I was made for this NYC high school application process.  

Actually, reverse that.  By now, I should know better.  What I mean to say is:  this process was made for me.