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.

It’s a tradition at the girls’ school. (The festival, not the spying.) Every Halloween, all the kindergarteners — and only the kindergarteners — parade through the school in their costumes. Cutest thing ever. Then they gather in the cafeteria for the morning, where sevearl stations are set up with carnival-like activities: story telling, cookie decorating, pin-the-smile-on-the-jack o’ lantern. That kind of thing.

I signed up immediately as a helper for the morning. It was my first real look at Sophie in action, amongst her peers. I’ve banned myself from her classroom, which kills me. Not that I have so many hours to volunteer, but I’ve always managed some lurking time in Annabelle’s classroom. It’s good for her to see me around, and even better for me to see what’s up in the space my kid occupies for such a big hunk of her life.

Last year when Annabelle was in first grade I got an eyeful of just how much time some teachers spend texting (hey, it was a new boyfriend, cut her some slack) and got to organize someone else’s supply closet — which for some reason is infinitely easier than organizing any of my own crap. This year I’m in absolute awe of Mrs. Z and her Smart Board (google it if you’ve never heard of one — amazing) and her ability to keep just enough control over a group of 7 year olds to get them to work without feeling like they’re working.

And while I’m grading homework, I get to keep tabs on the kids’ social lives. I admit that’s the best part.

But I’ve never gotten to hang with Sophie’s class. In pre-school, parents were pretty much banned from the classroom. At first I was really upset, but Sophie’s wonderful teacher promised she’d be a different kid with Mommy around. “We’ll videotape her if you want,” she said. I was allowed to come at Hanukkah, and the teacher was right: Sophie spent the whole time showing off for me and disrupting the group.

Lesson learned, sadly, so I’ve stayed away from kindergarten. I’m lucky because Ms. X keeps me posted on classroom activities and Sophie’s ups and downs. But as I stood with Sophie the other day before school, I realized I know very few of the kids in her class. Several of the girls, yes, but not many by name, and the only boy I recognized was the one who came to school on Picture Day with both ears pierced. (He’s memorable, and also a good friend to Sophie.)

The Kindergarten Festival went well, although I got stuck at the math station — not my strong suit. OK, I admit it’s not like it was algebra. The kids made patterns with construction paper pumpkins, ghosts and bats. Still, it was stressful, and partly because I was afraid of what I would see. Would the other kids  leave Sophie in the dust?

Let’s say I was pleasantly horrified. I’d figured she’d emerge as the slowest, but as I got to see each kid complete (or not) an activity that required a bit of concentration and effort, I realized that Sophie’s hardly at the bottom of the pile.

I’m not deluding myself, trust me. Well, maybe I am, but not entirely. Last week the “Clifford Journal” came home — the kids are allowed to take home a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog to play with, then asked to write about the “visit” in the journal.

My eyes welled up as I flipped through the book. Many kids had drawn fairly intricate portraits of Clifford engaged in activities around the house, along with several well-constructed sentences describing the visit.

Sophie wrote her name in her Sophie way, and drew a, well, a more rudimentary picture than the others in the journal. She dictated her description of the visit to me, which I dutifully wrote, verbatim:

“Don’t feel bad,” Ms. X said when I mentioned it. “I’ve watched parents dictate to their kids. They don’t come up with that stuff themselves.”

But even that wouldn’t have worked with Sophie. She still has trouble forming the letters to more than her name, dictated or not.

So I was nervous as I set out glue sticks and paper cut outs. And yeah, I saw my share of whiz kids. But what surprised me was how many kids were completely unable to do the simple task at my station. Although patterns are a big thing in kindergarten — the precursor to math and all that, something that has no doubt been covered to death by three months into the school year – some children stared blankly when faced with the task. A few couldn’t figure out how to rub the glue stick on the back of the paper, or how to get the finished product into the brown bag they were carrying around.

By the end of the morning, I’d decided several things:

I will never, ever teach elementary school.

Sophie’s doing just fine in kindergarten.

And she looked damn cute in her Cookie Monster costume.

I reconnected this week with a lovely woman in town whose daughter is just about Sophie’s age, and also has Down syndrome. We wrote on each other’s “walls” on Facebook (if someone can explain that whole Wall thing versus the Email thing versus Status Comments, please do, and while you’re at it, what the hell does it mean when someone Pokes you?) and swapped quick kindergarten tales.

I’ll cut to the chase. Her kid — who goes to a public school in a neighboring district — gets a personal aide in the classroom 18 hours a week! That’s huge! Sophie doesn’t get someone to walk her from the cafeteria to the playground.

Something’s wrong with this picture, and if it was in reverse, I know this lovely woman would be kicking my butt toward an advocate or a law office. I need to do something. As Sophie’s physical therapist said this morning, it’s about her safety. I don’t want to rock the boat. But how can I help it?

Damn the economic crisis — we couldn’t sell our house and move to that better district even if we wanted to. And open enrollment is not an option for special needs kids; they’re too expensive.

At least Fall Break starts tomorrow, so I can indulge in one of my favorite pasttimes: procrastination.

The news varies. Often it involves an indiscretion or safety breach. For example, on Monday, Sophie announced to some other kids (but not the teacher!) that she was going to the bathroom, and took off for the nurse’s office without a “buddy”.

Not good. Sophie has solemnly promised all of us she won’t do that again, and Ms. X. has noticed that she does seem to try things only once, but not again — like yesterday, when she unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper in the bathroom. (The nurse was not pleased; I don’t blame her.)

I’m hopeful. We’ll see if she leaves the TP alone from now on.

One piece of news in the past few days made my heart soar, and I thought sharing it would be a good way to end the week.

Ms. X called on Tuesday afternoon. “So I was testing all the kids on their sounds, and I tested Sophie, and she knows all of them,” she told me. “She knew most of them at the beginning of school, but now she knows them all!”

Cool, I thought, having no idea what that really meant, or why Ms. X was so darn excited. The next day I asked her, “You know the sound testing thing? Was Sophie the last kid in the class to get that, or are there others who still haven’t?” (I’m weak; I compare.)

No, I was told. Only one or two other kids in the class have mastered all their sounds.

OH.

Well, how was I supposed to know that? I have no idea what to expect of Sophie. She surprises me every day, and I never know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. (Or what it says about me, which I fear is not good at all.)

I’m not a prayer kind of person, or a god kind of person, but I feel like maybe there should a Serenity Prayer for Parents:

SOMEONE, grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change about my kid;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.