Confessions of a teacher: Because school isn't quite what you remember it to be...

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Table of Contents

Introduction.

Part 1: August, September, October.

August: Enter the jungle.

September: May the force be with the mushroom.

You can take the teacher out of the school but not the school out of the teacher.

October: High order priority questioning – Bloom's taxonomy.

Part 2: October, November, December.

The inspectors.

Return to normality.

Who shot the Jani.?

Charity may start at home but it doesn't stop there.

A bit of Christmas fun.

Part 3: January, February, March.

The official line.

Dictionary skills and other medical problems.

Harsher times.

Always watch your back.

Part 4: April, May, June.

Conspiracies and democracy.

Motherhood and pyromania.

Hypocrisy and workmanship.

The sense of an ending.

Conclusion.

Introduction.

What do school days mean to you? A bad memory like a wound never to be re-opened? A happy one? Or perhaps somewhere in that grey area of neither good nor bad? Remember that quirky teacher whose antics provided endless source of laughter? Yes, you know the one I mean: the one with a different colour of hair every month, the one who would always trip over and miraculously avoid an almighty fall, the nervous one who would jump at everything and nothing and shout at the top of their lungs for no apparent reason, the tipsy one, or the no-sense-of-dress one whose outfits offered daily topics of conversation, or even, to put it simply, the generally eccentric one. And what about your classmates? Remember the kid who was really good at sport and became an Olympic athlete? the girl no one would have looked twice at who ended up as an international model? And the vast majority of those who turned their hands to more mundane but no less valuable activities: the bank manager, the postal office worker, the hairdresser... Of course, let's not mention the criminals who achieved fame in their own distorted world. Try, if you can, to cast your mind back to a time where teachers, future bank managers, models and athletes used to interact freely in the confine of the classroom walls. Are you there yet? Need a bit of help in refreshing your memory? This part is easy. The classroom fauna is always the same: The brainy ones of whom you wonder what kind of celestial injustice gave them the power to successfully complete three exercises when you're only half way through the first one. On the opposite side of the spectrum stand the really thick ones. On the rare occasions where they are nominated to answer a question, how delightful, how entertaining it is to watch them awakening from a long reverie, stare blankly into space, throw desperate looks around for help only to finally stammer their way out of an awkward situation. Let's also give credit to the substantial group of class clowns. Whatever the capacity of their intellect, it is put to the sole purpose of gaining an audience and annoying the teacher. Their success criteria are in direct correlation to the loudness and frequency of the laughter they generate. Quite similar to the class clowns but far more sinister are the bullies. When one of them enter the sanctuary of the classroom, they take centre stage and the only concern in everyone else's mind is to avoid getting noticed. More subdued but no less characteristic of such environment, you will find the odd one out: The peculiar child no one seems to like on account of his strangeness. There's also the swat, hands always up in the air to ask a relevant question or give an equally relevant answer. It is not uncommon for some swats to stay behind at the end of a lesson for some private attention. Close cousin to the swat in term of his position in the pecking order of the group is the teacher's pet who can do no wrong in the eyes of authority. I too was once a member of such group until, that is, I defected to the other camp: that of the teachers. Believe me when I say that from that vintage point, school becomes an entirely different universe.

I didn't always want to become a teacher. As a matter of fact, I spent a long time not even knowing what I wanted to be. I was born in France, lived in France, was French and in this context, life pushed me along gently through a University degree in French literature until I was forced to make a choice. The logical path was education but if I was to follow the general path, then I would have to add a twist to it: I decided to teach French but as a foreign language and my next logical move was to emigrate to Britain in order to do so. My enthusiasm having been galvanised by the simple fact of having made the decision, I couldn't wait to start. I was eager to exert my creativity in devising fun activities that would see all children enjoying themselves while marvelling at the wonders of a different language and culture. Furthermore, I would evolve in a universe of educated people whose conversation would no doubt be riveting, intellectual and challenging.

I quickly realised how naive I was. On my very first day of teaching, I gave up on the fundamental rule: don't smile till Christmas. It's not that I forgot about it. It's just that after twenty minutes, one kid asked me if I ever smiled. I felt bad and decided to lighten up. It costed me dearly: within the first month I was lynched with a water ball. It took four months of being the bitch from hell for them and me to reach some kind of shaky understanding. As for the fun activities I had dreamt and which, quite frankly, wouldn't have been out of place in some kind of futuristic educational game arcade, I never got the chance to try them out. I was far too busy dealing with drawings of cannabis leaves and sexual organs, males and females. The only way to survive was as little talking on my part and as much copying on their as I could manage. Things didn't fare much better with my colleagues. The conversations never got more stimulating than the best way to cook broccoli or how they reduced little Jimmy to tears and how he really deserved it. It occurred to me then that if I wanted to have any kind of interaction with these people I would have to go through a serious amount of hours watching soap operas and reality TV shows. It's only a few years down the line that I understood the reasons for such dull conversations. Teaching is such a mentally and physically draining activity that it leaves no room for more brain exertion than what is absolutely necessary. The other reason came from an expectation on my part that didn't take into account some fundamental cultural differences: as much as the French will think nothing unusual about launching straight into animated discussions about culture, politics or human behaviour, our British counterparts tend to look suspiciously onto such high-brow topics as basic communication starter. Not that they don't engage in it of course, but it has to be the culmination of a lengthy and steady progression towards such dizzy heights. Time to get there is of the essence and time is a precious commodity which teachers don't have when it comes to interacting with each other.

It is to many years of my eyes being opened, my naivety dispelled and my enthusiasm ebbed at that this book owes its existence. Far from what school used to mean to me as a child, it has become, as a teacher, a parallel universe where petty incidents become insanely huge dramas ranging from the purely hysterical to the sublimely ridiculous. Although all the facts and events in this book have happened in reality, as witnessed by myself or other teachers I completely trust, the characters are fictional. The names are of course made up and the personae are a patchwork of several people I have met through my career, myself included. I also wish to add that, despite my cynicism and sarcasm, I have the most profound respect for my fellow teachers who, time and time again, give far more of themselves than what could be reasonably expected for one simple reason: because they care about their pupils. Dear reader, without further ado, let me invite you into that strange world that is school. This is no doubt a world you can remember, but these pages will make you discover it from a different perspective, from the other side of the fence. Allow the teacher that I am to be your guide in the puzzling and wonderful universe that is our education system.

Part 1: August, September, October.

They should run a survey on the sleeping patterns of the population the night before schools are due to go back. If they did, they would no doubt find that 90% of the people suffering from insomnia on that particular night are teachers. Believe me, this is not due to over excitement and joy at the thought of going back, even though we'll still have a couple of days without kids in order to get ready. The reason for such sleepless nights is that, after weeks of normality, we know we are about to re-enter the strange parallel universe that is school. When this sudden realisation dawns on us teachers, there is nothing left for it but to press the little button at the side of our head. This invariably leads to the brain going on over-drive. It's like driving a new car for the first time and being heavy on the gas pedal. It doesn't come to life smoothly, it just roars into action. As soon as you press that button, a humongous and infinite list of tasks generates itself over night. This strange case of bulk insomnia is well known in the teaching profession and the first day back is usually spent in a daze of weary eyes, confusion and disgruntled expressions. And of course, we all know that none of the tasks on our list will get done because of all the endless and pointless meetings that await us over the next couple of days.

The first day back always starts with a fifteen minutes chance to re-acquaint yourself with colleagues over a rushed cup of coffee. It is then swiftly followed by a two hours whole staff meeting in the assembly hall so as to be briefed on what happened, what should happen and what happens next. I arrive into the school and head straight for the cafeteria where I know that every body will be sitting at the long strips of tables that are used by kids at lunch time. I look around and see Lea Jenkins waving happily to me. I like Lea. She teaches French like me. She's young and vibrant. She never minces her words and can be quite cheeky at times but she has integrity and a sense of fun that always makes for good conversation. We're similar in many ways. I grab a cup of coffee and sit myself in the empty seat across from her. She has the whole table suspended at her lips as she describes her holiday in the south of France with great animation. I repress a smile when I hear her say: "Then Paul and I decided to try the nudist beach...". Miss Pursley, who teaches English, is sitting next to Lea. She's a bit of a prude and Lea never misses an opportunity to tease the dear old lady. "Have you ever ran naked on a beach Rhona?" says lea to Rhona Pursley with a feigned look of innocence. Miss Pursley shakes her head so violently from right to left that droplets of coffee are jumping out of the cup and spilling onto the table. "Oh, it's a great feeling" pursues Lea. "Although, you wouldn't believe what goes on in some parts of these beaches! Paul went for a jog and he came back fifteen minutes later shell-shocked. He saw a gathering of people and went up to see what they were looking at. He thought it was probably some kind of beach entertainment like a performer or something. Well, it was indeed beach entertainment but of a different kind. Two couples were entangled in the middle of the circle and the guys watching were... well, I leave it to your imagination". Miss Pursley may be prude but she's not that innocent. She has turned a striking purple colour and is choking over the remnants of her coffee. Luckily for her, she escapes the rest of lea's tale as we are all ushered into the Assembly hall for the first meeting. Lea takes my arm laughingly and we find a couple of seats in the long rows of chairs that have been set out for the occasion. I find myself sitting between Lea and Terence Woodworth. Terence is one of the good guys. He's the head of the History department. I chat to him for a few minutes before the whole performance starts.