was fine to be an outsider when Eva started third grade last year. But it’s been months. This is supposed to be home. This is where we live.
I want to be a good mom, I really do. I want Eva to make friends and be happy—popular—and I’m here resolved to get more involved. The discussion moves from the unfairness of the decision to bus little five-year-olds to another school, to the concern over mixing children from two different schools in one classroom, to the auction money raised last year, which is now under attack. Apparently, the parents representing the Lakes school feel entitled to a portion (one-sixth is the number mentioned) of the funds raised last spring since they are going to have to spend some of their money on “our” kids. My smile becomes increasingly stiff.
It’s not that I don’t want to care about their concerns, but there are so many real worries in the world, and I can’t help thinking this isn’t one.
I’ll walk/run to aid cancer research. ALS. Diabetes. And my new favorite, thanks to my mom, Alzheimer’s.
Better yet, I’ll donate for the poor in my own community, those who live on the other side of Bellevue, families confronted by crisis, poverty, and change. Women, children, and families in need of shelter, transitional housing, protection from domestic violence, literacy education, and health care.
In short, I think we in our cushy community have enough. Our own children have enough. When will we fight as hard for other women’s children?
When will we see we’re all in this together? What about everyone else?
Suddenly, I can’t stay another minute. I can’t watch ladies talk about fighting with their school district over a temporary situation when there are huge, urgent needs right at our door.
My mother and her friends were the same way. While I was in school, she organized endless bake sales, car washes, raffles, dinner dances . . . for what end? So she could make sure her child had more? A bigger piece of the pie?
My mom said I was ungrateful, but I don’t see how she could think I’d enjoy more pie when others were starving.
Taylor sees me shifting in my chair. “Marta? Were you wanting to say something?”
No.
Yes.
I uncross my legs, sit tall, try to manage my expression so I’m warm, supportive, nonthreatening. But the moment I open my mouth, the words come out too clear, too strong, too blunt. “What about all the other children? What about the kids in Crossroads? The kids without two parents or where both parents work? Why don’t we donate some of our money there? Why don’t we help them?”
My words are greeted by strained silence, and then Taylor smiles pleasantly and smoothes her short skirt over her long, tan legs. “We hold the school auctions to help pay for classroom aides. It’s one of the ways we keep our teacher-to-student ratio low and ensure that all children get more teacher attention.”
“All children in our school.”
Taylor’s brown eyes hold my own. She’s still smiling, but underneath I feel a tough, “don’t mess with me” tension. “It’s not as if they can’t do what we’re doing. They could have their own school auctions. They could do the wrapping paper sales and walk-a-thon, too. It’s not that hard.”
“No, it’s just time, money, and energy.”
“Exactly,” Paige’s mom chimes in, and she’s nodding earnestly. “It’s something they could do with a little effort, too.”
But these other families don’t have the time, money, or energy. They’re strapped, stressed, barely getting by.
And I say as much, knowing I shouldn’t, knowing this isn’t the place. “Is there a way, though, to include these other schools? Maybe include them in our efforts, ease some of the burden on them?”
There’s only silence when I stop talking, and twelve-plus women stare at me, their expressions ranging from unease to outrage.
“Maybe we can adopt a school,” I conclude quietly.
Taylor’s staring at me, her
I want to be a good mom, I really do. I want Eva to make friends and be happy—popular—and I’m here resolved to get more involved. The discussion moves from the unfairness of the decision to bus little five-year-olds to another school, to the concern over mixing children from two different schools in one classroom, to the auction money raised last year, which is now under attack. Apparently, the parents representing the Lakes school feel entitled to a portion (one-sixth is the number mentioned) of the funds raised last spring since they are going to have to spend some of their money on “our” kids. My smile becomes increasingly stiff.
It’s not that I don’t want to care about their concerns, but there are so many real worries in the world, and I can’t help thinking this isn’t one.
I’ll walk/run to aid cancer research. ALS. Diabetes. And my new favorite, thanks to my mom, Alzheimer’s.
Better yet, I’ll donate for the poor in my own community, those who live on the other side of Bellevue, families confronted by crisis, poverty, and change. Women, children, and families in need of shelter, transitional housing, protection from domestic violence, literacy education, and health care.
In short, I think we in our cushy community have enough. Our own children have enough. When will we fight as hard for other women’s children?
When will we see we’re all in this together? What about everyone else?
Suddenly, I can’t stay another minute. I can’t watch ladies talk about fighting with their school district over a temporary situation when there are huge, urgent needs right at our door.
My mother and her friends were the same way. While I was in school, she organized endless bake sales, car washes, raffles, dinner dances . . . for what end? So she could make sure her child had more? A bigger piece of the pie?
My mom said I was ungrateful, but I don’t see how she could think I’d enjoy more pie when others were starving.
Taylor sees me shifting in my chair. “Marta? Were you wanting to say something?”
No.
Yes.
I uncross my legs, sit tall, try to manage my expression so I’m warm, supportive, nonthreatening. But the moment I open my mouth, the words come out too clear, too strong, too blunt. “What about all the other children? What about the kids in Crossroads? The kids without two parents or where both parents work? Why don’t we donate some of our money there? Why don’t we help them?”
My words are greeted by strained silence, and then Taylor smiles pleasantly and smoothes her short skirt over her long, tan legs. “We hold the school auctions to help pay for classroom aides. It’s one of the ways we keep our teacher-to-student ratio low and ensure that all children get more teacher attention.”
“All children in our school.”
Taylor’s brown eyes hold my own. She’s still smiling, but underneath I feel a tough, “don’t mess with me” tension. “It’s not as if they can’t do what we’re doing. They could have their own school auctions. They could do the wrapping paper sales and walk-a-thon, too. It’s not that hard.”
“No, it’s just time, money, and energy.”
“Exactly,” Paige’s mom chimes in, and she’s nodding earnestly. “It’s something they could do with a little effort, too.”
But these other families don’t have the time, money, or energy. They’re strapped, stressed, barely getting by.
And I say as much, knowing I shouldn’t, knowing this isn’t the place. “Is there a way, though, to include these other schools? Maybe include them in our efforts, ease some of the burden on them?”
There’s only silence when I stop talking, and twelve-plus women stare at me, their expressions ranging from unease to outrage.
“Maybe we can adopt a school,” I conclude quietly.
Taylor’s staring at me, her
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