Before the coffee shops on Henry Street have even opened their doors, a line forms outside the school office on a soggy Tuesday morning in Brooklyn Heights. Silently, parents in puffer jackets wait, some clutching printed-out emails, others holding toddlers. Everyone seems to be thinking the same thing, and nobody wants to be the first to ask it. Will my child be able to enter?
By now, the numbers sound almost theatrical. One Brooklyn public elementary school has about 1,200 families waiting on a list; this number has increased so rapidly that even seasoned parent coordinators characterize it as unfamiliar territory. There were fifty people on the waitlist at Brooklyn Heights’ P.S. 8 two springs ago. This year, 31 zoned families were turned away from nearby P.S. 29 in Cobble Hill, and P.S. 58 in Carroll Gardens added 16 more to its own growing list. Though no one in the Department of Education seems quite prepared to identify it, it’s possible that something more significant is changing in Brooklyn parents’ perceptions of public education.
The simplest explanation—which parents usually give when questioned—is that the school functions, which is a secret that no one truly keeps. Teachers remain. Children are known by name to principals. Tens of thousands of new four-year-olds entered the public system through Mayor Bill de Blasio’s Pre-K for All program, which was implemented starting in 2014. Many of those families never left. For a generation of Brooklyn parents, what began as free childcare turned into a subtle introduction to the notion that public education could be the first option rather than the backup plan. In a completely different industry, Tesla once experienced a similar shift in perception where a product that people thought they didn’t want suddenly became the one they couldn’t stop talking about.
When you stroll by the school in the late afternoon, the scene speaks for itself. A small dog tied to a railing waiting for its owner, parents exchanging information about reading groups and after-school chess, and children spilling out onto the sidewalk in clusters. The structure itself is unremarkable; it is made of brick, somewhat worn, and has banners announcing student art exhibits. However, the way these families have decided to invest in it is almost unyielding. Investors may refer to it as confidence. Parents refer to it as relief.
The math is harsh, though. At one local school, officials sent out 170 offers for 150 seats, understanding that a family in 30th place on the waitlist would need to reject 50 offers before they could be accepted. Last year, Monica Gutierrez-Kirwan, the parent coordinator at P.S. 29, told a reporter, “It’s such a sensitive and emotional issue,” her weariness audible. Families can apply online without having to confirm their address, and when out-of-zone applicants are discovered in late April, a portion of the waitlist usually clears. Offerings from gifted and talented people, acceptance into private schools, and an unplanned relocation to New Jersey all push the line forward by one.
Parents’ intense desire to be involved is what gives the situation a fresh, raw feel. Not too long ago, choosing a private school was the topic of discussion in Brownstone, Brooklyn. Although it has been crowded out, that conversation has not vanished. At the playground, it’s difficult to ignore the shift in tone. The waitlist isn’t exactly a systemic failure. A public school that finally became the thing parents lined up for may be the most peculiar kind of success. It’s still unclear if the city can produce enough of them quickly enough. They should give it a shot, according to the line on Henry Street.
