How Much Money Do You Make? (AKA - How Much Can You Donate?)

It’s annual fund time, folks. Plus, do you know which LA private schools are actually broke?

If you’re new to the private school circuit, the annual fund is when the school asks you for money after you’ve already paid the tuition. Despite charging 50k plus per year per child, apparently tuition doesn’t cover the cost to run the school, ever. (Which, honestly, should make us seriously rethink who we’re paying to teach our kids math).

In most cases, this fund opens up in October. Which, in their eyes, has given parents enough time to forget the fact that the rest of LA went back to school two-to-four weeks before we did. Our kids are thriving. They’re not using iPads. And now it’s time to pay (again).

The fund usually includes a magazine. And I have to wonder how much each magazine costs to publish and print and how that relates to the pie chart about how the school uses their tuition. There’s usually a tier, with names. Names that range from “friend of school” (minimum spend, $1000, means your kid can attend next year) to “leadership circle” (minimum spend, one extra tuition, translation: can text the head of school personal requests and your kid miraculously gets in to any enrichment class they want).

Then Jen calls you. Jen’s one of the fund committee reps. Her daughter is also in your daughter’s class. So you have to look her in the eye at one of the many on campus happenings throughout the year. In other words: you have to answer.

And if you don’t, don’t you worry. Because she’ll call again. You’ll answer eventually. She’ll have a spiel, you’ll listen. And then she’ll remind you to please donate as soon as possible. Because when you do, she can check you off her list.

Everyone must be checked off the list. Because the school strives for 100% participation. Even if you’re on financial aid. Even if you’re not, but really should be. Even though the head of school is making three times what you make and the school wonders why it’s in the red every year.

But none of that matters. Because “participation matters at any level.”

The problem: they know how much you make.

And it’s not even a guess. Because you put your employer on the application. So did your husband. If you applied for aid, they have two years of returns plus a form that asked what you spend on a car and whether either set of grandparents helps out. And if you didn’t apply for aid? They wrote that down too. That told them enough.

And they have our addresses.

That’s the part I keep coming back to. Not the email. The address. Which in this city is the single most complete financial disclosure a person can make. North of Montana or south of it. 90402 is not 90404 and everyone in that building knows exactly what the difference costs. They know if it’s been the family house since 1987 or if you bought at the top in 2022. They know who rents.

Drop off is a disclosure too, by the way. Who drives themselves. Whose nanny does it. Whose assistant does it. Which kid gets out of an Escalade and which in an accord.

So when the school says participation matters at “any level,” that isn’t an out. It’s a challenge. Because trust me. Somebody already decided what your level is, and that payment link is just checking whether you agree with them.

Now here’s the thing: some of these schools are actually broke. I checked. It’s public, and you can literally google it. (Or, don’t, because I put here for you). One raised almost a fifth of its entire revenue in donations last year and still finished in the red, which is impressive in its own way.

I went and read the tax filings for every school on the Westside, because they’re public and it took me an afternoon. A few of them really are underwater. One raised almost a fifth of its entire revenue in donations last year and still finished in the red. Another took in over three million and lost five.

And then there are others that covered everything they spent before a single donation came in. One finished nearly two million ahead. They sent the letter too. Same tiers. Same magazine. Same Jen.

You’d think that would be printed somewhere. It isn’t. The letter reads exactly the same either way, and the only way to know which school you’re actually sitting in is to go pull a tax form, which nobody does.

So will I give? Of course I’ll give. I always give.

And then Jen will check me off her list. And it won’t be awkward next time I see her.

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