Children in Time

Inever planned to live in an academic hub, but so it is. The school year in my neighborhood begins before Labor Day with the drumroll of basket trucks, carrying the goods of college students to their dorms a few blocks away. But for the students I see throughout the year, college is as distant in time as it is on the street grid. Education begins and unfolds much closer to my door.

First comes the preschool on our block. It occupies the ground floor of a townhouse on the opposite side of the street. Every morning, from fall through spring, there is a gathering of strollers as children arrive, some brought by parents, others by nannies. The parents are white, the nannies black and, I would judge, West Indian, which must be why so many urban WASPs and Jews grow up with fond memories of curried goat. The parking lot for strollers lies inside a black iron fence in front of the building. A genial older black man directs traffic; I know him to nod to as I walk past on my way to the gym. Years ago a friend of mine had a child there. How much you earn and spend being information more privileged than with whom and how often you copulate, I never asked what the preschool cost.

One takes the next steps up Parnassus across the street, where my apartment building shares a block with a century-old high school building that now houses a charter school. Charter schools are hybrids, institutions within the public school system that have latitude to follow their own rules. They are a confession both that the system as it exists is lame and that no one has the will to do more than massage a tiny portion of it. Their existence became an issue in city politics: the pol and son of a pol wanting to let them continue, the wealthy socialist wanting to abolish them. Since the number of charter schools citywide is limited, competition for slots is brutal. On days when parents may apply, the line at the school snakes down the block, as for tickets to a rock concert. Parents who succeed remain active and involved. They crowd the street in front of the school at day’s end to collect their fortunate ones; they can be seen dispersing, along the avenue and the side streets, holding small hands. There is a matinée show of the children at noon when they appear, two by two, herded by teachers, to head to the park a block away for PT (play time, Mr. Secretary). The boys wear shirts and ties, the girls wear jumpers. Here and there a child sports a paper crown, the mark I suppose of some duty assigned or task performed. Decades of paper crowns lie ahead. Happy those who have the chance to earn them.

Charter schools are free. The next level of education, like the preschool, is not -- the old private school on a corner by the park, which ascends to twelfth grade. No uniforms here. These kids come from homes successful enough that they can dress like riffraff. Boys at that age seem a bit stupid. Girls seem smarter, but smart about stupid things -- appearance, cliques. None of them has any manners. In the afternoon, school buses line the avenue, like a humanitarian convoy of an NGO, to take them to athletic events.

I foresee two hazards looming for the students, like reefs in the mist. One is deafness. The private school was founded once upon a time by Quakers, who were noteworthy for gathering to worship in silence; only when the Holy Spirit spoke to one of them could anyone speak. The Holy Spirit now has a squad of bawlers and barkers to judge by the din these post-9/11 babies make. I admit that some of my reaction is old-fartdom, forgetting my own behavior during the first Nixon administration. But I suspect the perceived decibel level is also real and due to a young lifetime of earbuds. When hearing fails, lungs take over.

The second hazard is back trouble. So many of these kids wear backpacks almost as big on the little ones as the backs that carry them. Did Dante describe souls in Hell or Purgatory walking around with weights dragging from their shoulders? If he lived now, he would. You will all live longer than I will. Pay attention to what you see.