We talk a lot about education, our room full of educationalists. We argue, we cajole, we claim that the others don’t understand. Sometimes there is cruelty – sometimes veiled, sometimes outright about the professionalism/capacity/knowledge of others in the room.
A room full of transplants. Some people’s heads are here. Some their hearts. I see a lot of caring hands and feet forever surging forward. Legs supporting the strengthening backbones. Gut feelings and broad shoulders. None of these body parts can work by themselves, all of them important and life saving.
But we have this room full of transplants with competing DNA. It’s been too long. We’ve all evolved apart. How on earth will we come back together?
In the 21st century we have a responsibility to think of possible and imagined worlds where mind and body are challenged and tested in new ways. Deconstruction of our purpose should be an act of justice not a way to cut away and dismiss – we need to stop creating others. Once amputated, a body part dies.
As I sit in this room full of educationalists I look over at the table that holds catgut and silk. Can we suture ourselves back together? Each educationalist bumping, bruising, scraping, mingling. Blood, fibers, DNA mixing. Can we scab together our monster?
The scars will show our histories and our struggles.
But our new body will remain lifeless without the electricity that burns inside each of us. Our passions that make us fight so hard.
What emerges won’t be pretty or shiny or flashy. But maybe education needs a monster. What do we always say?
It’s the soul on the inside that matters.