And I hate them. He devoted all his pseudo-, quasi- and simply pedagogical activity to the extermination of them as a species.
They “got me” with their cries, whims, their conceptual hysteria…
I live badly because of them. They do not know anything, they do not know how, they cannot, they are not responsible for anything, but they multiply well and grow rapidly. The worst thing is that they are everywhere. I keep bumping into them all the time and I depend on them. One (in a rat-colored uniform) stalks me as a person of Zulu nationality and does not want to know that this cannot be done. The other one (in the rat-colored office) does not want to allow me something, because some dad did not tell him that it was possible. The third one raised all the protection and dispersed the reactor to a boil — he wanted to ride, or what? Now all our chickens have two heads and skinny as heraldic eagles.
Therefore, while the children are still small, they must be harassed. Then it will be too late: they will like being children.
In the meantime, most of them dream of becoming adults.
Because an adult, in their understanding, can do anything. He is strong. Educated. Has rights. Makes decisions. He has money. He doesn’t have to ask anyone’s permission; wants and will do. He is respected. At least they take it into account. They are not pushed around. They don’t beat him. He has a chance to become famous. And much more.
All this is naive, of course, but, you see, partly true.
And the child is definitely weak, inept, helpless and powerless. And no chance.
Then he starts to freak out — he smokes school desks and commuter trains, melts the buttons of my elevator with a lighter and covers up with chewing gum all the cracks through which I breathe. He takes revenge on me for not taking him with me when I left my childhood. He knows that he will not become an adult soon, but it is unbearable to wait.
And then I appear. My name is — well, let’s say, a killer. Now I’m going to start killing him. Outwardly, this will not be noticeable at first: arms, legs, ears will remain in place. Maybe the view will change a bit.
I will tell him: come with me, and you will become an adult. A little at first, but quickly and easily. Then a little more. It will be more difficult, but you will like it. And so — until you become an adult at all. You won’t have to wait long.
You will have to pay: for every gram of adult power, give away a gram of childhood attributes until there is a minimum left — those without which even an adult cannot be considered a person. For example, the ability to rejoice and be surprised.
I bring him to a room where everything is there. Well, not all, but a lot: materials, tools, equipment. Money. And there is me.
I tell him: you have desires and problems. I have the opportunity to solve some of your problems and help fulfill some of your desires. Something can be done easily and immediately. Something is more complicated: there is not much money, not all materials, and not all equipment. But you can make some yourself, and earn money. Where there is not enough strength and knowledge, I will help. If your rights are not enough, I will substitute mine. You don’t know what you want; you don’t know what you can want at all, I’ll tell you.
But I have a few conditions. One is the first, the other is the main.
First: we do nothing for exhibitions, reports and just like that. We do not make models or mock-ups — only real things. We don’t play with toys. We have real customers and real responsibility. The quality is real too. We respect ourselves, our time and our reputation. By the way, this is a way to respect others.
The main thing: safety. The safety of the world in which we live. Living creatures and vegetation. Another person and humanity in general. Himself.
More conditions. Don’t solve your problems at someone else’s expense. Do not cheat. Do not be hostile, do not harm and do not harm. Don’t steal. Why — I will explain, and it will be easier for you to comply with all these «not». But I will not do this, but I will try to make you explain it to yourself. I know the way. It’s called reflection.
When did I realize that I hate children? The moment I saw what adults are like. A boy and a girl entered the tram. He was seven years old, she was two or three years younger. He helped her up the steep steps into the car. Then he attached it to the glass of the driver’s cab so that she could see everything that was happening ahead on the course. Then I bought a ticket. And finally, he stood behind her so that incoming and outgoing passengers would not push her. To make her feel good. What was the meaning of his life for those half an hour while they were riding the tram.
Then I found a suitable room, equipped it and began to invite the children. And it’s not that there weren’t any children left among those who came out of there. They stayed — due to circumstances that prevented them from staying longer. More or less adults came out.
One child was caught stubborn. Then, almost twenty years ago, we did not know where this one came from. Now I understand: from the future. Now there are more of them. But it still doesn’t mean anything, because — listen further.
He grew up with his grandmother. His parents-scientists had no time for him: they were making a scientific career. And his aunt, also a teacher, brought him to us. It was going to a summer labor camp. He didn’t want to go there. And it’s not that it’s unbearable to pick apples. Our spaces were different, with different colors of skies. I told him — they say, you will do everything and decide for yourself, you and the other guys. And earn, and spend, and spend free time — at your own discretion. There will be no adults above you. And he — they say, for me, any lack of freedom, if only coffee in bed.
Still, he found himself with us. He spent the shift in rest mode, but not entirely of his own free will: such was the punishment, the worst thing — deprivation of the right to work. And this Gosh either messes up, or violates safety precautions. Here he rested. Making it look like it’s supposed to be. Only on the very last evening he could not stand it. We are sitting by the fire, we are having the last conversation, we are singing the last songs, suddenly the duty officer shouts: “Fire!” A barn caught fire in the village. The people broke loose to put out — and Goshka went there, and the duty officer to him:
— Get some rest, you didn’t go to work in the morning!
And he swam. You can at thirteen.
And then the aunt tells: Gosha returned to Babkin’s village, gathered the boys from his street and pushed a speech: you, they say, do not live like that, you live like worms, you don’t know what life is like.
And made a team.
He spoke harshly, of course, but he knew what he was talking about.
But summer is over and we’re going back to school.
Children are loved here. Logical stress can be placed on any word. Especially on the third. Here children are cared for, nurtured and raised. They make out: they take an empty child and stuff it with Vieta’s theorem, Dostoevsky, Avogadro’s constant and eukaryotes. Especially eukaryotes, to the eyeballs, so that it gets out of your ears. Our children know geography better than anyone in the world, they program, they bring obscene expressions to a form convenient for logarithms. At the same time, they are poorly trained themselves, conflict and armless. They are taught to repair power outlets by completely different people, if they are lucky with an acquaintance. And no educational and training ecology will prevent a child from throwing a can of beer in the middle of the lawn.
Our school loves children fundamentally. She grimaces at the thought that in the morning the cub can wipe a couple of windshields at the intersection in the morning. And, thank God, he does not know that with the proceeds he acquires a pack of cigarettes, which he illegally burns in the school toilet. And what would it be!
Our school loves children for ten years, although they say that they are eleven. Nothing, there will be twelve soon: we are a rich country, there are enough classes and teachers. We are a country of wealthy parents, sleeping and seeing how to keep a two-meter growth on their neck for a longer time, so that the child does not take it into his head to feed himself and solve his problems autonomously. I won’t be surprised if I find out that we are a country of the most overgrown children.
But here he is swept up to perform a sacred duty. He can’t do anything here either. Afraid of everything. They beat him. He quietly rages. Vieta’s theorem helps badly. Instincts kick in. And as soon as he feels either hopelessness or confidence, he begins to take revenge. Everyone in a row. Due to the regulation of transcription and translation, it falls into meiosis, from which it can exit either as a deserter or a marauder. And the local population ceases to love him. He also does not love anyone: this prevents him from “wetting”.
In general, love is not a child’s business.
We feel it. We understand that without mercy (and where can he get it without social confidence?), a child is a subhuman. It’s dangerous to let him out of school like this. Another type is not expected — nothing. And we toil. The simplest thing is to keep it on a string longer. Twelve years would be nice. Fifteen is even better, but who will restore the institution from the ruins?
Now my youngest son, a tenth grader, is offended when he is called a schoolboy. And I remember how those of my classmates who stayed in the pioneers until the ninth grade hid ties in their pockets, “forgotten” them at home, stained them with ink … They grew out of their childish status, but there was no more suitable one.
Alas, the school, struggling to overcome illiteracy, does not have the strength to fight childhood, although, start from the second, the first would have happened by itself. And we lie to ourselves that we love children, because if we really loved them, we would gently and carefully grow adults in them.
I like furry-headed adults with a smile that lacks a pair of milk teeth.