When all hope was lost

Biking around the neighbourhood feels very different this summer.

And not just because I finally have a bike with working breaks, a kickstand that reaches the ground, and more than one gear. I have a very sweet husband, who values me, and my ability to stop before the parked cars, enough to surprise me for our 14th anniversary.

This summer I don't cry every time I go by the school playground.

Before you google "new antidepressant meds" allow me to explain. In May 2007 we found out the school board wanted to close my kids' elementary school, around the block from my house, due to low enrollment. So last June my full time job was ringing doorbells, doing surveys, handing out fliers, calling the division office regarding services and funding policies for small schools, researching the history of the building and its founder, and writing speeches.

And chastising the apathetic parents on the playground. You know, the kind that say, "Oh, we can't make a difference anyway." Or "My kid's going to junior high next year so it doesn't affect me."

When the kids were let out last June, we only knew we had a year-long fight on our hands, with no hope in sight. It was a bunch of zealous soccer moms and dads against the elected pocketbooks.

The suits had already made up their minds. The suits controlled the media. And despite our brilliant presentations, the suits voted to put our school up for review for closure.

Every time I rode by the empty playground and saw the vertical garden the students had just painted, poles full of jellyfish, flowers, fruit and butterflies, I cried. I wept when I imagined the new playground equipment torn down and the playing field sprouting condominiums. Or the building where K. learned to write his name turned into a military base, or a meat packing plant. (Nothing says "happy family neighbourhood" like raw pork and tanks.)

The school board's final vote to close the school was scheduled for the beginning of June. "All through the school year," one staff told me, "not a day goes by when the topic of closure doesn't come up." Like a cloud over our heads. Why plan and dream? Why create and improve when someone is going to tear it all down?

Enter Education Minister Peter Bjornson. Out of the clear blue this June, he passes a bill in legislature placing a moratorium on school closures in Manitoba. Done.

When we heard the bill had passed I heard a parent say, "A week ago it seemed so hopeless, and now it's all turned around. I don't believe in God, but this almost made me wonder..."

I'd have to agree. To step in and save us when all hope was lost and all our efforts had failed sounds very God-like.

I'd like to think rescuing beautiful, safe places where children are loved was on the divine to-do list for 2008.

Race you to the swings!

Parting is not sweet sorrow

Friday was a day for goodbyes.

I walked K. around the school to deliver his homemade cards to each of the teachers who touched him in grade 2. It was hard (for me) not to cry as he said goodbye to his librarian and principal who are transferring, and his morning E.A., retiring after 22 years at his school. And as I watched the gym teacher crouch down to his eye level, put her arms around him and tell him how proud she is of him, I got choked up about the future.

The school board voted to review the school for closure. That means a year-long process of exploring options, making arguments (while desperately trying to discern the superintendent's political agenda!) and above all, maintaining a sense of security and cohesiveness in a school that feels like it's tottering on the edge of...we're not sure what. Closure? Change? A new specialization? An exodus? A revival that will outshine Sister Act?

If only I knew how to teach the students to sing "O happy day" while dancing hip hop...

As I wrote in "Losing Mrs. L.," K. already said goodbye to his afternoon E.A. in February. Without another one-on-one worker in the afternoon we feared how he would manage. Would he have meltdowns? Would he be able to concentrate on his own?

We were pleasantly surprised. He learned to be more independent and spent more time in the classroom instead of his "office." In all areas except math and social skills he's at grade level. And while K. occasionally says he misses Mrs. L. he hasn't gotten emotional about it since the week she left, which gives me hope that he'll get through the current (and perhaps future) goodbyes.

Sometimes I'm not so sure about his mother. She seems to be growing more resistant to change and more tired of goodbyes.

In the middle of goodbyes there was one hello: Pumpkin the hamster joined our family.

Something worth fighting for

Two weeks ago I didn't know their names. Now we're joined by a crisis, a passion and 1076 doorbells.

When the division threatened to close our children's school, we are the parents who choose to fight.

On May 29, the superintendent announced his recommendation to put our school up for review for possible closure in 2009. After that board meeting 40 parents rallied in the lobby. One week later 78 parents and community members met in the school library to divide into interest groups and plan our speeches for the next school board meeting.

The superintendent tied our fate to software predicting declining enrollment. So we decided to knock on doors and get the real numbers. With surveys and petitions in hand, for 2 nights 30 parents knocked on all 1076 doors in the catchment, asking how many children lived there and how important the school was to their family. 348 doors opened.

900 people signed the petition.

When we heard other parents on the playground said, "My child will be finished here by 2009, so it's not my problem" or "It's a done deal. They're going to close it anyway. It's not worth fighting" we pressed on.

A handful of keeners gathered around the school picnic table Saturday morning to pick up flyers for all 1076 boxes, inviting the neighbourhood to show their support by attending the Monday night board meeting. Saturday evening we stayed at Smitty's till 1/2 an hour after closing, to practice our speeches and pat each other on the back.

Monday: showtime! Fourteen speeches - more numbers: Our school is $35,000 cheaper per year to heat than the same sized school across the street. Our school has more parent initiated transfers than the other schools in our area. Many of the families who have moved in to the area since 2004 have children under 5. I was the first behind the mic, putting my personal story out there, to try and persuade the trustees small schools prevent children with special needs from falling through the cracks.

As we stood in the parking lot after the board meeting we basked in the joy of knowing we'd done the best we could for our kids. Even if they close the school we can be proud of our efforts: the professionalism of our research, our perseverance and our unity. In striving to save our school community, we actually strengthened it.

In one of many group email conversations the next day, one parent wrote: "I can't stop thinking about the amazing leadership and teamwork and how it all came together...I don't think I've ever experienced this at this level before!"

It just goes to prove there's strength in numbers.

S.O.S (Save our school)

The life of a tremendous support in my life - one my family connects with every day - is threatened.

It's our neighbourhood school. The superintendent is recommending it for review for possible closure in spring 09. Before the trustees vote on the review on June 19, the parents get their say (June 11).

I've actually walked away from some writing assignments to devote myself to saving the school, by writing persuasive speeches, letters to the editor, etc. But the words don't come. Just the tears.

I don't want to give up. Those who have been through a review say schools that don't fight get closed everytime. It's just hard to think when it's so close to home. (Just down the block, actually).

And when we have so few answers. Like, why our school? Yes, it's small, but so are many other schools, and ours is the newest and cheapest facility to maintain. And registrations are way up for next year - the highest Kindergarten enrollment we've had in years. And what would happen to our children if they close Dr. Penner? We'd probably have to walk them twice as far, across a busy street, to a bigger school where no one knows their name.

You don't euthanize a healthy horse. You'd think the same would apply to a school.

If you pray, pray for our school. Something so full of life should not be condemned to die.