by Anon
I learned from the more experienced members of the Department some simple strategies for capitalising on their competitiveness and giving them pride in their work. For instance, you can cut out photos of the kids from the register and superimpose them onto superheroes. Or you can scan examples of their work so they have to identify whose work was the best. Soon they were jostling for who could be put on the board, who would be the King or Queen of Homework, or Classwork, or Behaviour, or whatever.
The competition even unlocked Kieran for a while. He did not want to learn, necessarily; he just wanted to cease failing. And then beat everyone else. I printed off his work, turned him into a superhero. His marks slowly crept up, his confidence grew. The other members of the class congratulated him and asked him for help. He glowed with this strange new sensation of pride, particularly when Mercedes paid him attention. Soon, every aspect of his attitude changed: he was punctual, Puffa-less, diligent. On it.
Role play was also extremely effective. Just as a child might not talk to you about his or her feelings, but can tell the puppet on your finger, so the recalcitrant pupil will not come to the board as themselves. But dress them as an explorer and get them to report back from their travels, and you can’t get them to shut up. That’s how it was with my Year 8s when doing His Dark Materials. One group was astrologers, another Arctic explorers, another scientists. They had to report back on what they thought ‘dust’ was. All of them, loud and quiet alike, armed with the requisite vocabulary and terminology, were transformed into experts.
We had a mortar board and gown hanging in the classroom closet. At some point in the lesson, usually during feedback, I let them pretend to be the professor or expert. The very act of putting on the mortar board or gown made them feel special and respected. They loved to come to the board and use different colour pens to lead feedback (although Mercedes liked to write other inappropriate things). Even if they didn’t know the answer, the act of writing other people’s answers was empowering and kept them focused. Getting them to teach each other was the Holy Grail.
Lesson #132
You Must Teach Them to Teach Themselves.
This is one of the great paradoxes of teaching. Once you have all your classes teaching each other, you are Outstanding. Literally. You are surplus to requirements. You have realised your own built-in obsolescence. Like Obi-Wan, you can martyr yourself, safe in the knowledge that the Force is being propagated.
*
We finished the Greek Myths with Perseus, a myth set a long time ago, when fortune-tellers told the truth.
Their task was to debate what the noblest kingdom in the world would look like. Donnie suddenly piped up, ‘Like this!’ And everyone went ‘Yeah!’
The class debated what made our class great. Kieran said it was the uniform (which was odd, given that he spent most of his time disguising it with a Puffa); Salim said it was that they felt safe; Saadia said they loved learning; Donnie said, ‘Because this is great! I love this class! It’s like Limpix! Everyone achievin’, everyone equal!’
I was close to tears.
That’s how I feel, deep down. Like a realisation of the utopian visions of George Dennison in The Lives of Children or John Dewey in Democracy and Education: a projection of the society we want to realise. This room – all these rooms – are microcosms of how I want the world to be. A more equal, diverse, tolerant, respectful, generous, intimate and funnier society. One in which kids come from everywhere, and everywhere is as valuable as everywhere else; where the dominant culture is one of learning and respect for learning. Within – no, throughout – these sacred glass walls, we are equal. Will we ever be again?
I looked around for an SM, but of course they never come when you have moments like that.
I was buzzing as they left. Donnie hung around, awkwardly.
‘You can go now,’ I said. ‘You’re not in trouble. I didn’t give you a detention. Did I?’
‘No, Sir. I just … wanted to do some homework. Can I do some homework?’
‘Of course.’
I noticed he had a bruise on his cheek. I asked him how he got it. He said he walked into a door.
I filled in a Cause for Concern form, a form you have to fill in when you are concerned for a child’s welfare, which is seen only by the Head of Year.
*
There was levity in the staff room, both forced and unforced. SMs and TAs occasionally poked their heads in wearing Santa hats or reindeer antlers. Mentor had draped tinsel all over the windows and put a little tree on top of the fridge. There were sweets everywhere. Haribos, Fruittellas, Maltesers, Mini Mars, Mini Snickers, Lindt. Bananaman couldn’t believe his luck.
Teaching took a bath. We were all so done with teaching. It was just tests, tests, tests until Christmas.
I handed out the tests to the Set 1s, and they started writing like they had been charged with writing all of Shakespeare in an hour.
I clicked on my emails.
There was a Christmas Tombola for the PTA.
An envelope spun around, enlarging until it was the size of the screen, with fancy calligraphy writing embossed on it: ‘You are cordially invited to the Christmas Party!’
I clicked on it. The envelope opened and a champagne bottle exploded and balloons flew around the screen.
DJs! And Dancing! And a Buffet! On a Boat!
Lots of email bantz followed from teachers who scorned it but for whom it was, in fact, the highlight of their social calendar.
*
We converged on the Library even earlier the Friday of the party. The PE department was leading the charge, looking slightly odd in clothes that weren’t shorts, like Ben Sherman shirts, jeans and brown loafers.
HoD bought the shots. Given that I was in my training year (and therefore still ‘on probation’); given that I was going to be with my immediate superiors, all of whom had passed some form of negative judgement on me over the term; and given that we would be in a small, enclosed space that we could not escape from for four hours … it made total and utter sense for me to get really shitfaced.
Onboard the boat, I was overcome by the tinsel, laughter, throbbing hip hop, sausages on sticks and ironic sweaters.
Double take.
Off-duty SM.
Laughing, drinking, sweating, flirting.
Even more sinister.
Walls coming in.
Everything wobbly.
Wooah.
I tried to focus on Tom, who looked in equally bad shape.
The TAs were DJing and dancing everyone off the floor. Little Miss Outstanding ran up to me and shouted, ‘I’M DANCING WITH THE TAS. I’M DANCING WITH THE TAS!’
Tom made the universal gesture of smoking, so we went on deck to get some air. I realised I was standing right next to VP ranting about the meeting she had had that day when they selected the next cohort of Year 7s.
‘And I swear to God at one point I actually said, “I’ll swap you one in a wheelchair with one with learning difficulties,”’ she said.
Tom and I looked at each other, then quickly staggered back into the throng.
Need a drink.
Oh my God.
Oh. My. God.
SM dancing.
Quick.
Oh my God.
I pushed through the crush to the bar.
Oh shit.
VP.
Try to appear normal.
Ask her a question.
‘Got anything planned for Christmas?’
(Nice, bland opening gambit.)
‘Rearranging my filing cabinet.’
What am I supposed to do with that?
‘Always the highlight.’
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
I am just grinning at her like a maniac.
‘Hey. You know you said, “Don’t Smile Until Christmas”? Well, look! It’s Christmas! And I can’t stop!’
You didn’t just say that.
You. Didn’t. Just. Say. That.
‘Quite right. You have every right to. It’s all up from here.’
‘WIN WIN EVERY TIME!’
I hugged her. I may have kissed her.
‘Merry Christmas!’
‘Merry. Christmas.’
*
I was released. The hardest term was over. It felt like it had been an entire year. Maybe three. I was ready to retire.
*
The holidays came and went. I slept for the first week, promising myself every day that I would mark all the books I had brought home in giant tote bags, but they just sat in the corner of my room, staring at me with quiet resentment. After a few nights’ recuperation, I returned to a semblance of myself and realised how shot my body was. My back was crippled from all that book carrying, my shoulders were crook from yanking my arms behind my back, my feet were blistered from the rub of the brogues, and my thighs were raw from all that purposeful walking.
I spent most of Christmas lunch trying to answer the boilerplate questions from my extended family (‘Must be so rewarding?’, ‘Do they come from all over?’), but I had forgotten the whole term already.
Dad wasn’t well. He spent Christmas lunch on the sofa. After lunch, I sat beside him and told him about my school, and about what I was teaching. I could tell he was delighted I had followed in the family tradition, that he had successfully ‘passed it on’. He knew that teaching provided nourishment for my starving soul, and I saw tears in his rheumy eyes as I talked about it. He remembered what it was like, the ineffable joy.
His father had been an English teacher, who was able to communicate with his children only through literature. It was the same with me and Dad. I remember walking across the fields at sunset as he recited ‘Ye elves of hills, standing lakes and groves’ from The Tempest. Meant nothing to me at the time. Now I can’t read it enough.
He stared at me silently with a wincing smile. At one point, I said, ‘Look, Dad, I hope you are proud of me. I have tried to do what you wanted. To be the man you wanted …’
He stared at me. I became all choked up and couldn’t speak any more.
We stared into the fire, serene.
9
Parents’ Evening
The gym reverberated with the hubbub of a bustling street market. Before me was a line of expectant customers. I felt like I should have a table of wares – yams, plantains, cumin, fine silks, broken-spined Penguin classics, Wedgwood teapots. I had a spreadsheet. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters and carers stood before me, their charges standing limply beside them.
The meetings followed the same pattern, to begin with. I sang the kid’s praises, citing specific work; discussed homework, how and where it was done; encouraged involvement in music and theatre; and finally, a little bit of pastoral (‘Is there anything we need to know?’). My final question was always the same: ‘I know what you are reading at school, but what do you have by your bedside?’
I had to see both classes in one evening, so was going to have to be swift and efficient. First up were the Set 1s.
‘Hello. I’m Mrs Foley. Orlando’s mum.’ A woman with frizzy hair in a green kaftan sat down. ‘Thank you so much for teaching him this term. He really, really enjoys English. Don’t you, Orlando? (He’s not going to say anything. Not while Mum’s here.)’
She whispered dramatically behind her hand: ‘Between you and me. I think he needs a little pick-me-up. Been a bit down in the dumps.’
I tried to meet Orlando’s downcast gaze.
‘Orlando. You’ve been top of the class all term.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘You have! You are one of the best in there.’
He harrumphed.
‘I think he thinks’, Mrs Foley continued, ‘that Sam – is it Sam? – I think he thinks that Sam gets better levels.’
‘That’s because he does,’ grunted Orlando.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Foley, really I am.’
‘He still has not recovered from the 6a you gave him for Icarus.’
Orlando shook his head and muttered, ‘Should have used more varied language.’
And there it was. A tiny little phrase, one that I threw out ten times a day, usually as a sop to the arbitrary target system, and it had rankled and destroyed this poor boy from within.
‘But that is the best level you can get!’ I implored.
‘I thought you gave Sam a level 7?’ replied Mrs Foley.
‘Yes, but that was a one-off. Something so extraordinary –’
‘It’s been very difficult, Mr Teacher, I have to tell you. He has hardly done anything since. Not practised piano or violin. He’s a perfectionist, you see. Runs in the family, I’m afraid. You know his sister, in Year 12? The composer? My husband thinks – I’m sorry he can’t be here tonight – he’s delivering a lecture – he’s a professor –’
‘Yes, Orlando mentioned.’
A large queue was now stretching from my desk, blocking some of the other teachers’ desks.
‘Did he? Yes, I’m sure he did … Look, I don’t want you to think I’m a Tiger Mother or something ghastly like that. I do just genuinely want him to be happy. But we’re at our wits’ end and I just wondered what you suggest?’
An SM hovered and then beat on.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Foley,’ I said. ‘I should never have given Orlando such high marks to begin with, because the only way is down. Truth is, I can’t imagine there are many eleven-year-olds in the country currently producing such brilliant work. So please just chill out and try to enjoy reading and writing. The worst thing you can do is burn yourself out. And if you need to miss the odd essay, that’s OK with me. I just want you to be happy.’
‘Did you hear that, Orlando? Did you hear what Sir said?’
Orlando nodded.
I stood up and shook her hand.
‘Thank you for everything you have done.’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ I said, ushering them towards the next desk.
*
Femi sat down. He had a lovely, bright, cheerful face, and dressed immaculately. You are told not to have favourites, but it is very difficult not to. We all said he was like the son we would like to have.
Femi was from that rare breed who are hard-working, sweet, chatty, lively, moral and interested. He never missed a day’s school, and was given a prize for that very feat. His book was immaculate. He would wait after each lesson and ask what he could have done better in his homework. I had heard he had escaped great hardship, and had not been in the UK long. It was difficult to know what had happened. Sometimes he wrote stories of war and strife; one time he drew pictures of men with guns in military uniforms standing outside huts. Femi could not speak English when they arrived, and now here he was in Set 1.
His parents sat either side of him, like bookends. I told them that I couldn’t believe how much he had come on, how proud they must be, how he was a credit to them. An example to us all. They nodded and beamed and said, ‘Thank you, oh thank you, oh thank you.’ I made him promise to try to speak a bit more in class. He promised he would through nervous smiles. I bade them farewell, with a profound sense of privilege; they were people for whom education was the most important thing in life.
*
Rachel lived round the corner from the school, so I had met Rachel’s mum on the street.
‘How’s she getting on?’ I asked, rhetorically.
‘Not so good. I mean, she loves English. Yeah. She really likes it. Always has.’
‘Good. She’s very good at it.’
‘Is she?’
‘Yes! Absolutely.’
‘There. You hear what Sir’s saying? You’re good!’
Rachel looked at her shoes.
‘She doesn’t feel like she’s any good. She says that everyone else in the class knows everything. That they all read everything and that. And that they think she’s stupid.’
‘Mum!’
‘It’s true! That’s what you said to me!’
> I placated her. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. She has made fantastic progress this term.’
‘That’s brilliant, Rachel! You hear what Sir’s saying?’
She fiddled with her shoe buckle.
‘We just need to get her speaking a bit more in class. Don’t we, Rachel?’ I said, switching my focus from Mum to Rachel and back again. ‘At the beginning of the year, she talked all the time in class. Always had her hand up. But recently … not a peep.’
‘Same at home,’ said her mum. ‘She just comes home and then disappears upstairs. Sits on the computer all night. Dunno what she does up there.’
Rachel gradually came round. But I felt terrible that she felt so insecure and intimidated. We agreed that she should come see me after school to go through anything she didn’t understand. Or when I saw her on my walk home.
*
After a short water break, it was time for the Set 4s.
Milosz sat down with his mum. He stared at me, already red-faced, with a look that said Don’t Say What You Are About To Say.
Right. Time to give you a piece of my mind.
‘Now, Mrs Brodowski. Milosz has not made a very good start, I am afraid. Not at all.’
Milosz started translating. She nodded.
‘There was the incident, as you are aware, with the Pritt Stick.’
He translated. She nodded and smiled.
‘You are aware he was caught committing the sin of Onan with a Pritt Stick in the back of Oracy Extension?’
He translated. She nodded and smiled.
‘He really needs to focus more. To get on with what I set him to do. He really needs to pull his finger out.’
Mrs Brodowski was nodding and smiling.
What the hell is he saying to her?
‘Milosz: are you translating what I am saying correctly?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Are you sure? It seems to me that you must be saying very different things to the things that I am saying. If I was hearing what I was saying, I wouldn’t be smiling and laughing. I would be frowning and getting cross.’