Illustration by Adrian Walker
Halfway through middle school, I asked my mother to homeschool me. She apparently thought it was a good idea, since she homeschooled me through 10th grade. Despite the occasional expression of disapproval and even ridicule, I loved the flexibility and confidence it gave me, and I thrived. It was the cocoon I needed, after growing up with an abusive and alcoholic father and hopping from school to school.
I was fortunate, at that tender age, to discover what sort of school setting was right for me. Years later, when I returned to school, it was to private school — the Dwight School on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. My unconventional educational journey had prepared me well, and I seized the independence of mind offered me. At my graduation, I performed the national anthem a cappella. Standing in front of my family, friends and teachers, I felt, for the first time in my life, that I belonged.
Today, I'm the father of four wonderful children, and private schools in many ways continue to define my existence and to provide that cocoon, especially for my older sons.
When my company relocated to Richmond after my divorce, I agonized over the decision. The prospect of being jobless in New York with two young sons terrified me, but moving away seemed like a parenting fail since I only saw my sons on weekends. I soon realized that we could have more time together in Richmond than we did in New York if the boys spent their summers and breaks with me, along with one weekend a month. That was enough to make the move.
I eventually remarried in Richmond, and when the boys lived with us during the summer, we felt complete. The rest of the year, whenever I looked in at their empty beds, I felt sadness and remorse.
Finally, painfully, my sons moved to Richmond. They had to, because a fire took their home and everything in it.
Having lived through many painful and abrupt moves myself growing up, I knew exactly what they needed: a place where they could feel at home after losing the only home they’d ever known.
And so I enrolled them at Saint Benedict School.
During a difficult and often agonizing transition, here was a refuge, where everyone knew my sons by name, and took an interest in them as people with passions, quirks and needs.
I know that my own experience all those years ago, of walking into a small school and instantly feeling embraced and understood, had something to do with it. Because on that first day, as they walked up the front steps together, I sat in my car, watching, and cried. And cried. They were home.
Every day after that, whenever I picked them up from school and watched their lively interactions with their teachers, and saw how easily they fit in with their peers, I knew I'd made the right choice, though, believe me, there were many times I wondered how I was going to afford another semester, another year.
When it came time for them to go to high school, I didn't hesitate, choosing Benedictine for one and Trinity for the other.
Here, as at Saint Benedict, they found what private school had provided me. A place that provided opportunities to fit in and stand out at the same time. A place that offered both challenge and comfort. A place that they, and I, could call home.
