The new-old pedagogy is textile. Polyester, cotton, wool, linen, silk… But also influenced by other currents: cellulose, rubber, polyethylene, PVC… There are parents who opt for this type of education. As good parents, they think about the future of their offspring: Spain must shelter Catalonia.
Any person, or animal, can realize, even suffering from narrow-mindedness, that there are children sprinkled throughout who go to school accompanied by Spain with material of a thousand different forms. P3, P4, P5 strollers are sprouting, accelerated, with little Spanish flags tied to the handlebars of tomorrow's leadership. They are reproduced on backpacks, sports bags, lunchboxes, from primary school, secondary school, more emblems of Spain's educational empire waving from the zippers. If we go up the educational ladder, in high school, bracelets, necklaces, chains, any accessory that touches the skin and soul, crowns the peak of the kingdom. All this, of course, is superficial.
Spanish identity textiles, like Gremlins, reproduce by the tap, photosynthesis, or socialized self-help. Children speak only in Spanish verbal clothing. Fashion that never goes out of style. The Spanish thing is casual, basic. Many teachers act as tailors and no longer teach in the proper language, and the style is already being defined. This is how they grow up with custom-made suits. And everyone leaves with a title of being well-dressed, suited, uniformed. But, of course and scientifically, there is no indoctrination, because everyone knows that indoctrination only happens in Catalan.
As the ophthalmologist said: clothes enter through the eyes. And then, clinging to the turpentine bottle, he added: I have seen things you people would not believe. I have seen towns and cities full, packed, overflowing with Esteladas, senyeres, for years and years. It was a fashion never seen before. It was a coming out of the closet, the dresser, the sofa unique in the history of this country without a catwalk. Now, most of them are stored at home, or torn up, burned behind the scenes. As the Catalan always does after the war: lives behind shutters. In the bunker, in the den, in the coffin, to mend, to iron the wounds.
The spoils of the Process were the flag of language. And the street. And the air. And everything. But especially the future. These children wrapped in bandages like premature mummies. These children who believe that Catalan was proper to the lower Pleistocene. That cats only know how to speak Spanish and that God, Superman or the Pokémon of all the languages in the world only do not understand the one from here. Strangers in our homeland. Immigrants without leaving. Pariahs in their own land. Pointed out. Underlined. Insulted. Beaten. For not following the fashion of democratic dictatorship: legal, moral, ecological, nutritional... Whatever it takes to impose oneself with a flash smile on the ready-to-wear of everyday life.
Catalonia led fashion during the Crown of Aragon. Other peninsular and European kingdoms copied Catalan models. Catalonia was the textile factory of the Iberian Peninsula and Europe with the Industrial Revolution. Now we are (very) impoverished and it seems some did not know it (the Phoenix Report
explains it for educated donkeys). We have not wanted to look in the mirror and we have gained weight and our clothes don't fit. Neither physically, nor spiritually, nor muscularly. Change your shirt, pants, underwear, briefs now. The Process was not what it was in these past years. The real Process begins now. Either dressed, or in the buff.
