A note came home from the principal last Friday.

Tell Sophie I’m wearing purple on Monday! 

It was not your typical note home. It is not your typical situation. I’ve been talking with the principal at Sophie’s elementary school since August about where she’ll go to junior high. It’s a big decision for any kid, but more so for Sophie. A press release reminded me yesterday morning that this is National School Choice Week.

Not quite. Not for kids with Down syndrome, not in Arizona, anyway. Not for Sophie.

When we met in August, the principal gently suggested that the feeder junior high in our district would be the best spot for Sophie. I resisted, claimed I could find the “perfect fit,” and set off to do just that, touring charter schools, searching for private options, even toying (for about 15 seconds) with home schooling. I watched as pretty much every friend Sophie has signed up for a boutique school run by the district that she can’t attend.

I sat in the principal’s office earlier this month. I’m ready to look at the feeder junior high, I said. He smiled gently and never said, “I told you so.”

There’s nothing special about this junior high except that it is the school Sophie is “supposed” to go to, and it does have a special education department. It’s big, it’s not really in our neighborhood, we don’t know many kids (if any) who are going. It doesn’t have a particularly good reputation — for anything. Not a bad one, either. But in a world where you’re supposed to be able to retrofit your school choice experience to your precise needs, it feels clunky. It’s also pretty much all there is.

“I want to take Sophie over myself,” the principal said. He explained that he figured that if the folks at the school saw that someone in a position of authority was taking an interest in Sophie, they would, too. So it was arranged.

Sophie planned a special outfit yesterday — she tucked her hair back in a headband (after announcing she’s growing out her bangs), chose a sparkly sweater, cool pants and shoes and her “What Does the Fox Say” shirt.

Shortly after lunch, I had a note from the principal:

Hello Amy!  We’re back and we both had a great experience.  We spent a big chunk of our time in the library checking out their collection.  The librarian was very helpful.  We also sat in on auditions for a solo performance with the choir…..which Sophie loved.  Touring the lunchroom and stage area was also very important.  Sophie asked to go back and take one more look at the Choir room which we did.  At that time the teacher was on her prep period and gave Sophie lots of information, listened to her sing and watched her dance.  The principal caught up with us to chat for a bit.    It was  a very nice experience and I think Sophie enjoyed it.  I know I enjoyed OUR time together.  Thanks for letting me take her.

When I got home, Sophie confirmed that it was a good visit, reporting that this school has choir and cheerleading and the school color is purple.

“I want to go there!” she announced, grinning.

It’s a start. And it’s all thanks to the principal. How many school principals would take an entire morning to take one kid to tour a school? (Remember, this is also the guy who wore purple fuzzy pajamas to Sophie’s birthday party; they do share a birthday, after all.) This guy’s a keeper. I just wish we could keep him.

But we don’t have to leave him quite yet. He’s scheduled a tour of the feeder junior high for Ray and me next month, and is insisting on coming along.

They say it takes a village and it’s true. But sometimes that saying discounts the role of the individual: the surgeon who fixed the hole in Sophie’s heart, the physical therapist who taught her to walk, the ballet teacher who makes her feel included, the best friend who makes her so happy.

And this guy.

I won’t bury the lede. At this point, if I had to make a decision, I’d send Sophie to the feeder school, the standard-issue junior high in our district.

The last option on my list.

That sounds shitty, like a slap, and it shouldn’t, because the truth is that I haven’t even visited that school. That’s why I was in the principal’s office; he had promised to set up a tour when I was ready, to find the right contact person, to make things okay. (Or as close as he can.)

He’s such a great guy. He’s the one who wore fuzzy purple pajamas to Sophie’s birthday party last year (they share a birthday, as she reminds him whenever she sees him). He’s the one with the inspirational messages on the walls of his office; I’ve written about them before.

Yesterday I fixated on one on the back of the door, just above his head, in all red:

ALL MEANS ALL

And it has, for Sophie, at this school — to a very large extent, maybe the largest possible. True, I had to fight to get her in and the principal at the time was not my favorite. We’ve had our ups and downs at this little K-5, but looking back, it’s been nothing short of remarkable. Sophie is truly a part of a community — she knows everyone, they know her. I’m quite sure she’s overstayed her welcome with both adults and kids, in a few cases, but she’s also made true friends. She has learned so much. And I like to think Sophie’s taught the folks here a thing or two, as well.

A friend of mine — the  mom of another kid with special needs at the school — calls the place Camelot. With caveats, for sure, she remarked recently after a school choir concert as we struggled to chat over the din in the gym, but Camelot.

And next year? We stared at each other, neither sure what to do with our daughters, even after months of research. So we wrapped our winter scarves tight around our necks, gathered our families, and went home.

I’ll just say it: The future is grim. Oh, I know, Sophie will be awesome wherever she goes, she’ll win hearts and minds and all that crap. Before I know it, I’ll be writing about that. But before that, I’m going to write about the fact at for all practical purposes, once Sophie leaves fifth grade, inclusion will end. For junior high, anyway.

I’ve ventured out — toured schools; talked to parents, teachers, lawyers; hired a consultant; googled and read, everything short of praying (though that’s been recommended). From time to time, I’ve turned to the Church of Facebook, kneeling at that altar to ask for advice. Last week a Facebook acquaintance — I’ll call her that since we’ve never actually met — commented:

Arizona has a tremendous amount of school choice available….You’d have to search pretty hard to find another state with the amount of options that we have in AZ. I’m sincerely sorry that this quest has proven to be so difficult for you and your family.

I’m sorry, too. And sorry for all the whining I’ve done. But when it comes to Sophie — and probably most kids with special needs — it’s simply not true. And pretending that it is is not only insulting but dangerous.

Maybe that perfect school is out there and I simply haven’t found it. But as much as I’m quick to doubt myself in other realms, at this point I’m pretty sure I’ve rattled all the cages in town.

Bottom line: I decided to take full advantage of the school choice thing when finding a school for Sophie. We looked hard and found the right place for Annabelle. There had to be just the right niche for Sophie, right?

As I told the principal yesterday, here’s what I’ve learned. Please, tell me if I’ve left a stone unturned:

*There is likely not a charter school for Sophie. We put in for lotteries at two schools; both would be good choices (with caveats) but her chances could be as crappy as 1 in 100. I’m not holding my breath. Most of the charters I researched and talked to (including Annabelle’s) made it clear that they don’t have appropriate special ed services for Sophie. I could force her way in; that wouldn’t be good for any of us, most of all Sophie.

*There’s not a public school outside of our district, Tempe. Yes, technically, you can open enroll a kid out of district in Arizona. Even a kid with special needs. A kid with an IEP? Not so easy — and almost certainly impossible, particularly at the super-popular schools I’d like to send Sophie to. (Her lawyer confirmed this for me.)

So much of this skirts the law — yes, legally all public schools (and that means charters) are supposed to provide appropriate services. And the choice to open enroll should be as open to Sophie as to other kids. But in reality, it is not.

*There’s not a private school. There are some terrific schools — for high achievers. The private school I found for special needs kids isn’t quite right for Sophie. And we are not interested in a religious school.

*No, I’m not home schooling. And if you know me at all, you are applauding right now. Plus, Sophie needs to be around her peers.

*There are no other viable public school choices in Tempe. Then I turned back to Tempe. A friend urged me — rightly — to figure out a way to keep Sophie with her peers, her classmates, the kids she’s known, in some cases, since pre-school. Her best friend. A very good point, and the bright side of not being able to find a perfect boutique school. But that is sticky, too, and not only because some of those kids will go out of the district or to charter schools. It’s because Tempe has shut Sophie out of that choice.

A few years ago, the junior high across the street from Sophie’s elementary school closed, due to declining enrollment. Blame the charter schools. I did — even as I was guiltily pulling Annabelle out of public school to send her to one. The school stood empty and lots of options were discussed — a charter school collaboration with ASU or maybe Sophie’s school could be a K-8.

In the end, the district decided to go head to head with the boutiques — creating an “international academy” that will someday (they hope) house a prestigious IB program.

Mediocre students need not apply.

Well, technically, we could have petitioned, brought in the lawyer, demanded fair treatment — but my understanding is that this school has no special education services in place (not the kind Sophie needs, anyway) and all I’d be doing is making a point. And enemies.

I heard a rumor that more than half of the fifth grade has been accepted to the international academy. Many more will go to charters or out of the district. That will leave a few to go to the feeder school. It has a gifted program, so most likely any of the higher achievers left in the pot will leave for that.

I’m guessing Sophie will be at that school with dozen or so kids. Mostly “resource” kids.

“So what’s she bitching about?” you might be asking yourself. Sounds like that’s where Sophie belongs. And maybe it is. But so much for inclusion. And so much for school choice.

ALL MEANS ALL.

I stared at the words over the principal’s head and I didn’t cry, even when he offered to come with me on the tour of the big, scary junior high. Even when he offered to bring Sophie over himself. She’s excited about it — weeks ago, apparently, her special ed teacher told her he spoke with the resource teachers at the junior high and they can’t wait to meet her.

For her special ed teacher, it was a foregone conclusion. Maybe it should have been for me, all along, too. I’ll probably always be on the lookout for the right junior high for Sophie, the way I keep an eye out for Holiday Tic Tacs at Walgreens all year.

Maybe this junior high will be Sophie’s dream school. As a friend observed not long ago, the school’s color is purple. They have a cheer squad. Maybe she’ll love it, flourish, learn. Maybe I’ll be just as sad to leave there in three years as we are to leave elementary school. Maybe.

I googled Camelot to make sure I was using the reference correctly, and the following scholarly quote popped up:

“Camelot, located no where in particular, can be anywhere.”