I went from being an admissions assistant in May to director of admissions in July to acting head of school eighteen months later while the board scrambled to find a new head late in the private school hiring cycle. Why me? you may wonder. Why not the CFO or the assistant head of school like all the other private schools in the country would do when they are in need of an immediate interim head of school? I have a two-word answer for you—white males. Dr. Pearson was not the only administrator in our school who enjoyed a good striped bow tie from Brooks Brothers or Thomas Pink. The board of trustees thought, given the nature of Dr. Pearson’s sudden departure from Fairchild, that a woman in the head’s role would be a nice change of scenery. I was a twofer, being black and all. The hope was that any memory of the old guard—khakis, cuff links, wandering penises—would be erased from short- and long-term memory when I was in charge. I represented a new era for Fairchild.
Only I had no idea what I was doing. Luckily, it was April and admissions were complete. New parents had signed their enrollment contracts and put down their deposits mere days before the private school gossip wires were set aflame.
I still remember watching Dr. Pearson pack up his office. Ms. Cornwall was already checked-in to a “retreat” in Napa, her nerves unable to survive the public embarrassment of losing her marbles and losing her lifetime-coveted love. Her desk sat as she had left it before being tranquilized and hauled away by paramedics post face-off with Señorita Flores. The front office went from a bar brawl to a ghost town in a matter of hours. The board of trustees wanted me present as Dr. Pearson packed up almost four decades in his office to ensure there was no extraneous funny business.
While I understood why Dr. Pearson had to go, my heart was conflicted. Here was a man who had always believed in me and held me to high standards of academics and conduct. He was the first to brag about me to anyone who would listen and then he welcomed me home to Fairchild, no questions asked. Dr. Pearson was the closest thing to a father I had ever had and letting him go, even given the circumstances, proved difficult.
In quiet moments throughout my life, I wondered if having a father would have improved my luck with men. I fantasized about my dad being something like Dr. Pearson, graying temples and a tweed jacket even on warm days. When I was nine I made the mistake of telling Aunt Viv. Her boisterous voice shook the apartment walls as she repeated, “Tweed? What black man have you ever seen wearing tweed?” and then she would break out in hysterics all over again slapping her velour-covered knee at my ignorance. “Girl, you’d do better imagining an Afro and some shoes that need resoling as fast as he skipped town!” At my disappointed expression, Aunt Viv softened a bit and reached for my hands, “Don’t worry about it, baby girl. Tweed or no tweed, that daddy of yours is gonna be mighty sad he ever walked anywhere away from you. No man will ever do that to you again.” But here was Dr. Pearson in his best tweed jacket preparing to do just that. And a handful of years later, Michael walked out on me, too. This was officially a pattern I had no interest in repeating.
I was only acting head for five draining months before Nan Gooding arrived at Fairchild to save what some speculated might soon be a sinking ship without Dr. Pearson. And thank God she arrived when she did because I knew within a few short hours of my first day as interim head, I had no desire to ever hold the position permanently. Turned out, I loved being director of admissions! Being around families on their Sunday church behavior as the director of admissions, having them shower you with compliments and delightful conversation—all good cheer and gratitude—is where I shine. Easy, I know. Give these same people five minutes in the front door of a new school year and some of the best and the brightest parents of a generation turn into cold, complaining, sniveling shells of their formerly optimistic selves. After only two phone calls and six e-mails as head, I couldn’t deal with the entitled and disgruntled customers coming at me from all grade levels. Who knew serving corn on the cob with hamburgers on a gorgeous spring day in May was too many carbs in one meal, thus why Charlie Taylor in third grade was unable to make it through his select soccer tryouts? Apparently Fairchild was to blame for his spiked insulin followed by a carbohydrate crash. Little Charlie’s father did a three-way call between him, Charlie’s pediatrician, and me to make sure I understood the severity of the mishap. What I understood was that Charlie had a dad out to single-handedly dismantle the tradition of the great American picnic. To say I was beyond ecstatic when Nan was hired, and a start date was confirmed, would be an understatement. I looked forward to the moment I could return to my office in Colson Hall, where the loudest complainer was Roan after a spray tan gone awry.
From the get-go, I think my relationship with Nan could best be described as frosty. I’m not sure how it spiraled downhill so fast. My two-cent speculation is that Nan didn’t grow up with many girlfriends. Any girlfriends. I think she grew up seeing other capable, competent girls as enemies who had to be edged-out for her to earn the accolades and get the boys. Trying to be head of a private school only fertilized these nasty characteristics. In an industry that is at least 80 percent male and still discriminates against hiring women into head of school positions, female candidates can quickly become, as Aunt Viv loves to say, women with sharp elbows.
Funny thing is, of the three finalists, Nan was my favorite candidate. She had done her homework on the history and current state of Fairchild and had reputable research to back up her personal philosophy on education and leadership style. The two male candidates tried to skate by on charm, cronyism, and white male privilege.
Nan, unfortunately, viewed my enthusiasm for her appointment and imminent start date with a healthy dose of skepticism. I shared with her my gratefulness to turn the reins of the Fairchild wagon over to her and even pointed out the big piles of horse crap to watch out for as she took the old wagon on her first spin. Somehow Nan took my offer to share some advice as a vote of no confidence and she’s been working hard to prove her exceptionalism and superiority ever since. I just wish Nan could get off the power trip she’s been on for six years. One would imagine she’s tired from all that travel.
With each passing year she seems to leave the security of her oak-paneled office less and less and rely on commanding e-mails and sporadic public displays of self-congratulations more and more.
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It’s 1:27 p.m. on Thursday and our admissions check-in is coming to a close. True to Nan form, she throws me a curveball.
NAN (SWEETENING HER TONE AS I’M ABOUT TO EXIT OUR ADMISSIONS CONVERSATION): Oh, one more thing, Josie, I’m thinking of throwing a fiftieth anniversary party for your aunt Viv in late February or early March-ish. She is the longest standing employee Fairchild School has ever had since founding Head of School Balthazar Fairchild, so I think we should celebrate her tenure. I want it to be a party like Fairchild never experienced under Dr. Pearson. Of course, I will need Viv to do the food, but everything else Elsamyassistant can take care of.
ME (BEING THE AUNT VIV EXPERT IN THE ROOM AND KNOWING SHE WILL HATE THIS IDEA): Well, Nan, that’s a very kind offer, but Aunt Viv is not one for a big fuss. I’m not sure a massive party is how she’ll want to celebrate being at Fairchild for fifty years. What about dedicating the cafeteria to her with a lovely plaque and maybe a gift certificate to her favorite Cajun restaurant?