From Panopticons to Pinecones

From surveillance to sovereignty—far from the panopticon of the modern-day school—the river beckons the children of bramble and sky. It is here, in the silt and sand and the forest that lines the river’s edge, that my son explores his makeshift classroom. A muddy day is a good day in these parts.

On a typical day, he dissects salmon carcasses, rolls in mud and sand, builds boats from recycled materials, digs “to China” along the shore, and learns all there is to know about the prehistoric fish that haunts these waters: the Great White Sturgeon.

In warmer months, he roams another park—capturing snakes in the mossy forest floor, building shelters out of fallen branches, gazing wide-eyed at giant tadpoles poised to spring their legs in lush, still ponds. It’s both a treasure and a task to convince him to get in the car and go home. Rain, shine, or snow (save the odd district-wide closure), school goes on.

This is where my boy will spend his formative years: eating salmonberries, calling out to passersby in echoes across the river, breathing in the scent of wet earth and sun-warmed sediment, deepening his reverence for nature. Our vehicles, and his room, have become makeshift shrines to the earthly souvenirs he can't part with: giant pinecones, "cool" rocks (if you've seen one, you'd think you'd seen 'em all, but not according to him), sticks, sticky sand carefully stored in the caverns of a trusty boot, and art made out of the aforementioned.

It's the least I can give to him. To find joy in all weather as the Earth silently burns and inevitably diminishes our opportunities to enjoy temperate, forgiving climates. To nurture his imagination under the guidance of adults who hold boundaries rather than judgment. To learn Indigenous ways of being that honour the holistic nature of life. To collapse the long-standing performative nature of pupilship and learn through a more progressive pedagogy---a student-centred, tactile approach. Instead of being hovered over and expected to robotically regurgitate rote numbers and sterile, succinct sentences while tethered to a desk, he gets to feel wind on his face. He gets to sink his shoes into the earth and come home with mud on his clothes.

Maybe he won’t learn much by society’s standards. Or maybe he’ll learn everything.

Let’s face it: most schools are bureaus of conformity. Places of regurgitation where norms go unchallenged and children are valued for what they know instead of who they are.

I don't worry that he isn't going to comprehend something. I worry more that he won't stop to feel or see them. He’s already reading ahead. He was doing multiplication before kindergarten. But character? Grit? Empathy and resilience? Independent, imaginative thought? You can’t memorize those. You can’t test for them.

You have to feel them. You have to listen to trees. You have to hear rivers flowing instead of being watched by walls.