My parents didn’t let me apply to a magnet school. I’m glad.

I go to my local catchment middle school, located five blocks from my house. It’s not one of the so-called magnet schools families have to apply to get into, or one of the few city schools people consider “the best.”

And I love it.

I live in South Philadelphia, and people often give me a confused look when I tell them I go to my school (which I would rather not name here because of privacy concerns). To my very privileged neighbors and friends, it may seem odd. I get good grades and have a very nice life. I’m sure some people expect me to say, “I go to the best middle school in Pennsylvania,” or “I go to the best-performing arts magnet school in Philly.” And, if I’m being honest, that’s exactly what fourth-grade me wanted.

After spending years at my local school, I thought it was a rite of passage for me to apply to a magnet in fifth grade, as all my older school friends did before me, as that’s when admissions to Masterman and other “top” schools open up. That was a path most of my friends and I were set on. But in the fall of my fourth-grade year in 2020, when the application process began, my parents told me I was not allowed to apply.

They showed me the racial, economic, and English language-learning stats for all the magnet schools. My neighborhood school’s statistics were higher in diversity than most others (the majority of the kids at my school are students of color), lower in economics (most students are low-income), and higher in the percentage of students learning English. They explained how the magnet school system influences the city’s racial dynamics, as white families bypass local schools to send their kids to other schools instead.

My fourth-grade brain couldn’t exactly process what that meant, but I didn’t fight it because I knew I wasn’t going to change their minds. Still, I didn’t want my friends to leave me.

I remember more than once sitting at the park with one of my friends trying to explain to her how the school admission process contributed to systemic racism, and how it was the way Philadelphia got rich parents to stay in the district, instead of sending their kids to a private or charter school. It didn’t change her mind. I preached this segment to every classmate who said they were switching, and it didn’t do much besides making me known for it.

No one cared. For the rest of fourth grade, all my friends would talk about the schools they recently looked at, where they applied to, where they got accepted, their audition tapes, and their first picks. Almost all my classmates who decided to leave were happy about it and spent the rest of their time at our local school bragging, boasting, and gloating about the schools they were attending next.

As I watched them leave one by one for a magnet school, I cried, more than once. Combined with the pandemic depression, the thought of never seeing my friends again haunted me. And worse, I began to believe I was stupid and worth less than my peers.

When I’ve asked people about Philly schools, the word that comes up the most is failing. Most of what I hear about is falling test scores, concerns about safety, and kids not even showing up. So it’s not a surprise to me that many families want options for their children, and engage in debates over school choice — whether that means magnet schools, charters, or vouchers to attend private schools.

I don’t want to debate the merits of school choice. But I do want to point out that it creates a system that pits kids against each other and makes them value their self-worth based on where they attend school. And the unspoken message underneath the debate over special admissions to magnet schools or the merits of school choice is loud and clear: The city’s neighborhood schools aren’t good enough. Which can make those of us who stay at those schools feel inferior.

On the first day of fifth grade, after one of my teachers took attendance, I saw that one-quarter of my previous classmates were no longer there. Even though I know teachers likely expect many kids to leave after fourth grade, each time my teacher said a name and we told him the student had left or transferred, he seemed surprised and saddened by the news.

I hoped that the start of fifth grade would mean the end of being tormented by who was leaving and where they were going, but one of my classmates transferred the third week of school, and another boy couldn’t stop talking about getting into the Girard Academic Music Program — GAMP — for sixth grade, and how he was so happy to leave.

Needless to say, I didn’t start fifth grade with high expectations.

But to my surprise, I had an amazing year. I made friends with people I hadn’t spent time with before and reconnected with old friends, learned back all I had lost during the pandemic years, joined a band, and left a band. All in all, I enjoyed my fifth-grade year at my local neighborhood school.

Sixth and seventh grades have been even better.

I’ve come to appreciate the fact that my school is just a school. You don’t need to apply there or fight to get in. It’s not top anything, but is that really needed? I learn. I have a good social life.

And there’s something I get from my school that would be hard to get anywhere else: a neighborhood community.

Because I go to my local school, I frequently see my classmates and their families in my neighborhood. Most Thursdays — and sometimes Fridays — I head to my local park right after school. There, I hang out with my friends, and even some classmates I don’t know as well. But because we go to the same school, there’s a comfort and familiarity.

Last year, in sixth grade, I regularly sat with two boys at my classroom table. They were incredibly annoying, and yet, I remember when they were 6 years old and we were all in kindergarten. I can’t help but care about them, because we got to grow up together. Even though they made me face-palm at their stupid comments over the years, now that we are in different classes, I miss them.

That’s kind of what I love about my school.

Everybody knows everybody. We may not have close connections, but there’s something special about seeing someone every day who you’ve known for eight years.

I recognize, of course, that not all neighborhood schools are the same. I don’t have to step over bullet casings or dirty needles on my walk to class, our building isn’t full of mold or crumbling asbestos, and I don’t ever feel unsafe at school. For some students, staying at their local school is less of an option.

But there are many neighborhood schools in Philadelphia that are just like mine — no blue ribbons, no wait list, no families crawling over each other to get in. Just neighborhood kids who’ve known each other for years, who want the same thing everyone else does: a good education, a good life, and a better Philadelphia.

Philadelphia students deserve a better school system. School choice may be part of that, but I don’t want that debate to drown out the voices of those of us at local schools, who have the power to create the strong communities our city needs.

Being part of a community can teach you so many things and make you feel like you belong somewhere, like you will have someplace to go back to. Going to a neighborhood school for this long has given me that, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Rebecca Buse-Morley is a seventh-grade student at a Philadelphia neighborhood school.