Saturday, 17 March 2018

It's not what you know...

"Yeah, but that won't be me. People like me can't do that..."

There comes a time in everyone's life where they realise that "if you work hard at school, you'll be successful" isn't quite that simple, that cause and effect. But maybe the saddest thing is the many who never bought into it in the first place. Teaching has taught me that some kids already know that life becomes about who your mum is, who your dad knows, whether your parents went to university, your race, your socio-economic background - and quickly you are not you - you are the product of all the connections you have have and the assumptions and stereotypes associated with your context.  They already feel like they don't belong and that this, whatever life this is, isn't for them. They know that it's not really about who are you, what you know and what you can do. 

And that's one of the reasons why I'm here and doing what I'm doing. Teaching feels like it might be a way to escape this system, one which didn't really discriminate against me but in which everyone was sort of like me, but usually better connected. My post-graduation working life revolved almost solely around the mind-numbing mockery of today's middle-class network which is LinkedIn and it pains me to think that this is how people get jobs and soak up each other's unnecessarily advertised success. I felt a bit like being part of it perpetuated it even though I could see flaw after flaw in the system. 

School, teaching, isn't really like this. Sure there's a network and teachers inevitably know other teachers but, deep down, it's far more about what you know - about your subject, your concept of teaching, your intention, your values - and who you are, why you're doing this. And it's not about Oxbridge and private school and being white, because it's one of those places where it doesn't actually matter and normal staff can better represent normal students. Even if my students tell me I remind them of a variety of the cast of Made In Chelsea. 

This week though, more than ever, I've come to realise that actually you can't survive on what you know and that who you know, as a teacher, is ten times more important - but in a completely different way. It is who you know that inspires you to be here in the first place and it's who you know that makes you the teacher that you are. It's so much about the kinds of people that you surround yourself with, and who you choose to take advice from. It's the person that gives you the acknowledging pat on the shoulder after the worst lesson in the history of lessons and reminds you that they're 11 and not to take it personally; and it's the person that drags you out of your worst day and develops you into achieving your best. It's the people you can turn to and ask "what am I doing?", "what went wrong?" and "help me do this" who make you do what you do and how you do it the best it can be. Maybe this is true of all jobs, but this is one of the few where most of your colleagues do essentially the same job as you - and they get it. 

It's been a long, but probably my favourite week of teaching. I've taught my best and my worst lesson ever and done it surrounded by people who are ready to praise you when it all goes right and listen to you vent, reassure you and help you laugh at the fact a room full of 11 year olds have spent 50 minutes destroying you, one ripped worksheet turned into paper ball at a time. This week has taught me that relying on who you know isn't always a bad thing, not to get a step in your career, but to help you make it through the day, week, term. It's made me think about the students who fear the conservative labyrinth to which they don't belong, and remind them of all the supportive people around them that are trying to help them dismantle it from the inside. It's made me want to remind them that when you have confidence in what you know and you surround yourself with people who help to build you up, you don't need anyone to carry you because you're doing it yourself. 


Thursday, 1 March 2018

Rock bottom

Ok, rock bottom is a bit of an exaggeration. I’ve had a pretty good week, snow commute and chill blains aside, but today was the first time I felt like I’d hit absolute rock bottom with a class.

To give you some context.
Thursday, period 5, after lunch (an hour playing in the snow), 31 year 7s arrive at my classroom where I will be teaching them for the first time. They’ve forgotten where they’re supposed to sit, and I have to spend the first 10 minutes making everyone sit in their seat and moving those who have deliberately sat in the wrong seat. They ask why I’m teaching them and who I am. I feel ok, I usually like year 7s and they usually want them to like you.

But that’s where it all goes downhill. We’re doing storm hydrographs with 11 year olds, which is sort of already a recipe for disaster. It takes another 10 minutes to write the title: is that the title? Yes. That one on the board? Yes. I’ve done it, Miss. Good, thank you. My hands are too cold to write, Miss. Try rubbing them together to warm them up. Which page do I write it on, Miss? The next available one in your book. This one? Yes. Here? Yes. And it goes on. I remind several that they cannot have written anything if they haven’t opened their book, another few don’t have a pen and I struggle to understand how they’ve made it through 5 hours of school today without one. But hey, they’re just year 7s right, they’re needy.

We start with some key terms. We discuss them, what they mean and I say that they’re going to be important for our task. I ask students to write them down in their books. Have I done it right? Yes, well done. Lovely handwriting. Do I have to write down the meaning too? Yes, or you won’t know what it means. Is this dis-c-charge? We pronounce it ‘discharge’. What’s discharge? What have you just written down? Why are we writing these? Because they’re key terms, and you need to remember what they mean. Do I have to write all of them down? Yes. Now? Yes. Can I keep my coat on? No. But it’s cold. It’s not cold in the classroom. Then can I keep my hat on? No. But it’s cold. Then imagine these questions all being asked at once, over and over again. I ask for silence. Nothing. I count down from 5. Nothing. I count down from 3. Miss, why are you counting? Are you doing the peace sign? Nothing. I stand and I wait, and wait, and wait. And then it happens, silence, for approximately 7 seconds. We try and draw a graph, well, fill in the gaps on a graph that I’ve already sort of almost finished. But every time I start to speak, or stop speaking, constantly, there is noise. Some people are doing their work really well, and I try and recognise this. Some are doing it but at half the pace they could and should be doing it. Others are turning round, crawling on the floor, dancing in their chairs (or out of their chairs) and constantly, constantly talking. Miss, I don’t get it? Ok, let’s work through this together. I still don’t get it. That’s because you’re not listening. Yeah, but I’m cold. But you need to focus now. Yeah, but I’m still cold and I don’t get it.

I reach the point where I have explained it more times than I can remember, in smaller, simpler stages and hardly anyone understands it. But because they haven’t listened. Every time someone starts talking, I stop and I wait, and then as soon as I start again, someone else starts and it’s constant and never-ending and I feel like getting up and walking out and leaving them all to it. Who really needs to know how to draw a hydrograph anyway?  The lessons end promptly with the bell and 3 slides left to go. No one’s stuck their sheet in, some haven’t finished it, and some have barely started it. I know not to take it personally, because they’re supposedly a nightmare with everyone and I know that was one (of very few ways) to make hydrographs fairly simple and mildly, very mildly interesting. But that doesn’t stop me eating 3 chocolate digestives (wishing it was 3 gin and tonics) to dull the dread that is teaching them again tomorrow morning.

The only way is up?

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