The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(25)
The headmaster sat down and everyone quieted, even the littles, though they fidgeted and whispered to each other.
“As you know, our weekly general meeting is more important to me than all the textbooks in the world.” He spoke softly so that everyone had to lean in, his Scottish accent on full display. “This is where we set rules, address grievances, and come together as a community. Each of you has one vote, simple, precious, and powerful, as do I. Together we will make collective decisions, and for a time, live with those decisions, because the best way to learn, in my opinion, is through trial and error. No error is a failure, it is an opportunity. Now, before we set sail and chart our course for the week, would anyone like to share with the rest of us?”
Zoe listened as two boys recited poetry they had written. A young girl with a viola played a suite of sonatas by Brahms. Then a group of littles performed a variation of “Snow White” by the Brothers Grimm. An elaborate skit about Snow White learning to sword fight and then challenging and defeating the Huntsman in a duel, much to the delight of all the animals in the forest. The older children passed out enormous bowls of popcorn to be shared as everyone watched, laughed, and finally cheered.
The headmaster gave the skit a standing ovation, offering copious praise, then he remained standing as he drew a slip of paper from his waistcoat. “I do have one advisement, before we address rules and such. The advisement involves swearing.”
“Fuck, I knew it,” one of the older girls said and everyone laughed.
“Yes, that’s it,” the headmaster said. “I would advise for the benefit of all that when you go to the village of Leiston, you try to limit your swearing. While we know swearing can be cathartic, used in a response to pain, or emphatic as one of our students just demonstrated, the people in the village find it socially offensive. And as we want to be good neighbors, I advise you to extend them that courtesy.”
Zoe and the rest of the student body nodded along in agreement. Here at school they could swear, try cigarettes, lark about the forest instead of going to class, break bedtime as long as they weren’t keeping others awake. They could even swim without the burden of clothing, which had been unanimously voted for by the students, but in town they would behave in a manner that didn’t arouse concern or intervention.
“Now, this quarter we will be studying one of my favorite topics of discussion”—the headmaster removed his pipe and coughed—“government.”
A few of the older boys booed.
The headmaster continued, “I don’t necessarily disagree with you lads. As a school, we aspire to be a functional, benevolent democracy. If this were Parliament, we would be neither the House of Lords nor the House of Commons; we would be the house of the people. But a few of the faculty members have suggested that we operate the school with a different form of governance. An object lesson writ large, if you will. We will do so for one week.” The headmaster bit down on his pipe and smiled. “And we shall see how we do. Now what form of governmental theory should we explore?”
One of the older girls suggested Trotskyism. One of the little boys waved his hand in the air and asked if he could be a king. One of the older boys teasingly suggested patriarchy and was promptly booed by the girls.
One of the teachers even suggested anarchism. “I think it would be interesting if we dissolved the school as the state and observed what formed in its absence.”
Mrs. Bidwell said, “The villagers already think that’s how we operate.” The other teachers laughed. “I’m not sure we want to validate those erroneous assumptions.”
“What about fascism?” a boy named Theo suggested. He was tall and handsome, charismatic and charming. The rest of the group recoiled, though, as if he’d opened a bag of cobras and dumped them on the floor, leaving them to slither between students’ legs, biting them, poisoning anyone within striking distance.
“What about that?” the headmaster said. “Did you see how you all had a visceral reaction to Theo’s idea? Perhaps that’s one we should vote on if we all feel so strongly. Perhaps that’s one worth studying under a microscope to see what contagions lurk within, so we can inoculate ourselves from that type of infection in a society.”
Ultimately, the school as a collective group chose three ideologies to bring to a vote: social democracy, meritocracy, and fascism. Zoe looked on as the headmaster called for a vote by a simple show of hands. Teachers would tally the votes.
“Who votes for social democracy?” the headmaster asked.
Zoe raised her hand along with a few of the other students, mostly girls, and a majority of the faculty, including Mrs. Bidwell.
Zoe wanted to stand up to lobby for more support.
“Who votes for a meritocracy?”
As Zoe expected, the students who excelled at traditional academia all raised their hands. They were a frighteningly small minority. They all looked disappointed. They all understood math and probability. They should have known what was coming.
“And lastly who votes for”—the headmaster sighed—“fascism?”
Most of the older boys raised their hands, along with the girls who were good at sports or the most attractive. Zoe wasn’t sure if they fully understood what they were voting for, or did so merely as an act of rebellion, like smoking. They were saying, Look, I can do something dangerous and no one can stop me. Zoe observed that the littles were easily led. They saw the number of hands rise and went along with the social inertia, following suit. Even a few of the teachers voted for fascism. The rebellious teachers who she knew would always favor the dark horse in a race or a wild card in the deck.