There's a lot of crying going on behind the green sunglasses, and this morning there was crying without them. The morning was gray in the way of June gloom, and I had just dropped Sophie off at her summer school location, a middle school in the heart of Hollywood that I had visited many years ago when I was looking for a middle school for her. It's an ugly school -- maybe one of the ugliest schools you'll see in this part of Los Angeles, and I remember crying when I left it the first time. I had dragged Sophie out of bed this morning, fed and dressed her, something we are generally loathe to do before she's ready. On Saturday I got a notice from the school that if she didn't "show up," she would not be eligible for the four weeks of the summer program. It was a threatening letter in the way letters from the Los Angeles Unified School District are threatening. They are bland. They are mediocre. This is the sort of thing that frightens me -- the bland, the mediocre. I need something to do with Sophie for a few hours every day. I can't pay for everything. There are groups of mostly boys and young men in clumps at the entrance. I know some of them from Sophie's regular school. One young man screams wildly, flaps his arms and runs around in circles. When I pushed Sophie's chair into the tiny elevator to take her onto the second floor of the ugly building, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen in the event of an earthquake. I couldn't help but wonder why they would put disabled children into classrooms on the second floor. I remembered the room I was shown so many years ago at this same school, a trailer across a giant concrete courtyard, not a speck of green in sight. Condensation from the uniform cleaning factory across the street fell on my arm, and when I worriedly asked the aide what it was from, she told me that she thought it was bleach.
When it gets too heavy, we bring the kids inside.That was a long time ago, but I couldn't help but remember it during the ride up the elevator. The doors opened, and I pushed Sophie into a bleak room whose windows were covered with landscape posters. The fluorescent lights blinked, and Mr. G introduced himself. He asked me what Sophie's problems were, and I told him. When Sophie's aide M walked into the room, I felt a rush of relief, but I still felt terrible leaving Sophie in such a place. Remember. I need something to do with Sophie for a few hours every day. I can't pay for everything. I can't give her a nicer life. There is nothing for these kids to do. They are, evidently, not worth it. The legion of disadvantaged kids that go to these schools, these ugly, impoverished schools, are not worth it. I don't know how they do it. I know how I do it. I drop my daughter off. I leave her with a beloved aide and strange Mr. G on the second floor of a building in a room that has no sunlight. I walk down the stairs and out the door and get into my car and drive off. I cry, openly, without sunglasses and don't care at the stoplights. All the way home. When I get there, I go into Sophie's purple room and make her bed. The sun is out now. I'll do my thing. I'll wait for her to get home at 1:00 and try to make it up to her.
