One Love.

So, if I happen to post about a certain club getting gutted (CB-somethingG-something), or that I am helping my friend the filmmaker (daughter of Seymour Stein somethingg) book an interview with a certain historian (Luc Saintly in French-something) and filmmaker (Jim-Anti-Hollywood Jarmu-schomething) to talk about said guttted club, hopefully you will know what, and who, I am talking about. I will only name names if I feel it is something worth getting picked up by Google Alerts, getting announced to the world, and have me suffer the consequences of receiving phone calls about any particular thing I've blogged about.

On the other hand, I would LOOOOVE to talk about Dalton. Yes, that private school on the Upper East Side of New York City that is ALL ABOUT CONNECTIONS. THE DALTON SCHOOL. Did you pick that up, Google Alerts? You see, today was Dalton's Open House for high-school aged students. This is how my visit to the Open House went:

[Me sitting in school theater]

At the microphone--

Eva Rado: "Oh, our school is so unique, and our students are so unique, because blah blah blah, woof, woof, woof."
[I look around, and notice that indeed, everyone looks uniquely exactly like the next person in the theater. Except me. I am wearing jeans, and lack Botox injected into my forehead, and I also lack Marc Jacobs rain boots.]

At the microphone--

Graduate of Dalton and Head of School Exhibiting Extreme Repression-Induced Palsy: "I love this school." [shakes nervously]

We break after a Math head, Foreign Languages Cute Girl, and Exceedingly Boring Science Woman, have taken the microphone and spoken. I am snoring. Thank goodness I am that relaxed, because it doesn't bother me that the parent next to me has knocked my coffee all over the beautiful Dalton carpet.

I head to the 4th Floor, the Science Floor. I notice that I am not greeted by the Science Woman, the only adult in the room who is wearing a nametag. I nevertheless begin speaking to the Dalton student with nametag. He seems to love science. He is the school uber-geek. I like him, but have a feeling that his parents come from the same cookie-cutter mold in Botoxlandia and MarcJacobsistan.

I head to the 5th Floor. The Music Room.

Again, I am ignored by the Music Woman/teacher/head/only adult in the room. It is starting to dawn on me that I am conspicuously the non-traditional parent. That's okay. I have no problem speaking up.

Me: "Um, I am sorry, what did you say about applicants auditioning? Do you recommend that?" I am actually excited at this prospect, as A is preparing for The Fame School audition. I notice a sign-in sheet. The students' names read current schools such as "Buckley" and "Brearley" and other Muffy/Biffy-type schools.

Music Woman: "Erm, yes. Sure. I'll answer your question. But not now. I have to attend to these people..."

And she promptly begins speaking to a 3-person family which has just walked in behind me. "And what do YOU like to play?" she asks their child. She then speaks to another 3-unit family that has just walked in behind the family behind me. "And what do YOU like to play?" she asks the next child.

I wait in the Music room for 10 minutes. And then I realize that I am being ignored. A is not with me, because he is sitting the SHSAT exams. I notice Music Woman's student assistant is equally giving primary attention to the young students.

Me, not loud enough to be thrown out, but loud enough to be heard: "So, neither of you is interested in what music my son likes, huh? Because I am here as his ambassador. He's taking an exam. And he wanted to know what your school's music program is like."

Music Woman still ignores me. I head downstairs in tears.

I hand the brochures, Daltonian newspaper, and other propaganda back to the school greeter in the lobby. I tell her how difficult it is to be a single parent, how hard it is to show up without my son who was testing that moment, to sacrifice my morning to help make an educated decision about their school, to ask the questions that my son wanted me to ask.

And how humiliating it is to be ignored.

"I'll talk to Eva Rado," said the lobby greeter, sadly shaking her head.

I'm sure she will. She didn't even ask what my name was.

Two hours later, I drank a Red Stripe.