Registration…Karen Speaking

The phone rings. I answer.

“Registration…Karen speaking.”

This is the way I have started my workday since November 12, 2011.

Only my third job since college, I landed in a school district here on Long Island that educates 7,281 students as of 1:32 p.m. today. Soon to be 7,283 if the set of twins I’m waiting on ever submits their applications.

But who’s counting?

Me. I’m counting.

School started Wednesday, September 2nd—two days ago. While everyone else thinks of the first day of school as new backpacks, freshly sharpened pencils and adorable pictures on front porches, I think of it as the finish line of a marathon I have been running all summer.

I work year-round preparing for Day One and then spend every day afterward cleaning up records, accounts, addresses and the approximately 47 billion changes that come along with 7,000-plus students.

Then there’s the other part of my job.

Investigations.

Yes. Investigations.

Part of my position involves finding families who say they live in our district but actually live in another town—sometimes five minutes away and occasionally an hour away.

That part of my job is insanely gratifying but grueling. It requires meticulous documentation, attention to detail and, every now and then, a little Nancy Drew action.

When I first started this job, everything was submitted on paper.

Everything.

Parents had to prove residency, which meant a constant parade of people through my office carrying utility bills, leases, deeds, licenses and assorted paperwork that looked like it had been shoved into the glove compartment sometime during the Clinton administration.

Nine times out of ten, no copies had been made.

So off I went to the copy machine approximately 8,878 times per day.

By the time I returned, their children might be climbing on my desk or rearranging the family pictures on my wall. Occasionally, the way a parent spoke to their children—or to me—would make me wonder:

If this is how we’re behaving in public, what in God’s name is happening at home?

I digress.

In 2013, I attended a workshop showcasing something revolutionary: online registration.

Parents could upload documents from home. I could review and import everything electronically into our student management system.

Cue the angels singing.

I was a one-woman show, and I convinced the district that the benefits far outweighed the cost.

We became the first district on Long Island to implement the program.

Since then, I’ve met with representatives from about 14 other districts and convinced them to purchase it too.

No commission for Kiki.

Still waiting on that check.

But I remain very proud that we climbed aboard the S.S. Online Registration before practically everyone else.

This morning, while talking to a parent on the phone, a thought popped into my head.

How the hell do I keep all of this together?

And the truth is, sometimes I don’t know.

If you’ve been here awhile, you know I was involved in a serious car accident. The injuries from that crash affected my memory and my speed. So I quietly adapted.

I created a system.

My system.

I document everything. I check. I double-check. I leave myself breadcrumbs so nothing gets lost along the way. No one walking into my office would ever know why I do things the way I do, and that’s exactly how I want it.

Because these aren’t just files.

They’re kids.

A mistake in a student record can follow that child into a classroom, an account or another school. I never want that mistake traced back to my desk.

So I do whatever it takes.

Every deadline gets met.

Usually early.

The day before school opened this year, I sat in my car at the end of the day and took a picture of myself. I posted it on Instagram announcing that all students were officially locked and loaded for the 2026–2027 school year.

Wave One complete.

I was exhausted.

And proud.

I reread that post this morning and had a thought I wasn’t expecting.

This may have been my last summer.

My last tidal wave.

My last countdown to Day One.

My last time staring down thousands of registrations and wondering how in God’s name I was going to get them all done—and then somehow getting them all done anyway.

I have some numbers to crunch when October rolls around. Early retirement may be knocking on the door.

And for the first time, I’m wondering whether I want to do this all over again next summer.

Fifteen summers is a long time.

And what a fifteen years it has been.

After Hurricane Sandy devastated our district, I sat in my dark office with families by flashlight, collecting paperwork so they could file for homeless status. Nearly half the homes in our district were affected. I listened to people tell me what they had lost and where they were sleeping that night. Some of those families have only recently finished rebuilding their homes.

I still keep in touch with many of them.

Then there are the stories on the completely opposite end of the emotional spectrum.

Ohhhh, the residency investigations.

Families who insist they absolutely, positively live at an address in our district while investigators are watching them sneak out of a completely different house early in the morning and pile into a car.

Then they sit across from us in a meeting and lie.

Straight-faced.

Absolutely committed to the performance.

Until my superintendent calmly turns the laptop around.

And there they are.

On video.

Busted.

There really should be popcorn served at those meetings.

Through hurricanes, investigations, piles of paperwork, new technology, thousands of phone calls, a pandemic, my own accident and fifteen first days of school, I’ve kept answering that phone.

“Registration…Karen speaking.”

I’ve personally registered nearly 28,000 students during my time here.

Twenty-eight thousand kids.

Twenty-eight thousand beginnings.

There is nothing glamorous about my job. Nobody applauds when the student database is correct. There is no standing ovation because every child has an ID number, an address, a schedule and a seat waiting for them on the first day of school.

That’s okay.

Because I know.

I know what it took to get them there.

Maybe I’ll do it all again next summer.

Maybe I won’t.

Maybe this really was my last great registration tidal wave.

But if it was, I think I can walk away knowing something pretty wonderful:

For fifteen years, while thousands of kids were getting ready for their first day of school, I was quietly getting ready for them.

And somewhere along the way, nearly 28,000 little names passed across my desk and into classrooms.

Not bad for a one-woman show.

For now, though, the phone is ringing.

And I’m still here.

“Registration…Karen speaking.”