I have some sad news.

A few weeks ago a student from my school in year seven died of an existing, although not obviously fatal, illness. It wasn't an unusual illness, it wasn't anything special, and, unfortunately, for a child to die, although increasingly rare, is not a strange thing to happen. For the microcosm of the schoolyard, however, it is catastrophic. And quite rightly so.

Being a teacher is not a job in many senses. I know I said that it is a job in my last post but there are many parts of the occupation that fail to free themselves from the intricacies of normal life. Profoundly we are grounded by our emotions and by our, often reluctant, feelings of genuine care for our charges.

I have had a lot of difficulty in even getting this far in this blog post and I think this is because it is difficult to have a purpose to it. My anonymity prevents eulogy and the gravitas hobbles humour. And who would I be, anyway, to make light of death except through the sort of self-defence mechanism that is truly English in its nationality.

Perhaps, then, instead of trying to comment about it. Instead of trying to be pithy and plaintive and pundamentalist I should just be narrative. It was announced by the head teacher in morning briefing. It is probably one of the only times that I have ever genuinely heard a sharp intake of breath from a gathered crowd. People actually exclaimed. The child was well-known and popular, although that makes nothing more or less sad, and they had been well-known for helping around the community. I knew the child in a diminutive kind of way we had occasionally spoken, once during one of their outside school events. But that personal touch does not really matter because it is not whether the child is known to you or not that creates the impact of an event like this because there is always a personal touch.

I said to one of my colleagues at the time that it would not be the first few days that would be the most difficult but it would be the weeks afterwards when little things refuse to go away and some of the students found that memories cannot be cast off as easily as a filled-up exercise book. I didn't realise how right I was.

I will segue here. I return to that blissful, carefree summer when I left school myself. A boy from my year died. He went swimming at a party in a lake at the end of one of his friends' gardens and he got into trouble and died. A tragedy. Some years later the friend whose house it was would commit suicide. I do not know, and probably no-one really will, whether the two incidents were linked. I knew the two boys, but not well. The news spread as a virus through computers then, in a summer when people were spread a little thinner than they had been when they attended regular lessons but a lot thicker than, well, now. It was with a strange sense of deja vu that I watched the wave of despair spread across the school in front of my own eyes. It had the memory of a moment of remembrance at a celebration assembly for A-level results. A moment of watching a parent collect a brown envelope for a child who couldn't and then a gulp in the throat years later, hearing, second hand, out of date news.

I retold the story of my own sixth form to my students and I told them that, if there was anything to learn, it is that you must always talk about your feelings. You must talk about grief because it is different for everyone.

I will segue again. This time to a seminar on child protection. I have difficulty placing this one. It may have been at university or it may have been at NQT induction but I remember (probably only slightly erroneously) being told by a CP officer that it is always when you have the least time that the most important things come up. For the most part the legacy of grief in the school has subsided but, and I painfully recounted my own words in my head that it would take a while for the real issues to appear from the albeit painful malaise of potentially mass hysteria, it was with genuine concern that I found myself sat across from a student of mine who had changed. They had come to me on a full day of teaching, after a horrifically stressful lesson with the year ten class who were only spared expletives by a few millimetres of bitten lip, and they needed my help more than anyone I have ever taught.

I don't know how many of you have ever had a student sit down and really open up to you but it is the most difficult things that can happen because of the first thing that you have to say. Legally, Ethically and correctly the first thing you have to say are the words the student probably least wants to hear: 'I will have to tell someone else that you are telling me this.' And it is then that their eyes drop. It has happened to me twice. And both times I have had the thought running through my mind that I am not a psychiatrist but this child, this fragile little creature that is just a perfect incidence of everything that is right with the world believes that I am, or perhaps doesn't believe but they need me to be so much that they may as well have bought me a professional qualification to nail to the wall. Being a teacher is not being a teacher. Being a teacher is being a conduit through which a child can access anything without fear of judgement, without fear of pain, or ramification and with, overall, the sense of hope that you will be exactly the perfect thing that they need. It is quite stunning how many teachers know about teenage pregnancies before the grandparents, or father. I told this student the words. I told them that I would have to tell someone and I did and I did so knowing that, in all likelihood, this student would not trust me again. And I am proud of this because, when I saw them walking out of a session with the school councilor and ed psych a few days ago I knew that this was the best thing for them and that they would be alleviated of the thoughts that refused to leave their mind free of harassment. 

I am proud of myself because I know that I did the right thing. I know that I have helped through knowing that I am fallible in my own ability. That I know that even when my day is terrible I always have time to see a student. Because a cup of tea and a biscuit are not always the reason we have breaktimes.

It has taken me too long to write this post, and it is so short. And I can't bear to profread it. And even now I cannot help but steal phrases from Vonnegut to fill in the gaps of my own expression. It is so short.

So it goes.

No Disentegrations.

I received a strange little call a couple of days ago. It's one of those calls that a little, arrogant, part of every teacher fetishises and wishes would come true. I received a call offering me a job. The unusual part? I never applied for it.

Corporate headhunting is nothing new, but it is still a surprise for one such as me (ie. More useless than individuality at a PIXL conference.(perhaps that's unfair. If you are offended by that read it as 'more useless than Gove.) I'm not amazing, and I probably don't care quite enough to be truly exceptional. What struck me as particularly strange about the call was how insistent it was. The Headteacher of the school seeking to recruit very average staff was on a Wolf of Wall Street hard sell and there was no doubting it. In a ten minute call I pretty much only spoke to confirm my name and place of residence. They offered me a lot of tacit promises and *wink wink nudge nudge* style incentives. I was a bit shocked. It seemed too much. When I asked, finally, at the end of the conversation (lecture) about who they had heard about me from, the Head refused to tell me. At this point I became deeply suspicious and put on my Poirot mustache just in case.

So I went and had a little look see on the interbobs and did a little bit of digging. It took me and a colleague approximately 38 seconds to discover how they'd heard of me; a member of staff from my current school was acting as a named consultant for those at the the school that wanted to be my next. I was appalled. It is a needless and horrifying lack of morality based around the faux-competitive nature of educational establishments. It may not come as a surprise to many that the school that was out for the bounty on my unkempt and permanently sleep-deprived head was a new build school backed by a corporate entity. I think the delivery of money into education is great, but it seems to be some sort of proviso that any injection has to come with the slowly corrupting HIV of corporate ethics. We are the front line blind bunnies of the state's rabid hop into bed with a myxomatosis ridden publicly limited cash-slut. There is no philanthropy in this. The only philanthropy in education is the thankless, moneyless provision of free overtime given to students because it helps, or because that museum is only open on the weekend, or because without this bit of training, or coursework help, or equipment then they simply won't win, or learn or achieve.

Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps I am a socialist wrapped in middle-class angora. Perhaps my problem is that I think education is about getting kids to learn stuff, then more stuff, then go into the world a better person. It's not, is it. It's about looking good and standing up in front of people with your shiny new school and saying "Look at what a fucking great human being I am." It's about companies who probably abuse child labour abroad backing schools so they can claim that they "Invest in Pupils' dreams" or some such assorted vacuous bollocks. It's about making TV shows that show what beautiful and fragile human beings teachers are and how difficult this job that we all chose to do is while producers and writers and broadcasters rub their little hands with glee. (Yeah the job's hard. We get it. We do it. We do it every day, every week of every, oh, wait, no. We get thirteen weeks holiday., which, when we're quite honest with ourselves, is lovely. It is a job and I enjoy it and I want to do it; this is a rarity in the world. I enjoy that I feel that the work I do is actually of some significance to the world around me.) It worries me that the education sector is just another way of bargaining for cash and reputation and status in an already morally bankrupt world.

So, to sort of return to the story, I informed those higher up in the educational foodchain that I had been headhunted for a different school by a member of my own who has a vested interest and a moral compass about as useful as a dildo in a nunnery. I have yet to see any action, and in all likelihood it will all be brushed under the carper and then liberally assaulted with a dyson so that the school can maintain its exact current reputation. I would much rather it took a stand and put into the public domain the high moral stance that it could take by exposing and chastising this sort of practice. We should not accept this in education. I think we forget sometimes; it doesn't matter what school you work at as long as you can do your job and in that job you are accountable only to children and yourself. Not money, not OFSTED, not whichever company owns your building. You are a teacher. Be proud of doing what you do.

Alternate Ending

'Here you go Dr. Weasley.'
'Thank You Hermione. Still not comfortable with first names? Please, I've told you, we've been seeing each other every Friday for, what is it seven years now? You can call me Ron.'
'Sorry, er, Ron. I just, I think it's better to maintain professionalism in front of the patients. I think it helps set a standard.'
Hermione, of course, thought no such thing. She had always heard things about the gangly ginger-haired Doctor and his wandering hands and she didn't want to be the next victim, sobbing in the staffroom. Seven years and it had not happened to her yet. Maybe he was getting better. As the two of them walked into the room where the patient was, they knew that Harry certainly wasn't.
He was sat in the spartan room, rocking gently irregularly backward and forward in the lightweight plastic armchair as if metering out the rhythm to a song that no-one, save himself, could hear.
'Hello Harry.' Doctor Weasley said in the tone he always used when talking to the more extreme, or as he called them, hopeless, patients.'How are we today Harry?' The young man of nineteen looked up from his jiggling, just pausing a little to look into the eyes of his two most regular visitors before the shaking took him over in jitters of excitement.
'Ron! he cried happily. Hermione!' We did it! we saved the world. He's dead. Voldemort's dead! I was the last horcrux! It was so simple really! And Neville! Neville! he saved us in the end.' In one of Harry's hands he was brandishing the 30 centimetre ruler that he had acquired from the creativity space some seven years ago, when his delusions became so serious that he couldn't live with his Aunt and Uncle and cousin anymore.
'I see the delusion has not subsided.'
'No, but it does appear to be changing in nature. This, er, task that he has been obsessed with seems to have resolved. He is mentioning Neville again.'
'That's the brother, yes?'
'Yes. He mentions him occasionally, and he had a period a few years ago where he seemed to save him in some way.'
'Has he visited recently?'
'No.'
'Strange. Well. Not much to do here I guess.' There was never much to do with Harry Potter. From time to time another psychologist would become interested in his case and write a book citing him. Some world famous name like Lupin, or Moody would take them under their wing, but they would never penetrate what was still popularly known as one of the worst cases of Post-Traumatic Stress disorder that had ever followed parental abuse. He was, in a way, quite famous. People often wrote letters to him, not that he ever read the words they wrote, but it had a cathartic effect. The staff used it as a tactic often, Particularly after the Doctor Black incident, to hand Harry envelopes to open saying it was from Black. He enjoyed that; smiles would light his face like a magic trick.
Dr Weasley and Dr Granger thanked Harry with all the politeness that is borne of knowing that someone isn't really listening, but that courtesy is important.
'I take it he has been told?' Ron's voice punctuated the sterile air after they had closed the door and headed to the next patient.
'About their release?'
'Yes.'
'We have told him, but we're not sure he has taken it in.'
'Perhaps the resolution of the initial delusion indicates this. Maybe he is readying himself for the trauma.' Ron didn't seem thoroughly convinced by his own words, but it was better that than walking in silence, and Hermione was clearly having none of his advances today. Perhaps next week he might find her more amiable.
'They won't be allowed to meet him will they? Not after what they did?'
'No, No, of course, but you know the media. There will be renewed interest. He is not a child anymore. The media will have a field day. Photos of him on the front page next to them walking out of prison. A close up of the scar. I imagine they'll track down Neville. If they can find him.'
'He hasn't visited for a while.'
'Well. Who would want to be reminded of that?' Silence fell over the pair of them, and they continued the walk along the daunting corridor of the old mansion in silence. The paintings of old owners and masters seemed to flicker and dance in the afternoon light that streamed uncertainly through the window as if it was not sure whether it was a welcome visitor or not. Across the great ornamental lake the darkness that hid in the forest stared back at the house and dared it to come closer and find a final answer to the centuries-old stand-off.
Harry heard the footsteps fade down the hall and his smile fell a little from his face.
'Hermione?' He asked to no-one. 'Ron?' The air around was still and cold as the flickering sunlight died like a childhood dream behind a steadily overcasting sky. He stood up out of the chair and looked out of the window where the gardener, a giant of a man, was tending to the little menagerie of furry animals kept so that some of the lesser cases of the building could have something to care for before their release. Harry turned his head away from the window and walked to his bare bed, still clutching to his breast the ruler; an object that had worn to the point of having a visible handgrip on one end. He lay down and pulled over him the thin and threadbare blanket that was his only relic of his father and that he clung to regardless of the offers of better, more modern bedding.
His head gifted the pillow the weight of his unkempt hair and his gaunt head, not devoid of the glasses that found their diurnal resting place on his bed side table. He closed his eyes and the room disappeared for him. A bird, maybe an owl, called through the darkening air as Harry just let himself slide out of the woken world. His lips managed to slide a single word as he fell asleep.
'Ginny?'

Wednesday morning bad teaching joke

I totally just thought of this as well.

A janitor in a school finds a piece of paper with a maths equation on the floor of reception. He goes and finds the head of department for maths and shows it to him and asks him whether he knows anything about it. The head of maths turns to him, looks at the paper and says quite bluntly,

'I'm sorry, but this literally isn't my problem'

gettit?

Morning Briefing Bingo

We've all been there. We all know what it's like, to be sat, bored, tired and cradling a cup of tea or coffee as if letting it go will immediately condemn your soul to the very inky blackness that it reflects. Instead of the rage overflowing like your marking pile, why don't you get together with the other teachers that genuinely don't give a shit/actually see things for the way they are/aren't terrible people and play a little morning game to wake you up?

And with this in mind I present:

Morning Briefing Bingo.

The game is simple.
Print out a game board then write out, or print out all of the game cards of all the things you might (will) see and hear in your morning briefing. Divvy up all of the cards and stick them on your game board. Then cross off the things that happen as they come up. Squares are one point, lines are ten points each, first to a full house wins automatically.

I suggest forfeits for losers such as a class set of marking, lunchtime duty, a round at the pub or death.

Bingo Card:

And here are your choices of briefing bingo bonanza . (I suggest you print out a few of each. and share them around)




































Please enjoy, and tell me how it goes on @calamityteacher Photos are always welcome!

The Return to School Checklist

It's spring term eve, which means disney should be selling a special commemorative mouse or dog or something, but as my students don't love me enough to buy me gifts i will have to cry myself to sleep tonight. I would say that these tears falling onto the cardboard box I have used for a pillow since my Academy froze our pay in 1250BC are unusual, but it would be a lie to proffer any other idea than that which is true: I cry. A lot.

And through these tearstruck eyes that blinker the outside world from view I can just about read, written on the side of a sodden Amazon box, my list of tasks i need to complete before i return to the hallowed halls of hubris and hefting humanity that is my alleged work(house)place. I reproduce this, shoddily no doubt, here.

1: Wipe internet search history normal history, temporary files and any incriminating photos. Check the dvd tray for THAT film and possibly consider just defaulting the whole machine to factory settings or encasing it in concrete, dropping it into a river and claiming to IT tech that you lost it/left it in the back of a taxi.

2: Shave off comedy facial/body hair

3: Check that the new piercing/tattoo(s) can be covered by current haircut or work wardrobe.

4: Change out of the pajamas that you've been wearing for three solid weeks.

5: Finish marking/ marking bonfire

6: Practice not swearing at everything.

7: Practice getting up before midday.

8: Read the book you're meant to be teaching/ watch the film of said book/ read the wikipedia/ImDb summary of the film of said book.

9: Sober up.

10: Kiss goodbye to your loved ones/pets/photos of celebrities. You won't be seeing them until February.

11: Stock up on comfort food/booze/kleenex

12: Book that first counseling session of the year.

13: Cry. Aimlessly and at length.

14: Apply for a new job/Uni course/The Dole

15: Fabricate a convincing cover story to tell in the staffroom/classroom to explain that scar.


There you go. Plenty to be getting on with. I'm going to pick out my wardrobe for the next few days so that i can essentially operate on autopilot.

Cheers. Here is to blessed, half-awake absolution.

INSET is BESTSET

Reasons to be excited about start of year INSETS:

1: My Christmas was better than yours.
2: Free breakfast
3: Free Lunch
4: Arriving at school exactly on time, as opposed to the usual two hours early.
5: Leaving school exactly on time, as opposed to the usual two hours late
6: No children. None. Literally none of the little bastards people to interfere with the paperwork.
7: The sublime joy of seeing other teachers in their own clothes and thereby gaining a tiny glimpse of an insight into the lives they live outside of the razor-wire fences of the school's perimeter.

Are You Sure You Are In My Class?

Just before the end of term I was followed around by that most rarest of thing: A new teacher. This endangered species, under threat as it is by the scaremongering of the popular teaching press, the strong arm of the unions, and a tortoise on a pole, is a beautiful polished surface with which a teacher of some relative long-toothedness can reflect upon their own practice. I did reflect upon my own practice, and deemed that, in many ways, I am not quite as awful as I had previously believed. 

There was one thing, however, that struck through my heart (and you’re to blame). I was sat, nonchalantly watching my pet new teacher with year ten and I looked at a student. This student was sat, quite quietly scribbling down notes, in a seat that I realised is in an almost total blind spot from my desk. She is a beautiful living stereotype of an invisible student: small, plain looking and quiet and as such, of course, I have no idea what her name is. Even with the register at hand I had difficulty choosing between two or three similar quiet girls. It required the expected us of the blessed class photo option on SIMS to finally identify her and, to be perfectly honest, even that was somewhat tough.

I think there is a lesson in this anonymity. Perhaps it should be common practice for every teacher to watch someone else teach their class purely so that they can spot the little eccentricities of daily class life that just fly their tiny wings underneath the radar. I teach, as I imagine many of you do, about 150 different, individual, hormonal, stinking,shrieking, bags of desperate flesh a week. It's easy to miss the nice quiet ones unless you look at them from a different angle.

New Years Teacholutions

We all know that term one is a total write-off. We all know that those two long terms are just a case of getting to the Christmas holidays with only a minimal amount of thrown chairs, swears and pulled out hairs, but next term, when the students are painfully subdued by the dark and the coming realisation that their lives are as insignificant as an individual aphid in a biology diagram, there is hope for us to, perhaps, prosper as individuals. @Badheadteacher (real name I am assured, changed by deed poll no doubt) has presented a list and I, as one to never leave a bandwagon unjumped upon, are duly following suit with my own convoluted and impassioned vacuous tripe:

Resolution number one: SCREW YOU DATA

This year I solemnly swear to ignore all data that does not actually matter. I will only take note of the following things that contain numbers:
1) The Time
2) GCSE results
3) Canteen Prices

Resolution number the second: SCREW YOU PERFORMANCE MANAGEMENT

I am outstanding teacher. I have no proof of this, and I require none. If  someone asks me to prove it then I will write myself a certificate, decorate it with stars and present it to the questioner by rubbing it, quite literally, into their headface.


Resolution number three: DON'T GET FIRED

I simply cannot afford it. I will exact this by avoiding situations where i could get fired, such as lessons, and school, entirely. This should keep me safe. I will hide under the bedclothes until the bad things go away.

Bonus Resolution: I will actually teach a child something that might actually help them in later life.

like crochet knitting. Or how to read. I dunno.

Twas the night before strikeday...

Twas the night before strikeday
and all through the schools
not a creature was stirring
no year ten fools

the banners were hung
by the schoolgates with care
in the hope that no teachers
would walk by there

the teachers were snuggled
all up in their beds
with dreams of marking
in piles in their heads

And then a noise
from beside them did scream
and rudely interrupted
their  placid dreams

alas, an alarm,
forgot to unset
provided unwelcome,
6 o'clock threat
 
but then, a memory
a inkling of reason
a moment, lo, day,
of institutional treason

Oh joy, oh wonder
oh sheer delight
a day in the bedclothes
no marking in sight

but whats that that sits
in the corner disdainful
a stack of bad essays
whose grammar is painful

but the union rep said
no work to be done
so they'll open on Sunday
at a quarter to one

its not a day off
they say; its a shout in the dark
while everyone in briefing
wonders on thorpe park

but what is the point?
the kids'll be there
and the last thing you want
is them in your hair

Instead we'll shy away
from what moves outside
and instead of accusation
of shirking we'll hide

under blankets and duvets
and let the phone ring
and convince ourselves
that strikes really mean
anything.