“That’s no excuse,” said April.
“Maybe not—anyway.” Karen cleared her throat in a way that was meant to signal their mutual need to get on with it and then out of there. “Since we don’t have much time, here are my thoughts on fund-raising for Betts. In the bigger picture, I think we need to raise the profile of the school so it attracts more families with money from the neighborhood. That’s a long-term goal. More immediately, I think we should do a direct appeal to the families we already have. The postage will probably cost a few hundred bucks. But assuming we can get all the home addresses of our families from the main office, I think it’ll be worth it. I’m happy to attempt a letter explaining that the school is basically under siege—not just from the statehouse, which cuts the public education budget every year, but from private entities like Winners Circle, who now want our classrooms too.
“I thought I could do a bullet-style list of all the extras that PTA money could be paying for if everyone got together and gave something. I have a feeling that we have quite a few families at the school, especially in kindergarten, who are actually in a position to give real money but who haven’t done so because, essentially, no one has ever pressured them into giving. Honestly, in all my years at Betts, I’ve never gotten a single letter asking for money, whereas my understanding is that other schools in the area basically bombard the parents with requests. I’ve heard that at Mather they send incoming kindergartners’ parents a letter in July, before their kids even arrive, demanding a thousand bucks from each family. Obviously, we’re not going to get anything close to that kind of money out of the average Betts household. But I don’t see why we can’t ask for something.”
For a few beats after Karen finished, April sat glaring at her and saying nothing. Then, overenunciating every syllable, her delivery glacial, she asked, “You want to send a letter by regular mail to our students’ homes asking their parents to give us money?”
“Yes,” said Karen, ignoring whatever point April was trying to make. “Direct appeals are really the beginning for every campaign. And as I said, since I’m under no illusions that we have a particularly wealthy student body, I’ll mention in my letter that no amount is too small. The important part is that everyone give what they can, whether it’s ten dollars, a hundred, or—hard to imagine, but you never know—a thousand. Participation is key. Later in the spring or early next fall, maybe we can start looking outside the school for matching grants and whatnot.”
April pursed her lips and looked away, her eyes appearing to home in on an etching of a donkey. Finally, she turned back to Karen and declared in a rapid clip, “I’m sorry, but I think it’s aggressive, and it’s not who we are as a school.”
“You think asking for money is aggressive?” asked Karen, incredulous.
“Yes. I do,” said April.
Karen leaned forward. “But April, how are we going to raise money if we don’t ask for it?”
“Our families contribute in other ways.”
“Yes, some contribute in other ways. And a few have devoted their lives to bettering the school, like you have. And I really admire you for it. But many families at the school basically use the place as a free daycare center and can’t even be bothered to walk their children into the building, let alone attend any events in the classroom, because they don’t give a fuck, or they’re overwhelmed and can’t deal, or it’s a cultural difference, or whatever. So let’s not mythologize-slash-romanticize poverty here. But I’m fairly sure there are a bunch of families in the lower grades who are pretty financially comfortable, like those women who are always complaining about the hormones in the milk in the cafeteria. And obviously those are the people we’d be targeting. Because I’m sure their kids all went to private preschools and now these children are attending kindergarten for free. So their families probably have some money to spare.”
“I don’t care if they eat gold bricks for breakfast,” April shot back. “I think it’s invasive, and I think it’s alienating for those families who aren’t in a position to give. If you want to do a penny or nickel or even dime harvest in the school lobby and encourage everyone to drop their spare change into a giant jar, that’s one thing. But sending personal letters? I’m sorry, I’m just not comfortable with that at all.” She shook her head.
“Okay, so we can put the letters in their backpack folders,” said Karen. “Or, if the main office is willing to share the e-mail addresses they have on file, we can do it that way.”
“However you send it, we’re still fostering an inequitable system in which schools with wealthier student bodies have more perks than those without,” countered April. “This is supposed to be a public school, not a private one.”
Exasperated, Karen felt her eyelids beginning to droop. “April, I agree with everything you’re saying,” she said slowly. “But for the moment, the system is what it is. And if you don’t believe in fund-raising, why be cochair of the fund-raising committee? For that matter, why do we even have a fund-raising committee? Also, do you ever stop to wonder why you feel compelled to argue with everything everyone says? What if, for once, just as an experiment, you tried agreeing with someone? You might find that people would actually be willing to join some of the committees you ran and even become active members of the PTA. Or do you prefer to reign over a kingdom of one?”
April apparently could think of no answers to any of Karen’s questions—at least, not ones she was willing to share. For a good half a minute, the two of them sat in silence, avoiding each other’s gazes, April flaring her nostrils and Karen grimacing. Finally, April pushed back her chair, stood up, and said, “Fine—do what you want. I have an important Education Partners workshop to run.”
“Thank you,” said Karen.
“There’s no need to thank me—I just do what I can to help,” said April. Chin raised and in full martyr mode, she stomped off.