Choosing a School: The Process of Elimination

One of the hardest decisions for an international or expatriate family is which school to send their children to. Do you send them to the local public school where you live? Or do you send them to the school that represents your or your spouse's nationality? Or some other bilingual school?

The Bambina has Canadian and French nationality. It might therefore make sense to send her to a French school or to an English school, especially given that she will not likely be living in Italy in three or four years' time. What's more, the principal French school in Rome, the Lycee Chateaubriand, is just a few metres away from our home, and it goes from ecole maternelle (preschool) to terminale (end of high school). So early one morning in January, I headed over to the Lycee Chateaubriand to inquire about registering the Bambina for preschool in September of this year.

There is no denying that, even as I entered the school grounds, I had some reservations about putting the Bambina in a French preschool. The French school system has a reputation among anglo-saxons for teaching children conformity above all else. Thus, French teachers do not reward (and even positively discourage) children who try to be different in any way. The push for conformity applies to how the child is supposed to learn (children are expected to learn by sitting still among 29 other children and listening to the teacher talk in front of the class) as well as to the work a child produces: what counts getting the answer right, period, not the process one takes or any creative discoveries along the way. And sure enough, upon entering the building of the school, my worst suspicians were confirmed. Hanging on the wall were thirty identical paintings, each one consisting of a blue house, a brown and green tree and a yellow sun.

When I walked into the secretariat and asked (in French) about registering the Bambina, the woman behind the desk, who I assume was a secretary or other support staff member, handed me a form to fill out without another word. When she realized that I was not going to just fill out the form, give it to her and leave, she started to describe the operations of the school. "The school starts every day at 8h45 and finishes at 15h45, or it might start at 9h00 and finish at 16h00. This has not been decided yet. On Wednesdays, school finishes at noon."

"Oh, our daughter will not be needing to stay for the afternoons. Mornings will be sufficient. I can pick her up at noon. We live nearby," I replied, naively.

"This will not be possible. No child is allowed to leave the school gate before the end of the school day at 15h45 or 16h00." Keep in mind here that she was talking about children who are THREE YEARS OLD.

"Oh. Why is that? Do you have some kind of special activities going on in the afternoon that are part of your didactic programme?", I asked, once again naively.

"No. The children sleep in the afternoon," she replied in a completely banal voice. She provided no other explanation whatsoever as to why a three-year old child needed seven hours of pre-school per day. None.

"My daughter sleeps better at home, and we live very close by. Can you not make an exception?" I asked, trying very hard to be polite while feeling like I was talking to a wall.

"This will not be possible. We make no exceptions." Again, no further explanation.

Seeing that I was evidently banging my head against a brick wall on this point, I decided to move on to another question. "Could you provide me with any information about the programme that is offered at the ecole maternelle?", I ask "the things the children are supposed to learn, the method of teaching...".

"You will have to check the website for the 'education nationale'", she quipped.

"I will be sure to do that. Thank you. May I see a classroom?", I asked.

"That will not be possible. Classes are in session."

"What if I come back during the lunch break when classes are not in session?" I asked.

"That will not be possible. The secretariat is closed at that time." This woman was beginning to sound like a broken record.

"So, your telling me that I should enroll my child in your school, without ever having seen a classroom?" I asked, probably in an exasperated tone by then.

"I understand what you mean but I cannot do anything about it. We do not let parents see the classrooms before their children are enrolled. There will be a meeting with parents in October," she said, her voice completely expressionless.

This woman was really starting to annoy me. And yet, I should have known that it would be this way. How typically French to provide abysmal service to people who are one's potential clients. And how even more typically French to feel absolutely no sense of personal responsibility in providing such abysmal service or even consideration for the implications of what one is saying. I mean, this woman had basically told me that the school would be imprisoning my 3-year old daughter seven hours per day in a classroom that I was not allowed to see with an adult that I was not allowed to meet, teaching her I had no idea what. (Oh, and we were to pay them 3,200 Euro per year for this privilege). I was incredulous but, looking back, I should not have been. I left, the untouched form still lying on the secretary's desk.

Rewind to two months before, when I inquired at St. George's British International School and received a rather different reception. When I had arrived at St. George's, the administration immediately escorted me to the principal's office. Classes were in session, and after a 30-minute discussion with the principal regarding the preschool and kindergarten programme and the school's pedagogical approach, the principal gave me a tour of the entire school and interrupted each class to introduce me to the teachers. From the perspective of a parent seeking a school that is responsive to the parent's questions and concerns, St. George's was to Chateaubriand as French haute cuisine is to McDonalds.

Unfortunately, St. George's British International School is too far away from our home to be practical for getting a three-year old there and back every day. It would have otherwise been a wonderful option. Italian public school, here we come.