Schools Will Sell

Brochures often depicted days like this. Students shuffling about to get to class as leaves gently fall in what looks like a light autumn breeze. On this Monday, for the president of New Sweden University in Wilmington, Delaware, Octavia Finnson, she looked outside her gorgeous office window with despondence and contempt. She was five seven inches, some gray gathered at the temples of her low ‘Fro. She was sixty two and featured bronze skin softened by cocoa butter. Too smooth, almost nickel slick, her skin seemed greasy. But bitterness layered her tongue. She took another look at the electronic communique in her inbox.

“United States President Damien Jung declares that all schools K-12 and colleges and universities must be privatized within the next year. Government schools will sell to the highest bidder to entrepreneurs who will educate children and adults in a free market environment.”

Octavia kissed her teeth. A knock at the door alerted her but she said dryly, “Come in.”

Professor emeritus at age sixty-nine, Gella Cloverland walked into the office. She was brown skinned and looked like she could be in her forties. The women differed in years but both looked younger than their ages.

“Good morning,” Gella announced.

“It’s morning,” Octavia replied low and with little effort. “I’m sorry, Gel’, how are you?”

“I’ve been better. I know you got the message. That’s why I’m here.”

“To console?” Octavia asked.

“No, to take action. He can’t do this. This public school system has been going on for centuries. And we will do everything within our power to ensure that the way of life we’ve come accustomed to continues,” Gella proclaimed, still standing by the window.

Octavia scoffed. “I know one thing: if they start with the schools, there’s enough room to destroy other institutions with the greed and selfishness of free markets and capitalism.”

“Amen, Sister. I know that if they are talking about schools being private, they’ll go after social care systems, health organizations, and protection agencies. I don’t like this at all,” Gella related. she moved closer to the window.

The wind kicked up and a swirl of leaves made a quick funnel outside the president’s window. The breeze came in from the north and the funnel then dissipated. Its colors of gold and red and brown signaled the end of October. “I’m going to snap a few pictures of this beautiful autumn day,” Gella tapped her smartphone.

“Beautiful isn't the word I’d describe the day,” Octavia sighed and walked around her cushy space. She then took a seat. Gella remained standing.

“I just want to know where the funds will come from, now. How will our alumni even trust a private school? How will they be prompted to donate dollars if they don’t have a sense of trust in their hearts?” Gella asked.

“Girl, you know that we can do something.” Octavia said.

“What’s that?”

“We can employ the teachings of communism and socialism in the school. If this is a private school and we can teach what we want, then we’ll just inform the faculty to include the words of Marx to be implemented in the school system as a whole,” Gella said. She spoke with an urgency and like she wanted to put italics and bold face on each of her words.

Octavia looked at her severely. Her mind became a prism and Gella’s words seemed to be the light shining through to make the band of colors illuminate.

“Yes. Yes. All we have to do is continue basically what we’re doing now.”

“Absolutely. We just need to ramp up the ideas and make sure they find their way into the classroom. Every classroom,” Gella mentioned. “I’ve made some broad strokes, sketches really. But I think that I can present to the board and the other professors, we can make this function,” Gella replied.

“I know something else….If we get enough of the students fully engaged in communism and socialism, their parents who were probably alumni too, would be more than willing to fork over cash to support the public system,” Octavia said. Gella sensed the kinship that the two women shared over these thoughts. Smiles painted their faces and white teeth bore the excitement on their minds.

“I mean we could go all the way with this,” Gella replied. “We can issue all sorts of warnings and codes that will prevent this school from being a haven for capitalism. We have to instruct these students on not how to enjoy life as individuals but to suffer as groups. The work will be their reward and we don’t even have to put up hammers and sickles. We can just change minds to think only of others and the great ‘We.’”

Octavia stood. In a way, she slightly hunched over like she was going to wring her hands and hatch an idea alongside what Gella just outlined. “I know, with the ideals in place, they’ll be the thoughts to go from freshman to professional degree graduate. In fact, we should drum up even more support with the study of what great men like Immanuel Kant dreamed up those centuries before. If we’re clear on why we’re here, there should be no tussling or fighting over who will be educated and how.”

“The yoke….” Gella mentioned it slightly. Her voice was just above a whisper. “The yoke that ties all necks together in spirit. No, we don’t physically share the same lungs, hands, stomachs or brains. But we can be yoked together by the soul.” Gella gazed outside the window. The bustle of students shielding from the wind with their coats and jackets made her aware of the idea of smushing stomachs together in the “yoke” even though men and women had to eat individually. She almost spat.

“If there is something we can do it is this: we must act as swiftly as possible and be a beacon for other schools, especially the high schools where we will be accepting undergrads. As long as we have this spiritual yoke, they’ll be glad to be on board with our ideas,” Octavia observed.

“That’s a fact. Wait, do you hear something?” A great rumbling that sounded like almost muted drum beats came up to the door. About twenty professors all stood just outside of the president’s room. A murmur then arose as the receptionist knocked on the door. Some faculty members stepped closer.

“Madam Finnson, there seems to be a contingent of faculty members just mingling outside of the door.”

Gella stayed seated. Octavia buttoned her overcoat to her suit and met the crowd.

“We resign!” they said in unison when she appeared.

“Now, I know you’re all frustrated because this won’t be a private institution any longer.”

A man with the skin color of chestnut named McKean Dustin with a muscle bound frame and great posture spoke up first. “Yes, we’re quitting because of that. But not because of the fact it will be privatized. We know that. We know that you will want to turn this into a den of intellectual iniquity with the idea that any school can morph into a mystical, collectivist, and altruist monstrosity,” he projected.

Octavia looked around. “Why no, no. There won’t be any of that,” the university president reassured. Gella walked past the window and outside of the room holding a camera already streaming on various live feeds on the Internet.

An acrid and desert dryness enveloped Octavia’s mouth. She started to tremble. “I will have all of your resignation letters on my desk by Thursday morning.” The crowd began to flow away from the door. She turned to where Gella stood.

“You’re fired.”

“No, I was the first to resign. Check your email,” Gella reminded her. She walked past her old boss with a smirk.

“You’ll never get hired,” Octavia hired.

“I just hired myself, I’m starting my own K-6 regarding reason, individualism, and capitalism. Maybe I could teach your grandkids,” Gella slipped her phone in her purse. The wind howled and a tree branch knocked against the window.

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