Dear administrators, teachers, and staff:

Before I say anything else, thank you.

Thank you for creating an incredible environment for my daughter. Two and a half years ago, I sat in the audience at Sophie’s fifth grade graduation and sobbed, convinced her education (both academic and social) had come to a halt, that we’d never find such a nurturing and inclusive environment for a kid with Down syndrome in a junior high setting.

We’d had a rough time finding a middle school — every one from the charter her older sister attends to the public junior high across the street from our elementary school had made it clear that Sophie was not welcome.

Not only did your school welcome Sophie, your arms were open and have remained so. I am already stocking up on Kleenex for the eighth grade graduation ceremony.

Sophie is a cheerleader. The school has started a Best Buddies program and soon, Special Olympics. She is a homeroom rep for Student Government. She is in honor choir and can’t wait for end-of-the-year trip to Disneyland. She is fully mainstreamed in the classroom and on campus she knows everyone from the school cop to the school nurse. She’s even made a couple friends.

To me, it’s no surprise (although on a political level it’s a little concerning — a battle for another day) that your school’s mascot is the Crusader. In the last couple years I have watched Sophie become her own best advocate, fighting for what she wants, crusading for her causes. You always listen, which I love.

I fully recognize that her requests are often not appropriate. I’m not writing to you today to ask you to abolish the school’s dress code or to let Sophie into the college-prep program (although I see her point in both cases). But I will feel as though I’ve failed both as a parent and a community member if I don’t once again mention another cause that’s nagged at me for years now. You’ve all heard both Sophie and me rail on this already.

Here goes:

Sophie wants to take drama as an elective. It is not currently offered at her school, has not been her entire time there.

True, there have been attempts. There was an after-school drama club. In my estimation, it did not go well. Last year Sophie took “musical theater,” and that was worse. I cringed at the year-end concert, watching my daughter sing along to a karaoke machine. I’m not asking for a lot in the way of instruction, but that was definitely a low point of our time at the school.

There’s a solution to this drama thing, and it’s literally in the school’s backyard.

Drama is offered as an elective at the gifted academy housed on the same campus as the general ed public school Sophie attends. There are other electives, as well, all open exclusively to the gifted students.

And yet the gifted students are allowed to take any general ed elective they choose.

Like I said, this has nagged me for years. It’s a pretty well-kept secret. I never would have learned of it if Sophie hadn’t told me. In fact, as it turned out, she had been cornering the gifted academy’s principal at lunch for weeks already, asking him to let her take drama. This was followed by my own request, which I took up the ladder to the superintendent.

I never really got an answer, which I suppose was my answer. But I’m here today to ask again.

I don’t just want Sophie to be able to take drama at the gifted academy. I want you to tear down that wall and open all electives to all students on this small campus. There are so many good reasons to do it, reasons that would benefit all the children.

Look, I’m not asking you to let all the kids take the same math class. And I understand the value of having a prestigious gifted school on campus — it’s a way to keep parents from sending their kids to charter schools, for one thing.

I get it.

But there are other things I get, too. When this issue first came up, I talked to a kid from the gifted academy about it. He had taken drama. “Hey, what would happen if the general ed kids were able to take drama at the gifted academy?” I asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “Those kids are so poorly behaved,” he said. “It would be terrible.”

I haven’t crunched the numbers, I’m not sure they are even available to me in the breakdown I’d need them, but anecdotal evidence tells me that the two schools have very different demographics, both racially and economically. (By the way, I do know that the gifted academy has enrolled a few kids with special needs and that’s awesome, but it doesn’t affect this argument.)

This is not an issue about special education, or about Sophie. This is a matter of civil rights and it affects every kid on both campuses.

Speaking of special education, something really amazing happened this year. Sophie’s school DID start offering a drama class on campus — exclusively to special ed students. That, along with other changes I’ve seen and heard about, such as kids with IEPs being more fully included in academic settings — is wonderful. I’m so happy to see kids with special needs receive more programming.

But here’s where it’s left you:

You have a drama class for the gifted kids. You have a drama class for the kids in special education. And you have nothing in between.

What you have is segregation. In drama. One of the few places where you could do some freaking amazing inclusion! What are you people thinking?

I get that this is the least of your worries in this current political climate. I get that Sophie and I are a pain in the butt. But just imagine, what if you blew things up next semester and opened your drama class to ALL kids. Put the gifted kids in with the kids from the self-contained special needs classroom. Toss some kids in from the general population. Dream big!!!

I know what you are thinking. “Dream on, lady.” Okay, I will. And I will push for change.

Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist you. And again, thank you.

Sophie took the stage one night last week in the junior high cafeteria. With a microphone in one hand and a large sparkly “slipper” (her nanny’s prom shoe) in the other, she performed a short monologue. She rushed and held the microphone too high, so I’m not sure anyone else could understand what she said, but I’d heard the piece so many times I got the jokes about being a bag lady ditched by her carriage, missing her tiara, waiting for her prince.

In any case, Sophie was charming — so proud of herself — that she got a big round of applause from friends, family, teachers and even her elementary school principal who stopped by to see her. Satisfied, she came down from the stage to sit with us for the rest of the performance.

A happy ending to my tale of trying to find a meaningful drama experience for Sophie at school, right? Well, no. Not really. Not at all.

Let me take you behind the scenes. Considering the amount of time she had to prepare and the instruction she got, Sophie deserves a Tony for last week’s performance.

First I must pause to heap well-deserved praise on the staff, teachers and administrators at Sophie’s junior high. As we near the end of her first year there, I am truly in awe of how accepting and accommodating they have been — opening arms, classrooms and the junior varsity cheer squad to my little girl. She still hasn’t made any really close friends, but she loves being a part of the Best Buddies club (it warmed my heart to see her best buddy in the audience last week) and word has it that she danced with at least six boys at the school dance Friday.

She still hates the dress code, and complains about going to school like any tween would, but I know there’s a lot she loves.

An after-school drama club was the cherry on the sundae — the result, in part, of my griping that there is no drama elective at Sophie’s school. The gifted academy on campus does offer one, but I was told in no uncertain terms that kids from the general population cannot sign up, even though the gifted kids are invited to take gen ed electives.

Sophie was thrilled to join the drama club, thrilled when she learned a couple weeks in that she had been cast in a scene with another girl. And then nothing happened. Trying to hold back (not my strong suit) I didn’t say anything. Sophie went to drama club each week, accompanied by her nanny, who reported that while most of the kids practiced a play, several others sat waiting for something to do. Including Sophie.

With a little more than a week to go before the scheduled performance, I finally emailed the teacher who had kindly volunteered to lead the drama club. She wrote back that Sophie had lost her first script, admitting that that acutally wound up not mattering because the other actor in her scene was pulled to take the place of someone who had dropped out of the main play, leaving Sophie with nothing to do. She could send a monologue for Sophie to perform the next week, the teacher said kindly, or Sophie could make posters and be an usher.

After some consideration, we took the monologue — a 33 line script that would have been hard for any kid (or adult) to memorize in a few days. I don’t know much about drama but my friend Kim taught me long ago that monologues are the toughest thing to memorize. I edited the monologue down to about 10 lines, got the teacher to sign off on it, and we (the nanny, Sophie’s aide and family members) helped her memorize it. My mother provided a costume (it’s nice to have a dance studio in the family) and the shoe was the final touch.

Sophie finally rehearsed in front of the teacher leading drama club the day before the performance.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled that there is a Drama Club, delighted that Sophie was allowed to join. And I get that it was the first time the school had tried it and that there are always going to be growing pains. I’m sure Sophie will want to join again if the club keeps going, and hopefully she’ll get a role next time — or at least be included in some meaningful way.

But I have to be honest: for as grateful as I am, the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. I don’t like that this time, at least, it was all for show. I winced when the drama club leader got on stage last week to praise the kids for working so hard for four months.

I can’t stop thinking about that drama elective at the gifted academy. Here’s the thing. Sophie is learning some relatively complicated math in school, which is good for brain development, but it’s unlikely she’ll use it in real life. The fall of Rome, which she’s studying in social studies, may or may not come up in casual conversation. If I had to guess now, I’d say that Sophie’s destined to do something in life that’s related to the stage. Yes, as has been suggested, I can sign her up for all kinds of after school classes and camps (her schedule is currently packed with them).

But still, I wonder what she’d get out of actually taking a serious drama class at school — one where she receives instruction and coaching, one where she takes part in the group activities. And what would the rest of the class get out of that?

Sophie will never come close to qualifying for the gifted academy. The thought is laughable. But I’m serious when I say that for as much as I find myself doubting her abilities and potential at time, I can’t help but believe that Sophie’s more than qualified for a junior high drama class, no matter where it’s offered.

And so next week I’ll be off to talk with administrators, to see if we can capture more than a Cinderella moment.