Granny phones the school.
-- Good morning. My name's Iris and my grand-daughter Venetia goes to your school. I wondered what time the Parents' Open House begins?
-- We don't call it “Parents' Open House”, we call it Blended Families and Significant Influencers Day.
-- Oh. Well what time does it start?
-- Our open-ness goes on all day every day, but today's September celebration starts at one o'clock --ish.
-- “Ish”?
-- Too much exactitude is stigmatizing for members of our community with variant time perception.
-- Oh. Well, I'll be there at one o'clock, non-variantly.
*
“Kate, why do you send Venetia to that weird school, Children's House? I've just had the most peculiar phone conversation with them.”
“It's best never to phone them, Mom. It was Venni's choice, all her friends from pre-school were going there. Friends matter, when you're in Grade One.”
“Of course. So I'll meet you at the Open House at one then.”
It wasn't hard to find the place. It was painted in rainbow colours and looked as if it had been broken into -- windows with jagged glass, half boarded up -- but looking again Iris realized these scenes had been painted onto the exterior walls. She learned later that this was “low income neighbourhood design curated by Grafitti Artists”, which was meant to reassure the marginalized. Iris had parked some distance away because the parking lot was blocked by a banner saying NO PARKING ("GLOBAL-COOLING"). The sidewalk was blocked by enormous bikes with bulky child seats, hitches and trailers.
Mounting the steps to the front door Iris passed PEACE PLAY PLAZA. At the entrance, a young woman in a short dress, exhibiting multiple tattoos, nose rings and pink-streaked hair, was with one hand distributing flyers saying “SAVE SUDAN”, while scrolling through a smartphone with the other.
“Save which part of Sudan and from whom ...” Iris began to ask, when the woman gave a joyful whoop at the sight of friends arriving behind Iris, at which point Iris realized from the flute-y tenor of her squeal that this woman was a boy.
In the foyer was a Children's Creativity Wall. Across the growing crowd of visitors Iris saw her daughter Kate arrive.
“Did you get the Sudan flyer?” asked Iris.
Kate looked at the paper she was holding. “Mine says Somalia.”
“Where will we find Venetia?”
“I think her room's down this hall ... ”
Iris followed Kate but the rooms they passed were filled with older students, half of whom were wrestling while the other half hunched over smartphones. “This is a madhouse,” said Iris. “Let's ask somebody. Which are parents and which are teachers? They all look like freaks ...”
“SHH,” hissed Kate.
“Excuse me,” Iris said to a middle-aged woman staring at her smartphone, “where would the Grade One room be?”
“We don't have grades here. Too prescriptive. We're all one community.”
Iris caught sight of a sign with an arrow. TO LIBRERY, it said. “I see you have a school library, anyway,” she said with an effortful smile.
“A community librery. For kids not connected at home.”
“No books at home? How sad.”
The woman stared. “No wifi,” she said.
Venetia and three of her friends burst out of a room. “Granny! Mommy! Come and see my art!”
“Are these your friends?” asked Iris. “What are their names?”
“Roughi, Merlou, and Reveel,” said Venni, pointing at each in turn.
Another middle-aged woman presided over the room to which she led them. “And is this your teacher?”
“Companion,” said the woman. “We don't call ourselves teachers here.”
“Oh. Why not?”
“A pretty colonialist label, don't you think?”
“Well ...”
“Mom,” Kate interrupted, “let's look at Venni's art work.”
Iris looked at a swirl of blues. “That's the sky,” said Venni. Next to it was a slash of greens. “That's a tree,” said Venni. Next was a smudge of browns. “That's Margaret's puppies.”
“And who's Margaret?” asked Iris. Finally, a friend with a normal name.
“Margaret's the mother dog.”
Surveying the art, Iris said to the Companion-In-Charge, “You don't teach drawing skills, I gather?”
The woman shuddered. “God no. Skill is so limiting.”
“I guess you have to teach skills in the Math class though; some things just can't be non-limited, without being not themselves.”
“Math? We don't do Math. Numbers are so confining.”
“Oh. Do the students learn languages then?”
“Oh yes! There are five indigenous languages to choose from.”
“Oh. And that's because ...?” but Iris knew not to ask.
“To make up for history,” the Companion explained anyway.
Iris had been, before retirement, a Professor of Economic History, and before that, a professional economist. “Make up for ...” she repeated.
“History's all lies,” explained the Companion. “It's just a story of bullying.”
“Yet quite a bit of history consisted of standing up to bullying ...”
“We don't repeat the lies told by the victors.”
No, you repeat jargon, Iris wanted to say, but she stopped herself for the sake of anxious Kate and oblivious Venetia.
“Where are these puppies then?” she asked Venetia.
“In the Animal Therapy Room, of course!”
“Of course,” said Iris.
It was full of cages, some of whose occupants – lizards and snakes -- didn't look alive. There were cats, dogs and rabbits, segregated in separated zones. Some dogs were barking. Cats, ignoring them, lounged on top of carpeted clawing posts. “They have to stay in here because of allergies,” said Venetia, importantly. “Lots of kids have allergies, you know.”
“Yes,” agreed Iris. “So we're told. And do you know what an allergy is?”
“I think it's, like ... autism? ... It's ... um ... oh yeah ... bi-polar!” She looked down at her shoes. “I think. But we can't have polar bears in the Animal Therapy Room, they're too big. Even Margaret is too big, says the Assistant to Teaching Animals.”
“So, wait, you're saying the animals teach, and humans assist?”
“Mom ...,” said Kate, warningly. “I think it's to save money,” she whispered, shepherding her mother out of the Animal Therapy Room. “Teachers' salaries are high. It's cheaper to call them Teaching Assistants, who aid the animals, who lend wisdom but don't ...”
“Speak English. Know Math. Assign homework. Grade papers. Kate, what are you thinking, sending Venetia to school in this mad place?” Iris asked as she, Kate and Venetia left for home.
“It's not mad, it's ideologically experimental. You know, equitable and inclusive and ...”
“... 'diverse'. Right. On second thought, maybe the animals are the most qualified teachers there. They should make Margaret the principal.”
Kate, relaxing, laughed at last as they made their way home along the sunshiny street. “But don't call her the 'principal'. That means 'first in rank'. Much too elitist.”
“It is a madhouse.”
“If we did have polar bears they would get very mad at the dogs' barking,” offered Venetia. She skipped ahead. “Quick, let's get home and read my polar bear book!”
