Little Penguin Early Learning Centre

The kindergarten boasted an excellent location—if one had an appetite for feral rabbits, waist-high weeds, and the cracked husks of old tires. The... The kindergarten boasted an excellent location—if one had an appetite for feral rabbits, waist-high weeds, and the cracked husks of old tires. The horizon lay so wide and vacant that even the satellites seemed reluctant to send you there. Each morning, the children exploded into the yard with the vigor of miniature streetfighters, trading obscenities as naturally as greetings and settling yesterday’s unfinished disputes with fists. The teachers observed from the sidelines, serene and detached, as though assigned to monitor the weather rather than human beings. Parents, for their part, remained admirably detached from the educational process. Some shouted into their phones; some filmed themselves smiling; others puffed hurried cigarettes while their offspring perfected the art of warfare behind them. When approached by their offspring with grievances, they dispensed wisdom with a shrug: "Sort it out yourselves." Among the staff, the culture was refreshingly sophisticated. No open conflict, no tedious collaboration—just a high-stakes competition of studied indifference. A visitor could almost admire the craftsmanship of the silence, stitched tight as a shroud. New hires received a swift education. Day one: A hearty handshake. "We would love to keep you!" Week three: A knowing smile. "We've had some... concerns. Try blending in more." Week six: A ghost in khakis, slipping sideways down the hallways, too cautious even to breathe loudly. To elevate the "professional image," the administration imported a seasoned troop of survivors—some old enough to remember typewriters fondly, some experts in the careful art of sidestepping blame. Meanwhile, those who had lingered too long on the payroll were quietly "encouraged to explore other opportunities," or else spirited away to strategic "temporary projects" from which no return was expected. In time, it became clear to all: Teaching mattered less than smiling at your executioner. The best performers could beam as a child spat in their face; the better ones could nod thoughtfully as they were exiled by colleagues; the truly gifted could pack their belongings with dignity and murmur, "It’s all part of the journey." One afternoon, a restless wind finally unseated the cracked sign by the sandpit. It toppled face-down, revealing the once-bold slogan: “Every child is a star.” Nearby, two of those bright stars were busy pounding each other into the dirt, under the dispassionate gaze of the setting sun. No one moved to right the sign. It hardly seemed necessary anymore. Read more