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At Artmore, each student must have an area of expertise. Students may focus on vocal, piano or instrumental music; they can choose technical theater, dance or acting. They can become visual artists or filmmakers. But they cannot cross over and they cannot change their minds. Actors can't sculpt and flutists can't sing. I suppose that's all right (though how many kids know what they want from life when they're 14?); but then the principal stressed that most of these students don't even go on to a career in the arts after graduating. So what was the point?

Portal offered us a principal, a perky admissions officer and two students. We liked them all immediately. The principal was a tweedy man with a fading Boston accent. He was witty, in a self-effacing way, and I embarrassed my daughter by laughing at his jokes. The students seemed normal; that is, they didn't seem self-conscious, overstimulated or overworked. They rolled their eyes at the principal's jokes, but said nothing. This seemed like appropriate behavior.

The school's philosophy: "We believe that each student is uniquely talented and that a quality school should make it possible for each child to express his or her genius." Individual students, sayeth the Portal philosophy, learn best in different ways. Another of their precepts is that students and teachers treat one another with decency and respect. Hard to argue with that. Glad to have it in writing.

As we stood around in the parking lot after the event, waiting for the traffic to clear enough to drive ourselves home, our choice became clear: Portal or Artmore.

To help parents decide, each school hosts an open house. Prospective students can also go to a high school and follow a student around to see if the school is a "good fit." In November we attended Artmore's open house. We were greeted by Artmore's principal, who had to shout above the orchestra tuning up behind him as it rehearsed for a concert that night.

A sophomore media maker escorted us through the halls of Artmore. We saw vocalists warming up, actors yowling in a circle and sculptors sculpting. In one classroom, students were building a theater prop out of papier-mâché and chicken wire. On the blackboard someone had written, "Sucky Sucky Ducky Anus."

Our guide told us that there was some drug use on campus, but nothing to worry about. There were 300 students there, she said, and perhaps six or seven users. She herself did not do drugs. In the media room, where there were two video-editing decks and not much else, she told us that all the equipment had been stolen the year before by a couple of recently graduated seniors.

Perhaps it was just the day we were there, but Artmore seemed to be in a state of semi-controlled chaos, where genius was expected to thrive, and then upon graduation, just go away. Sucky sucky ducky anus indeed.

Portal was next for the up-close treatment. My daughter audited a history and theater class and decided it was truly the school for her. Because it is so young (just 2 years old), she figures she can "make a difference."

So Portal it is. Fortunately, it doesn't seem to be very high on the list for most other high school hopefuls. Even so, the prospect of getting in is somewhat daunting. The problem in San Francisco, thanks to growing dissatisfaction with the school system, an explosion in the number of kids and the sudden prevalence of parents who have the money to spend on private schools, is that there are as many as 30 students applying for every open slot.

The application process is therefore somewhat rigorous. There are forms to fill out, interviews to take, test scores to crunch, portfolios to gather. In addition to good grades, high test scores and talent to burn, your child must have the social skills of Miss Manners. And if, after the interviews, the applications, the review of scores, the personality profiles and the careful consideration of diversity mandates, my daughter manages to get in, it isn't necessarily a done deal. If there are too many acceptable applicants for too few places, their names go into a hopper and they are selected for admission by lottery.

So there you have it. After months of anxiety and hard work, the question of where my daughter will go to high school may boil down to the question, "Go on, punk, do you feel lucky?" And even if we win, the school we've chosen, I noticed at its open house, will still be held together by duct tape.

Some educational principles, I guess, are eternal.
salon.com | Jan. 27, 2000

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