The thing is, I don’t want my daughter’s choices, opportunities, identity, sense of belonging and self-worth -- and those of her black brothers and sisters in this country -- to be dictated by the pseudo-educated, pale-faced Baby Drummonds of the world.
I needed to know how much it would take before I would
budown the house and walk away forever. I needed to see if Mr. McGee
(not his real name) could actually be a responsible adult and drop his
kid at the house at 11:30 a.m. on party day. And so: The call.
It turns out that, when your child goes to a school being
slowly devastated, like so many others, by the decisions of people who
prioritize war and the interests of a few rich folks, you’ll do some
crazy stuff to preserve what little quality there is left in her public
I won’t laugh at you or make snarky remarks about the
slow process of decline that is about to engulf you like a novice
snowboarder caught unawares and goofy-foot in an avalanche. Because,
truth be told, there is little to laugh about at this juncture.
Each year on this day, my mother asked for the exact same
thing, which was to be left alone—preferably on our sun deck in her
seasons-old threadbare bikini, with a tube of Bain de Soleil, a
crossword puzzle and an issue of Vogue on the ground next to her lounger and a Tab poured over ice.