Correspondence

The Walk Up Cemetery Ridge

The private-school league’s middle-school basketball playoffs were home games for Prep.  Prep is the town’s most expensive private school, and their gym is beautiful: spacious, air conditioned, the wall by the entrance made of plastic so the new, impressive weight room is visible on the other side of a hall.  We met them in the girls’ finals.  We’re Westminster, the evangelicals, where in fifth grade our daughter had to memorize a Bible verse every week, and for graduation from day school, the fifth graders recited 1 Corinthians 13 together from memory.

Westminster is tiny—my high-school graduating class was 20 percent bigger than the 12 grades at Westminster combined—but academically it’s as demanding as Prep.  At Awards Day, two or three of our high-school graduating seniors had perfect scores on the national Latin exam, and it seemed that every other kid who had taken Latin was in the top 100 in the country.  We don’t have as many doctors as Prep, or as many kids whose parents are from other countries.  More of our parents are bankers, businessmen, or pastors, and many families have a relative on a Christian mission in another country.  At the playoffs, our side of the big gym was nearly full, with parents, aunts, friends, and a few recent grads.  Maybe if more of their relatives had been there, the Prep cheerleaders wouldn’t have chanted, at the end of one...

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