When Maria Howard's son Deven's number was called, the medical biller from Columbia leaned back her head, covered her face with her program and let the tears fall.
"I work 40 hours and at least 20 hours I'm either in school or studying for school," Howard said. "It's hard on me because I can't help him, and when he gets bad grades, I feel as though it's my fault because I'm not there. This is such a good opportunity for him. And I know he's going to get a good education."
In Washington, 97 percent of SEED School graduates are accepted to four-year colleges, many with impressive names such as Georgetown, Princeton and Case Western.
Although the Maryland program is as yet untried, parents hear about the school's reputation and clamor to get in, said Head of School Dawn Lewis. A major draw is the school's size; the enrollment will grow to 400 students over seven grades and never get any larger, she said.
"We will know every child and their families," Lewis said.
School leaders know, however, that for many students, the drastically different learning environment will be too much. Living away from family and friends during the week, without television or video games; mandatory study halls and extracurricular activities; intense personalized learning plans and unwavering pressure to succeed are SEED School hallmarks. Many will drop out in the first two years, officials said.
That is a good thing for Tenai and her son, Elijah Anthony. Their number was called third among 40 on the priority wait list. They were disappointed but not defeated, Tenai said, because she knows in her heart that he will make it in.
"He's my blessed child. I didn't know I was pregnant with him till I was 71/2 months pregnant and I was on drugs. So he's not even supposed to be here or be doing as well as he is," said Tenai, adding that Elijah Anthony's father is dead. "So I know he'll get in."
For many other families, the day ended less happily.
Maurice Chandler of West Baltimore left his security guard's job at 7:30 a.m. and came home to pick up his son, Maurice Jr., his wife, Malinda, and their two other children so they all could be a part of the process. They sat together in a row, quietly, listening for No. 17.
But once the first class was selected and the priority wait list called, the auditorium seats began to empty without Maurice's number being uttered. The 11-year-old hid his face in his shirt, leaned against his father's arm and cried.
His mother tried to reassure everyone that Maurice's future still was bright. "I know whatever he does, he's going to succeed," she said.
But Maurice was inconsolable.
"It was a long shot," said his father, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep. "But it was a chance we had to take."
tanika.white@baltsun.com
