His three year old singing somewhere below him, the government teacher ignored the toddler and kept talking to the students. His lecture didn’t really start out as a lecture at all. It was a discombobulated mess of “Ums” paired with a scratching of papers and the continued singing and babbling of his three year old.
Still, he was productive. Checking in with students for assignments, he suddenly blurted out, “Excuse me,” then jumped up and bellowed something loudly toward some unknown entity. It sounded like, “Broaaaaaaaaar!” You could see his whole body far off in the distance of his house.
A Hero Roars
Inside the computer he grew smaller and larger all at once. He stood super-hero style, except for his arms. His hands weren’t locked onto his hips. They were pointed straight down. It seemed like a call for help at first, but no one came. It became clear that it was more of a roar than a plea for help. He sat back down while the toddler continued singing and babbling.
In the middle of this minor disrupt, the students griped and grumbled, similar to the way they might gripe in a real classroom, except it was slightly different.
“Uhhh, I’m crashing after this,” one student huffed.
“Same,” another puffed.
Enter the Future
Returning to the screen, the teacher (let’s call him Mr. G for government) seemed to have needed that moment to gather some energy because his voice had changed and he charged forward, the roar lingering as he spoke. He asked the students what they would do if they were in college right now and they couldn’t pay for their fees.
A student smartly snapped, “Well, colleges are funding dorms now.”
Mr. G snapped back with a slew of other facts about our dying economy and the heavy job losses smashing through the secure world that’s long gone now. Last nine weeks, he had had the students create a future budget for themselves to give them an idea of what to expect money-wise. He was returning to that, trying to get them to think about how their futures are rapidly changing.
He asked, “How many of you think you’re going to have the money to go to college now?”
Sparking a Holographic Classroom
Students beeped their answers, trying to burst Mr. G’s growing bubble. With a more sedated roar, Mr. G whipped the air, extinguishing their repeated their replies, “Me? Who said that? Me, me, me?”
He questioned them back. He riddled them with more facts. He was more prepared than anyone had originally appeared.
With that, the students woke up.
The discussion sparked, bursting through the computer as if a holographic classroom had appeared inside each home, carrying the voices of these ghosts who once sat in a cemented classroom with desks that felt real.
Ended by the Coup
Words swarmed over each other and buzzed with a hovering that left thoughts moving back and forth, up and down. It became clear that education’s best moments were happening right now, amid tragedy and change.
Then, in a power-hungry coup of self-interest and mayhem, it all disappeared.
Sick of the lack of attention, toddler below had decided class was over because he shut down Mr. G’s computer right in the middle of class. That tiny voice had burst the bubble, at least momentarily.
Remnants of Happiness
About five minutes later, Mr. G appeared while the toddler seemed to be playing guitar in the background and warning of a monster somewhere in the house.
By then, the students were still talking anyway and having fun, judging from the random gurgling of laughter.
Assignments were announced and farewells ensued. Mr. G laughed like Santa at one point with promises of Memes in the near future. Giggling continued and eventually everything shutdown.
Leftover were the remnants of happiness and heroes floating around in the houses where they had merged for brief reminders that we can still hear each other.
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