As I mentioned earlier, one of the key concepts for mindful parenting (and maybe mindful living) is fit. Given that your kids will spend most of their waking hours there—and that you will often feel that you are spending most of your waking hours there—finding the right school fit for your kids is one of the most important parenting decisions you’ll make. And, as I’ve mentioned earlier about the particular needs foster and adoptive kids have for belonging and feeling seen, I would argue that the right school fit is even more important for them.

With that in mind, here are our family school stories, from the almost-perfect fits to the (very, very) very bad ones. May they provide some encouragement to let fit—not glossy brochures—guide your own family school choices.

Diversity in Schools

Memo to elite private schools: I don’t care how good it looks on your calendar, or on the cover of your annual report—if you’re not able to handle a diverse population, please stop trying to pretend that you are.

Not that I have any strong feelings about this.

I’ll describe our specific school experiences in the next few sections, but the key takeaway is this: My kids have particular needs and issues, and the bad-fit schools were unable or unwilling to deal with them. This, in and of itself, was not a problem—there were (and are) many days where I’ve struggled to address my kids’ needs and issues, and I lived with them by choice. And, of course, a private school can define itself however it wants, and can selectively put together a student body that embodies that definition. But dang—and I write this with the best of intentions—these schools could really do us all a favor by not accepting kids who don’t meet that definition.

In case you don’t know (and for your sake, I hope on so many levels that you never find out), when you apply to an elite private school, you as parent are required to do a lot of writing on the application. You will answer questions about yourself, your kid, your family structure, values, behavioral approaches, and so on (shades of the dreaded home study). These are not to be confused with the pages about you, your income and assets, your ability to take part in volunteer activities, and your willingness to drop a pound of flesh to cover the tuition.

Being me, I tried to be as honest and detailed as possible in my responses. I figured that the school should know who they were getting. I made—or tried to make—it clear that each kid experienced particular background circumstances, and because of these circumstances, there were issues. And just like in any relationship, if you’re going to take the person, you get the whole package.

Either I wasn’t honest enough, or someone didn’t read carefully enough, or other factors were going on in the background. In any case, on more than one occasion, the school accepted my kid, who accepted the offer to attend, and . . . let’s be kind and just say, the relationship didn’t work out.

Which brings me to: The Bay Area is a wonderful blend of races and colors—that’s a big part of the area’s appeal for some of us. Private schools here make a great show of incorporating that blend into their student bodies. I think they’re sincere in their intentions. I also think they may not always be super self-aware regarding what they’re really looking for. From where I sit, there’s a certain student profile—in terms of background, family structure, personality, behavior patterns, academic ability and approach, etc.—and for most of these schools, they’re pretty much equipped to deal only with kids who fit, or at least come close to, this profile. The good news is, you can find those kids across the racial/ethnic—and, to a lesser extent, socioeconomic—spectrum.

So a school can have its rainbow calendar and have a functional relationship with all of its students.

For those kids outside the profile, trying to fit in at these schools is a futile exercise in “square peg, round hole.” And, at the risk of sounding defensive, it’s not just my kids and me. I’ve talked to other parents of private school kids who are outside the profile, and everyone shares similar stories of struggle and frustration—with the other students, staff, administration.

In some cases, we left the school in question, voluntarily or otherwise. In others, we chose to stay. But it’s a lose/lose either way, and this takes me back to: You can slice and dice diversity a number of ways. Where big chunks of a kid’s life are involved, I humbly submit that an organization should have a very clear concept of how its slicer works. And then not try to pretend otherwise.

I’ll get to the schools my kids did attend in a minute, but let me close this section with a story about our visit to one very high end, very well regarded school that my son—fortunately, in my opinion—chose not to attend. During the open house, the very white school made a great show of their embrace of diversity. The admissions director mentioned several times how “we” love “our” diverse students. He didn’t seem to realize that if there is a “we” that’s doing the embracing, clearly the “diverse students” are something else—a “you” or a “them” or—who knows—maybe an “it”? Not slick.

This was followed by a student who told the story of a peer, an Italian exchange student who loved playing on the soccer team. After some big victory, Italian dude rushed onto the field and kissed the team captain. The speaker noted that while this was “a little weird,” it showed how much the school embraced diversity.

Second memo to elite private schools: If your open house audience includes any gay members—and remember, this is the Bay Area we’re talking about—calling a kiss between men a little weird may not be the smartest PR strategy. Not to mention the diss on Italians. If you had told any of the (straight, married) Italian guys I grew up with that kissing each other was weird, they would have expanded your understanding of diverse cultures by introducing you to a few choice phrases in the mother tongue.

Elementary School

As I’ve said—and will continue to say—having my kids has helped me believe in magic. And not just because of all the years I spent coming up with clever ways to convince them that Santa Claus was real. Including the year I made a big show of having them see me go to bed, and then changed the sheets overnight, so that I could say that Santa magically put new sheets on my bed while I was asleep.*

(*No, I have no idea why it mattered so much to me that the kids believed in Santa. And no, the sheet trick didn’t work.)

Anyway, back from the North Pole. If you, like my kids, still need convincing that raising a family can be magic, here’s our elementary school story.

When I got the boys in January of 2003, Mark was in preschool, and Daveon was in first grade—which meant, legally, I had to get him into school ASAP. Unlike many adoptive—or biological, for that matter—parents, I did not do a big search to find the “right” school for my kids. I also didn’t move into a neighborhood known for “good” schools. Even with forty hours of fost-adopt training, a lot of what I did and still do in terms of parenting falls under the scientific approach known as “winging it.”

We started with our neighborhood public school, where Daveon lasted all of two days. After his third (fourth?) fight started by a kindergartner, we were done. (I didn’t dare ask him who won.) A guy I knew who had worked for the school district for years recommended a school whose principal he knew well. She was doing “great things” there. Maybe for some kids—when I went to volunteer every couple of weeks or so, all I saw was a poor teacher engaged in full-time crowd control. When “Everyone’s in their seat at the same time” is a noteworthy accomplishment, that’s not a good sign. Daveon lasted at that school until June, but just barely. And only because we had our alternative already lined up.

Meanwhile, Mark got into a Head Start campus at the old army base near our home. Because most of his school day involved eating, sleeping, and playing—aka, Mark in his natural habitat at that age*—he did fine.

(* Who am I kidding? That’s Mark in his natural habitat, period.)

Now for the magic: About two weeks after I got the boys, I was invited to a friend’s birthday dinner in San Francisco. It was a grown-up event at a nice restaurant. I was very torn about leaving the kids so soon after I got them. On the other hand, the thought of a few uninterrupted hours of adult conversation, not to mention no chicken fingers, was irresistible. I arranged for my friends Jim and Chris—fresh with their own two newly adopted kids—to watch the boys, and off I went to the big city.

One of the big topics of conversation was, unsurprisingly, Joe’s new kids. (Actually, fifteen years in, my kids are still what most people are most interested in talking to me about. Switching my name from Joe to Daddy was prophetic.) Across the table from me was a woman named Elena whom I did not know. Elena asked about the kids’ schools, and I explained where they landed, more and less smoothly. She then said flat out, “You need to send them to my school. I’ve been teaching for over twenty years, and it’s the only place that I would send any kids I had.”

Um, OK.

The good news: Elena’s school was having an orientation for parents of prospective kindergarten students the next week. I called on Monday and got a slot at the event.

The bad: They only had openings for kindergarten. But Elena advised, “Just go and apply for your younger son. If he gets in, I’m sure they can work something out for the older one.”

The day of the orientation came, and I pulled up outside the building. My first experience of the school was watching a group of older (seventh or eighth grade) students walking down the hallway in a double-file line. In silence. With no teacher leading them. As a point of reference, I would be hard pressed to remember one kid of any age walking down a hall in silence—teacher or no teacher—at either of Daveon’s earlier schools. I thought, “I don’t care what else they do at this place. I want my kids here.”

At the orientation, the teacher, parent, and principal spiels were encouraging. Not once did they mention that “we” loved “our” diverse students! Entering just its third year, the school had been founded by teachers and parents who demanded better for their kids and knew they could provide it. The maximum class size was twenty, there was an activist spirit to both the faculty and parent makeup, and test scores and other metrics showed that they were doing great things.

At the end of the presentations, I approached the principal with my application for Mark. When I explained that I had met Elena a few days before, the principal said immediately, “Oh, I know who you are. Just give that to me and I’ll take care of both your sons.”

They were in. In part because the school was almost 100 percent Latino and Asian, and improving the racial mix with a couple of African American boys fit their vision of (actual) diversity nicely.

And in part because—you’ll never convince me otherwise—magic. And magic it was, especially for those first few years. Daveon’s reading increased two grade levels within six months, and Mark, getting in on the ground floor, had a solid foundation from day one. The kids stayed with the same teachers for two years, and those particular K/1 and 2/3 teachers did work magic on the kids—an amazing blend of  compassion,  individuation,  high  expectations,  and  constructive discipline that many schools would do well to mimic.

As these things happen, the school changed in later years—growing larger, turning over staff, losing some of the special charm that made it what it was. From there, the boys had some high- and lowlight school experiences—those stories come next. But this special school gave the boys—and me—a home away from home base that really spoiled us in terms of what school could be like.

If I can send one wish to prospective or current parents that’s as important as anything else in this book: May you find as good a school fit as we had here!

Middle School

By fifth or sixth grade, it was becoming clear that our beloved school— despite the best efforts of the staff and administration—wasn’t going to be able to keep up with the boys’ academic and personal needs. After much discussion, we decided to make a change.

Daveon transferred to a very expensive, very prestigious private school.* He would complete seventh and eighth grade there. During Daveon’s second year, Mark transferred to that same school as a sixth grader. The school had a great reputation for the diversity of its student population.

(*Thank you, financial aid office, for making this experience possible.)

Even though I already gave this point a whole section, I can’t repeat it enough: Having a diverse population and knowing what to do with a diverse population are two different things. And nowhere did we experience this truth more directly—or more painfully—than at middle school #1.

Those years were, in a word, awful. I have never fought so many battles with so many people in such a short period of time.* In my view—though I’m sure they would describe it differently—this school simply didn’t know how to work with my kids, Daveon in particular. He struggled academically and suffered socially—including the day he was pushed into the girls’ bathroom by a female classmate. The school’s response? Well, there really wasn’t one. Because, I guess, girls will be girls. For the record, I have four sisters, and I’m going to roughly estimate the number of times they pushed anyone, anywhere during their school years at right around, oh, I don’t know … zero.

(* To be honest, I don’t think I’ve fought that many battles with that many people in the entire rest of my life combined.)

And that’s just the depressing social side. On the depressing academic side, one teacher told me not to worry about Daveon’s poor grades, because “All our kids get into [prestigious local high school].” I think that was supposed to be comforting.

We implemented all kinds of strategies to help him stay on track. And by “we,” I mean “me.” Every day, the students had one period of study hall—for, you know, studying, and also for going to the teachers for help with any assignments they had questions about. The teachers complained that Daveon never came to see them during this time. OK, I understand that you’re working from the ideal scenario: Any student who is struggling should seek out the teacher during study hall. Back here in reality, the situation is: A thirteen-year-old boy who is already feeling disincluded and dismissed is not going to ask for help. Solution? Make study hall check-ins mandatory. Create a simple attendance slip that each teacher signs, verifying that Daveon saw the teacher that day.

Call me crazy (I’m sure many of the teachers called me worse), but when I’m paying a five-figure tuition, I’m not super excited to have to come up with a strategy that involves a piece of paper with two signature lines. I even printed them myself.

You may wonder why we continued for a second year, and why Mark enrolled at all. After long discussions with Daveon, he made it clear that he would rather tough it out there for another year, since he would be changing schools for high school the year after. As for Mark, I had heard that sixth grade was a better entry year, since it was the first year of middle school. I figured he might have a better chance at learning and fitting into the system. While he did, as he usually does, fare better socially than his brother, the academic situation was about the same: needing support, not getting support without a lot of intervention on my part, and bring criticized for not being self-actualized enough to seek out support on his own.

Ever spent time with a self-actualized eleven-year-old? Me neither. I could go on (and on, and on), but I’d rather fast-forward. The following year, Daveon moved on to high school, which I’ll get to in a minute. For seventh and eighth grades, Mark moved on to a school that was right up there with the early days of elementary as a gift from the education gods.

(OK, I do need to tell one more story about school 1: At the time Mark transferred out, his new school was not accredited by whoever does private middle school accrediting, because of some bureaucratic-type requirements that didn’t fit its model.* When I informed school 1 that Mark would be leaving, the director called me in for a meeting. She noted that one of the things she would “certainly” look for in a new school was whether it had accreditation. She mentioned that there was a directory of accredited schools that I could check. And then she said—I kid you not—“Oh look, I happen to have a copy of the directory right here on my desk. Now let me see if Mark’s new school is in it.” It would have been bad-sitcom-acting enough, if the book wasn’t already open to the exact page alphabetically where Mark’s new school would have appeared. Which, of course, it didn’t. Coincidence, I’m sure.)

(*For those who care about such things, the requirements have since changed, and the school is now accredited.)

I think the best way to describe middle school 2 is: It’s not for every kid, but for the right kid, it’s a match made in heaven. For example, one of my best friends didn’t send her son there for kindergarten because it was too touchy-feely. There are—generally—no grades or exams, work is project-based, and much of the curriculum is driven by two concepts: finding one’s individual voice on the one hand, and establishing connections with all levels of community, from school to family and beyond, on the other.

Not surprisingly, the school is populated with a lot of alterna-families. Another reason I loved the school was that, at my first meeting with the director, she said right up front, “We don’t have a lot of African American kids. A ton of mixed race, but not black.”* I thanked her for her honesty and let her know that, given the scanty information about his biological background, Mark could very well be mixed.

(*Take that, all you “us” and “them” diversity preachers.)

For my alterna-son Mark, it couldn’t have been a better experience. He was seen, and heard, and challenged, all at the same time. During the danger-prone pubescent years when many kids collapse internally, he—along with most of his classmates—thrived. I will be forever grateful to the amazing staff there, and I’m glad to have the opportunity to publicly thank them.

High School

For those keeping score at home, our family’s early school adventures looked like this:

·* Elementary school: After a few false starts for Daveon, big win for both kids.
* Middle school: One enormous fail (both), one enormous win (Mark).

Which brings us to high school. If you watch TV shows about high school on any of the teen-oriented channels (unsolicited advice: If not, don’t), high school looks something like this: The kids live at high school. They operate independently with and among their high school peers. Adults are either mean teachers and staff or kindly teachers and staff. All conflict and resolution takes place within high school among the high schoolers. And everyone has a car. (Unless it’s a gritty urban high school, in which only the one cool kid, who is inevitably the class trouble-maker, has a car.)

Parents, if they exist in this world at all, are peripheral and usually appear only as needed to help move along a plot point. Think Peanuts for the thirteen to eighteen set.

The reality—or at least, the reality for my kids and me—of high school did mirror these shows in some ways. Certainly, high school seemed to reinforce in your kids’ heads that they are fully functioning, independent beings, with parents as peripheral figures. This most often showed up when events were scheduled, rescheduled, or canceled, and never a peep was spoken to the parent. Because, of course, kids this age are masters of their own schedules, able to travel independently on their independent way. For good measure, they clearly have no siblings whose own all-over-the-place schedules might need to be accommodated. (And just as clearly, they have two, if not more, parents, who can manage all this surprise schedule-juggling. I’ll cover that exciting phenomenon in more detail later.)

However, there were certain circumstances where parents became very nonperipheral indeed. These circumstances most often involved a check or credit card, with volunteer opportunities a close second. It’s amazing how valued a parent suddenly appears when the school is on the potential receiving end of the relationship.*

(*I know, I know. “You give to us, we give to the kids.” Whatever.)

And discipline. When your kid is in trouble, it’s amazing how you— whom the school hasn’t bothered to contact in months, unless it’s a solicitation letter—suddenly become a crucial member of the team. It’s nice to be needed.

Bottom line: When you see the school’s number on your phone or their logo in the mail … run.

All kidding aside, the high schools my kids attended were . . . fine. There were pros and cons, like everywhere, I guess. Unlike the earlier schools, which felt like either amazingly good or super-amazingly bad fits, the high school experience was kind of “ehh.” Of course, this may just be a perception issue on my end. I was much less engaged in their high school experience than I was when they were younger. So there may have been amazing, or awful, things happening that I wasn’t aware of. (Although, as mentioned, the schools weren’t shy about contacting me about the awful stuff, especially when my kid was the prime suspect.)

The sense of “ehh” might also be partly due to the fact that, as my kids got older and came into their own, some of our binding family magic dissipated—not in a bad way, but in the sense that they started on the path toward finding their own forms of magic. We grew into less of a single “us” than three “I”s. Which is as it should be, and has been amazing—if often hair-raising—to watch unfold in its own right. And will be even more so when they start footing their own magical path bills.

Next Chapter: Road Trips