So, teaching. Highs and lows does not begin to describe it. Let's start with the lows.
We
have actually discussed fitting the year 9s with shock bracelets, they
are so awful. They tear into the classroom at 100mph, yelling at each
other, and it takes all my effort to get, and keep, them in the correct
seats. Then I tackle the Pen Problem - none of them have one. Ever. By
the time I've sorted that, Marcus has probably punched Calum at the back
of the classroom, Kenan is flicking rubber at someone, Charlie is
standing on the table and Sinead is singing. Badly. Back to step 1: get
them in their seats. In the melee, oh, 4 or 5 pens go missing. We're now
20 minutes in. The quiet kids who sat down and did the starter are
bored silly and are making paper airoplanes with paper from their maths
book. I say 'Year 9, quiet please!' about 6 times, issue a couple of
detentions and attempt to explain something to the 30% who are
listening. I put up some questions, and a chorus goes up: 'I don't get
it!' (from the ones who weren't listening) 'Miss, that's way too easy,
I'm not doing that!' 'Miss, you're picking on me!' (what? I haven't even
spoken to you!) 'Miss, we have to do so much work in this lesson!'
'Miss, you're a crap teacher, you never explain anything!' 'Miss, I hate
this lesson!' 'Miss, fuck off!' I go around attempting to explain to
them, and we're back to step 1: half of them aren't sitting down. Oh, is
that the bell? Whoosh, and they're off, leaving the room covered in
paper, exercise books, bits of rubber, broken pens, empty bottles and
notes asking each other out. As the last one leaves, I see some other
faces at the door. Oh, right, round again.
But there are so many
highs, as well, though it can be hard to remember. My bottom set year 11
class came to me crushed, saying 'Don't bother explaining to me, miss, I
won't get it' 'I don't do dividing' and 'I can't' over and over again. I
have pushed so much praise at them, and now, they are mostly a delight.
They believe they can do it, and so do I. I say, over and over again,
'We're good at maths in here!' 'That's amazing! Everyone, look at what
so-and-so's done!' When they try, I call home and tell their parents
that they are absolutely fabulous. In that class, a D feels like a medal
of honour. They did their test on Wednesday in silence, just because
they were concentrating so hard. Their smiles are addictive. My year 10s
and 7s are super bright, and love to be pushed. Give them a whole sheet
of questions, and they're away. The weaker ones enjoy it, and when I
phoned home for a weak year 7 to say how hard he'd tried, he was glowing
all week. 'Miss, miss, miss, you rang my mum! Miss, she was so proud,
miss! Miss, you said I did good, right, miss?' I've had parents cry on
the phone to me, they are so proud. Khari, in year 8, is hilarious, and
spends any time after he's finished his work trying to make me laugh. He
usually succeeds.
It can go from one to the other in the space
of 5 minutes. I am absolutely shattered the majority of the time, and
have real difficulty stopping thinking about school and where on EARTH
can I sit Sam McElwee so that he doesn't destroy my lesson again? But,
you know, I love it. I hate it too - the constant abuse, the anger, the
poverty, the laziness, the stress. When it's good, it's very very good,
and when it's bad, it's horrid.