A Thousand Schools

They walked around the hologram. Each step seemed like a promise to keep. The leader of the project, Aleks Dronova, raised her hands as if to take flight.

“One thousand schools, each representing the five branches of philosophy, will go up in the next ten years,” Aleks said.

The hundred or so business magnates looked up at the towering buildings with spherical shapes and contours that delighted the eyes.

“Can’t happen,” Sly Worthington said. “This will take hundreds of billions of dollars to complete. It’s a cute gesture that you have proposed. It’s just not feasible.”

Aleks smiled. She typed in an algorithm that brought out a clean, smooth, and warm classroom full of students. All of them had fire in their eyes, eager to answer a science question. Worthington saw this and folded his hands.

“Again cute but….” The world around him then shifted to fourth graders reciting lines from Shakespeare. Worthington began to weep. His eyes welled up at the poetic sound of the Bard’s best.

“Where do I sign up? I want to ensure that nine and ten year-olds know the classics of world literature.”

“I’m not particularly sold yet,” Fanny Weyman announced.

“Oh,” Aleks replied.

Then, the entire world shifted again to show a graduation class. Tassels and gowns abounded in this vision. A speaker spoke about the beauty to be found in life. The crowd numbered in the tens of thousands as the graduating class numbered a few thousand as well. The sun poured light down on the occupants of the chairs. Great cheers flew up in the air.

“I see your point. These kids will be graduating not just knowing this material, they will be able to apply and integrate it into their lives. They’ll be able to hear the symphony and know it note for note while performing surgery. They’ll be able to work out calculus by the time they're fourteen and be able to go onto university at that same age. Brava, Miss Dronova,” Fanny said.

“I’m not totally sold. I mean you bring up all these images of success and in reality, you know that more than half of these children will be illiterate, won’t be able to solve simple math problems, and not be able to think independently. Miss Dronova, you must realize that….” Ian Tarrant quibbled.

At last, the world changed again. This time, images of children being taught phonetics, algebraic expressions at seven-years-old, and art classes with objective pieces hung on the wall. The process of thought and knowledge being posed to these young children still didn’t change Tarrant’s position. He folded his arms, looked down and then back at the images.

“What? Am I supposed to be moved by these pictures? What value am I supposed to reap once these schools are installed? How will I get my money?”

“That’s simple, Mr. Tarrant. All you have to do is look.” She pointed up at the world of students all lining up to receive medals for their achievements.

“These scholars all represent the excellence this school will regard in high esteem. They will be endowed with every educational tool so that they might live rationally selfish lives. That is our mission statement and purpose, Mr. Tarrant. We practice the art of maintaining a realistic goal for them. We don’t coddle and we don’t cudgel. We simply teach. We teach in the Aristotelian way. We teach to give life. They’re not cynical and sarcastic. Those attributes are not in their minds. The instructors will instill in them not the phony self-esteem but actual regard for one’s highest values. Do you have any questions, Mr. Tarrant?”

“Where do I sign up?”