Josh Welch. Seven years old. Park Elementary School, Baltimore. Bit off pieces of strawberry tart, trying to make shape of mountain. Tart ended up looking like gun. Josh suspended for two days. No bullet wounds reported. On top of all that, the students at Park Elementary were sent home with a letter stating there had been a disruption at the school.
So far, no federal troops have been deployed to guarantee the security of the students. I can think of a solution to this problem. Every pupil at Park Elementary should make a gun out of his/her next strawberry tart. All at once. An armed rebellion.
Then the parents should yank their kids out of Park and start their own school. I’m reasonably certain they can find, among themselves, teachers and a principal who aren’t absolutely insane.
In the wake of this Strawberry Statement, perhaps we’ll see waves of supporting protests across America: kids bringing paper guns and pictures of guns and pastry guns and bubble gum guns and water pistols to school.
“Suspend all of us!”
Thousands of new private schools and home schools then spring up. Parents defect out of the public school nightmare. No more random diagnoses of ADHD and drugging with cheap speed called Ritalin or Adderall. No more pressure to take dozens of toxic vaccines. No more social engineering programs in classrooms. No more sex ed for kids. No more junk food lunches. No more pastry scares.
No more federal funding accepted for public schools. No more no child left behind or left ahead or left in the middle. No more textbook publishers ripping off schools with new editions of the same old books every year. No more “every child has to have a computer or else they won’t learn anything” nonsense.
Just thousands upon thousands of empty school buildings, which are then razed, leaving open land on which fresh clean food crops can be planted for the community. By the community. No outside help required. No Monsanto.
The US public school system was originally invented for one purpose. To teach children how to be citizens of a newly minted Republic.
Obviously, that mission has failed. To even mention “Republic” or “individual freedom” these days in a school, with serious intent, with the goal of exploring their meanings in depth, could provoke an alarm bell, a lockdown, and a phone call to the DHS.
Therefore, nullify. Defect. Decentralize. Get out.
Let these “strawberry tart” teachers educate their own kids and make a mess out of it. You don’t have to allow them to make a mess out of your kids.
In their own homes, these psychos can act out their own social programming, until hopefully their children rebel and refuse to knuckle under.
Need I even say it? The elites behind the public school apparatus in America send their kids to private academies. They wouldn’t get within sniffing distance of the mind-numbing factories they’ve designed.
Decades ago, I taught in three private schools. But these were special places. They were built to take on the discarded refuse of public education, the kids of the zombie parents who gladly got rid of their little ones every day so they could forget about them. I saw the wrecks, the boys and girls who drifted, clueless about what was happening to them. They were virtually unteachable. They’d already been blasted out of whatever interested them in life.
On my last day at one of these baby-sitting horrors, a teacher told me: “In five years, I haven’t taught one student one thing he remembers.”
For me, there was a saving grace. I saw that my students had imagination. It was some kind of immortal and indestructible quality that survived, no matter what. It came out in bizarre and sudden ways, and the buttoned-up classroom certainly wasn’t the best setting for it, but it was there.
It was the bottom-line refusal to go under. As bad as things got, these kids still wanted to create something different. That’s why I admired them.
They were canaries in the coal mine, because what they’d experienced was a cameo of where this whole society was (and is) going.
As the pressure builds, people are driven back on their own resources, and those resources turn out to be the capacity to invent.
People eventually say, “I don’t like this reality. I want to make another one.”
If they hear themselves loudly and clearly enough, they can do something. They can defect, opt out, and decentralize. They can become the artists they always were.
They can offload the mind control and the garbage they’ve been tuned up with, and they can step out into the sunlight.
When enough of that happens, the robots who are in charge of running the day-to-day details of a mad overweening system, like public education, will gradually wake up and realize they’ve been conned, and they’ve been conning themselves.
They’ll walk out the door, too. None of this happens without crisis. There is an internal struggle to shake free, shake loose. But victory is there to be had. If I had a kid, I’d teach him to make a Glock-shape out of a strawberry tart long before I’d let him near the door of one of those android factories called a public school.
That’s why I think public schools aren’t doing enough to indoctrinate children. We need more recycling of cans, more fake talk about global warming science, more tolerance of inter-species sex, more hundred-dollar textbooks filled with social messages, more overt anti-religious propaganda, more intervention by counselors who fantasize about being psychologists, more metal detectors, more verbal attacks on students who ask uncomfortable questions, more junk food in cafeterias, more information about living gay in the third grade, more lockdowns, more anti-terror drills, more DHS pamphlets, more instruction on how to snoop and meddle and snitch, more “we’re all in this together,” more teachers breaking down and weeping and flipping out, more unionization, more control, more administrative pronouncements from educrats, more uniform curricula from government, more studies and task forces getting nothing done to stem the tide.
Until finally, the whole business crashes. Until finally, the light goes on in people’s minds. Until this thing we call public education is exposed for anyone with three working brain cells to see.
Until this product is recalled to the factory—except there is no factory. Then the canaries in the coal mine will be vindicated. Then people will have to take their destiny in their own hands.
Then my student, James, who came to the West LA loony bin where I taught, who showed up every day with a different propeller hat he’d made, who danced in the aisles in the assembly hall, who sang little improvised ditties about snowstorms in July and doctors taking off their clothes and examining themselves…James will be vindicated.
He’ll be remembered (at least by me) as the kid who saw the crackup coming and tried to create works of art to explain it.
James was a happy inventor. He was the court clown. He delivered messages from his own psyche. He was more alive than the president or Congress, and far more knowledgeable than the evening news.
I dream of meeting him after all these years. I, wearing one of his propeller hats. I take it off and tip it to him. He grins and nods. Finally, I understand what he was telling us.
Propeller hat, strawberry tart. Listen to the canaries.