In the corner of that noisy year 8 bunch sits a girl with huge, blow-dried locks of red hair. It sweeps her forehead and cascades down her back, light and dark and pouffy. From the first lesson, Big-Hair had strops. At me, at the work, at her classmates - anywhere. Her first words to me were 'I can't do times tables'. With attitude.
Throughout the first week, things deteriorated into a massive stand off. She would shout and flick that hair and refuse to engage in anything at all. She ended up in an hours detention after school, for sheer refusal to cooperate. Eventually, I got her there on a Friday evening. The school was quiet as most other people had gone home, and both of us sat in resentful silence, me at the computer and her staring blankly at some work I'd handed her. The minutes ticked by and I couldn't concentrate. I tried to talk to her, but she was monosyllabic. Did she like school? No. Why? Dunno. Was there anything in school that she liked? No. What did she like outside school? Dunno. What did she want to be when she was older? Not telling you miss!
Well, at least it was a change. I looked at Big-Hair and said quietly 'I wonder if you might like to be a hairdresser?' She exploded. How did I know? How did I guess? I commented on how lovely her hair was, and how she clearly took very good care of it and spent a lot of time on it. Then she started talking. I heard all about her elaborate hair routine, her home life, about her older siblings whom she hates, her estranged dad and her mum who takes out her frustrations with the older kids on Big-Hair, her littlest. I heard about her pets, her dog who died, all the rabbits and where she ran away to when she was sad. She talked for half an hour, until well after the end of her detention. I offered to keep her exercise book at school for her, as she had trouble with organisation as she slept in so many different houses. She thanked me, and as she stood up to go, she looked at me and said 'Sorry, miss.'
No problem, I replied. Have a good weekend. You too, miss, see you Monday. Off we went. On Monday, she grinned at me and got to work. She did the same for the rest of that week, and the rest of the month. When she turned up on report I was surprised, and when she was suspended I was gobsmacked. She was behaving as badly as she had for me at the start in all her other lessons, but she never once caused trouble in maths after that week.
So often I'm too tired, too frustrated or think that my effort will make no difference. It's good to see Big Hair and be reminded that sometimes it's worth making the effort after school on a Friday afternoon, and that the smallest thing to me can make a big impact on a child.
Maths teaching in comprehensive schools in the UK, helping children find roots and wings.
Monday 31 December 2012
Sunday 30 December 2012
Games that are actually useful
My year 8s are a noisy bunch. They're not the most able, and not the most inclined to sitting still or doing worksheets, or questions from the board, or anything much that involved writing. If you can market it as a game, however, their enthusiasm is astonishing. The problem is that most maths games only involve one student at a time - taboo, round-the-world, even fizz-buzz. Bingo is a good solution but doesn't quite have the excitement they're looking for. So I've developed a new way of playing blockbusters so that everyone does every question.
In blockbusters, I display a hexagon grid on the smartboard (from TES), and split the class into two teams. Each team has to make a path across the grid, one from top to bottom and the other from left to right, by picking hexagons and correctly answering the revealed question, which turns the hexagon to their team's colour. Traditionally this is done with one student answering each question. The year 8s love it, but it gets a bit loud and 31/32ths of the class are doing nothing at any one point.
So, one student picks a hexagon. I click on it and when the question appears, there are ten seconds of silence. Any communication forfeits the question. After ten seconds, I pick someone from the team (no hands up allowed - a random name generator would work well here but I just pick). They have to answer the question correctly within 3 seconds. If they don't, I pick someone from the other team, who has 3 seconds, and repeat. If the questions are hard enough, this happens often, so every student in the room is working out the question in the 10 second silence, ready to be called upon.
They love it even more. The pressure is exciting, and there's a huge feeling of not wanting to let down their team, so everyone works it out. It keeps the pace up, and the number of questions each student does in the 5 minutes we play for is huge compared to normal lesson time!
In blockbusters, I display a hexagon grid on the smartboard (from TES), and split the class into two teams. Each team has to make a path across the grid, one from top to bottom and the other from left to right, by picking hexagons and correctly answering the revealed question, which turns the hexagon to their team's colour. Traditionally this is done with one student answering each question. The year 8s love it, but it gets a bit loud and 31/32ths of the class are doing nothing at any one point.
So, one student picks a hexagon. I click on it and when the question appears, there are ten seconds of silence. Any communication forfeits the question. After ten seconds, I pick someone from the team (no hands up allowed - a random name generator would work well here but I just pick). They have to answer the question correctly within 3 seconds. If they don't, I pick someone from the other team, who has 3 seconds, and repeat. If the questions are hard enough, this happens often, so every student in the room is working out the question in the 10 second silence, ready to be called upon.
They love it even more. The pressure is exciting, and there's a huge feeling of not wanting to let down their team, so everyone works it out. It keeps the pace up, and the number of questions each student does in the 5 minutes we play for is huge compared to normal lesson time!
Saturday 29 December 2012
Light Switches
In bottom set year 9, every kid is a big personality. Lightswitch Kid is not as loud as some, so he can slip by without being noticed. He's not very bright, not angelically behaved but not a real hassle either. He's the 'Who? Oh, him' kid in a class of kids where everyone, everywhere in the school knows their names. And his favourite thing to do is play with the switches.
No, really. The first lesson I had to go and fetch him from the corridor, where there are two sets of double switches a little way apart. He was spinning between them, flicking them in some sort of pattern. It's pretty complex, and patterns are definitely maths, so I thought he must have some sort of logical understanding, but when he's inside the room it disappears.
Everything we try is 'No, don't make me, I can't!' 'Don't bother, please, I can't do it!' and when that doesn't work, and he can't hide in the corner, he tries to flirt with me. I don't want to crush him too much, but of course this has to be diverted. He hates his seat, because I can see him, and tries to sit at the back, but I turn his own flirting against him. 'Come on cherub, you can't sit there, I can't see your lovely face!' Eventually he warms up.
Weeks later, I mark the books, and suddenly see that his is pages and pages of problems and answers. I've almost fallen into the trap of forgetting about him; he's almost made himself invisible again, but here is a real surprise. He gets it. He's flying. Very very quietly, he's shooting through the work. He's flipped the switch.
I make extension work, assign the TA to him, and the switch stays flipped. He does more and more, until he's on a totally different scheme of work to everyone else, doing more complex work than the others could ever manage. Eventually, we have to talk about moving him up a set. He's reluctant, but we manage to convince him and in the last week of term, the whole year group sit a test. He's more scared that I've ever seen him, and he knows how much prep we've done, how much we're all hoping this won't look like every other test he's ever done.
He pulls at his hair, huffs and sighs and tells me he's done dreadfully, but the next day he turns up early, eyes alight. He waits outside as the others goes in and turns to me, switches ignored. 'I've got some bad news, I'm afraid. I won't be seeing much of you next term!' 'Really? Really? I've moved up!' He spins, delighted, then plunges into the classroom and sits, looking like he's almost sleepwalking.
Next term, it will all be new for him. He's managed two months of success like he's never known, and a totally switched attitude. He just needs to keep that switch flipped.
No, really. The first lesson I had to go and fetch him from the corridor, where there are two sets of double switches a little way apart. He was spinning between them, flicking them in some sort of pattern. It's pretty complex, and patterns are definitely maths, so I thought he must have some sort of logical understanding, but when he's inside the room it disappears.
Everything we try is 'No, don't make me, I can't!' 'Don't bother, please, I can't do it!' and when that doesn't work, and he can't hide in the corner, he tries to flirt with me. I don't want to crush him too much, but of course this has to be diverted. He hates his seat, because I can see him, and tries to sit at the back, but I turn his own flirting against him. 'Come on cherub, you can't sit there, I can't see your lovely face!' Eventually he warms up.
Weeks later, I mark the books, and suddenly see that his is pages and pages of problems and answers. I've almost fallen into the trap of forgetting about him; he's almost made himself invisible again, but here is a real surprise. He gets it. He's flying. Very very quietly, he's shooting through the work. He's flipped the switch.
I make extension work, assign the TA to him, and the switch stays flipped. He does more and more, until he's on a totally different scheme of work to everyone else, doing more complex work than the others could ever manage. Eventually, we have to talk about moving him up a set. He's reluctant, but we manage to convince him and in the last week of term, the whole year group sit a test. He's more scared that I've ever seen him, and he knows how much prep we've done, how much we're all hoping this won't look like every other test he's ever done.
He pulls at his hair, huffs and sighs and tells me he's done dreadfully, but the next day he turns up early, eyes alight. He waits outside as the others goes in and turns to me, switches ignored. 'I've got some bad news, I'm afraid. I won't be seeing much of you next term!' 'Really? Really? I've moved up!' He spins, delighted, then plunges into the classroom and sits, looking like he's almost sleepwalking.
Next term, it will all be new for him. He's managed two months of success like he's never known, and a totally switched attitude. He just needs to keep that switch flipped.
Thursday 27 December 2012
Pick your Battles
In bottom set year 9, there are quite a few characters. Some of them have little to no understanding of number, and cannot count to 20, some have developmental delays or behaviour problems which mean they've missed too much school to keep up. There's only 7 of them, but keeping everybody on task is near-to impossible. The first 2 turn up early, quiet and eager to go, too divorced from reality to realise their dismal situation. I go outside to find my 3 chatty girls, who try every possible distraction from mathematics, and haul them inside, removing one boy from his game with the light switches on the way. They all get seated and we're just starting when I hear Moany Girl outside, moaning with Trouser Boy. I open the door and they think about running away before submitting to the Teacher Look and coming inside. Hurrah.
I turn back to the class. One girl is painting her nails, another is highlighting her planner in great detail. The lad at the back is trying to get underneath the radiator and the two who were there first have finished the starter and are getting restless. Trouser Boy starts an argument with the TA about where he should sit, and Moany Girl sits and moans. All lesson she cannot be persuaded, cajoled or coaxed into putting pen to paper. She will give answers verbally, unless I start to write them down for her. Everything is awful, the room, her coat (which I asked her to remove), the pen I lent her, the work, maths. Eventually the others leave, and we're still sat there. We have a date, a learning objective and 3 answers in her book. We have stalled. I push once more. 'Come on, lets get that question number down, we don't want to spend all break here' and her grumbling finds words 'Fuck off!'
She leaves, I send it up the chain, she is suspended, with a letter about a detention. She returns, with the dreaded note from Mum. Mum is not prepared for her to do an after school detention, and I am rude for writing in red. There are capitals and underlining. Eventually she does the detention, after much wrangling with Mum. She returns to class and things are worse than before. She sits and moans, and every minute is another battle. Coat off, pen out, date down, starter done. Each of these battles take 5 minutes. I'd need a day for her to do this lesson. She plays for time, scores points, cheers when she feels she's got one over me. Notes from Mum continue. I am accused of bullying Moany Girl, taking advantage of her learning difficulty, threatening her, not helping her. I offer help from a child-protection safe distance, praise her whenever I can, am scrupulously fair, back off when she gets cross. The battles continue. Are they getting shorter?
I think they are.
I turn back to the class. One girl is painting her nails, another is highlighting her planner in great detail. The lad at the back is trying to get underneath the radiator and the two who were there first have finished the starter and are getting restless. Trouser Boy starts an argument with the TA about where he should sit, and Moany Girl sits and moans. All lesson she cannot be persuaded, cajoled or coaxed into putting pen to paper. She will give answers verbally, unless I start to write them down for her. Everything is awful, the room, her coat (which I asked her to remove), the pen I lent her, the work, maths. Eventually the others leave, and we're still sat there. We have a date, a learning objective and 3 answers in her book. We have stalled. I push once more. 'Come on, lets get that question number down, we don't want to spend all break here' and her grumbling finds words 'Fuck off!'
She leaves, I send it up the chain, she is suspended, with a letter about a detention. She returns, with the dreaded note from Mum. Mum is not prepared for her to do an after school detention, and I am rude for writing in red. There are capitals and underlining. Eventually she does the detention, after much wrangling with Mum. She returns to class and things are worse than before. She sits and moans, and every minute is another battle. Coat off, pen out, date down, starter done. Each of these battles take 5 minutes. I'd need a day for her to do this lesson. She plays for time, scores points, cheers when she feels she's got one over me. Notes from Mum continue. I am accused of bullying Moany Girl, taking advantage of her learning difficulty, threatening her, not helping her. I offer help from a child-protection safe distance, praise her whenever I can, am scrupulously fair, back off when she gets cross. The battles continue. Are they getting shorter?
I think they are.
Thursday 14 June 2012
Threats
Today, we were having a really good lesson with year 9 when I spot a phone in the hand of Big
Mouth. Still talking to the rest of them, I wander over
and hold out my hand. He knows I know. We do the
'No-miss-Come-on-Big-Mouth-No-miss-I'l
At the end of class, I'm taking the exercise books when I see Big Mouth sitting in my chair, rifling through my desk. He can't find his phone (which is still in my pocket) and starts to swear at me. He finally leaves, late to his next lesson. At lunchtime, the door bursts open and there is Big Mouth. 'I've come for my phone, miss.' I repeat that he can have it at the end of the day. He becomes very angry, telling me that I pick on him. I tell him that he needs to leave. He storms towards the door then turns, red faced, and yells 'I'm surprised nobody's stabbed you yet!'.
Phew. Before I even let myself think about what he actually said, I've fired off two emails and am halfway down the corridor. I find Big Mouth's form teacher and explain the situation. The head of year 9 walks up. I give them the phone and start to shake. They promise to send Big Mouth home and seek Consequences. We all agree on the need for Consequences, and also Tea. After Tea, the head of maths arrives. They have pulled Big Mouth from his lesson and confronted him. Whilst being removed he told the head of maths to fuck off. He denies all charges. There is a horrible moment, as people hum and har about lack of evidence, when I think that I am not going to be believed.
The head of maths finds a kid who was outside my room at lunch and heard what was said. I think my word would be enough, but I'm glad that it doesn't have to be. He writes a statement and a message comes through: the head is thinking about permanent exclusion.
I don't even know what to think about that. It is technically the correct response, but in a school where many students have threatened teachers, brought in knives, fireworks and a bulldog, set a classroom on fire and had only multiple suspensions for these offenses, it seems unfair. I will feel awful if he goes. I haven't planned anything for tomorrow.
At the end of class, I'm taking the exercise books when I see Big Mouth sitting in my chair, rifling through my desk. He can't find his phone (which is still in my pocket) and starts to swear at me. He finally leaves, late to his next lesson. At lunchtime, the door bursts open and there is Big Mouth. 'I've come for my phone, miss.' I repeat that he can have it at the end of the day. He becomes very angry, telling me that I pick on him. I tell him that he needs to leave. He storms towards the door then turns, red faced, and yells 'I'm surprised nobody's stabbed you yet!'.
Phew. Before I even let myself think about what he actually said, I've fired off two emails and am halfway down the corridor. I find Big Mouth's form teacher and explain the situation. The head of year 9 walks up. I give them the phone and start to shake. They promise to send Big Mouth home and seek Consequences. We all agree on the need for Consequences, and also Tea. After Tea, the head of maths arrives. They have pulled Big Mouth from his lesson and confronted him. Whilst being removed he told the head of maths to fuck off. He denies all charges. There is a horrible moment, as people hum and har about lack of evidence, when I think that I am not going to be believed.
The head of maths finds a kid who was outside my room at lunch and heard what was said. I think my word would be enough, but I'm glad that it doesn't have to be. He writes a statement and a message comes through: the head is thinking about permanent exclusion.
I don't even know what to think about that. It is technically the correct response, but in a school where many students have threatened teachers, brought in knives, fireworks and a bulldog, set a classroom on fire and had only multiple suspensions for these offenses, it seems unfair. I will feel awful if he goes. I haven't planned anything for tomorrow.
Friday 20 April 2012
A Tale of Two Observations
An Observation with Year 8
They have just had Christmas lunch. Tamsin is 10 minutes early, scurrying in to the classroom. She breathes relief, slumps in a chair. The bulk of the class are a little late. Chloe enters, throwing her bag to her chair acorss the room, yelling 'Your mum's a slag!'. Darren and Sam enter wrestling. Kane is singing in the corridor. Matthew is selling sweets and cans of coca cola. There are now three children in the room who do not go to this class. I ask them to sit down 12 times, and then they do, but leaving me clear it is through their choice. 12 children need pens. 'Right, let's get started - get the learning objective down!' 5 more children arrive, including Sinead, who has only twice managed to sit down in my classroom. Chloe starts saying something disgusting about someone's mother and a dog. I try not to cry. Eden's pen breaks and red ink splatters everywhere. An exercise book sails across the classroom. 7 children need pens. Nickesha has broken her finger, can she have a laptop? Lewis finished the starter 5 minutes ago, when are we going to do something else? Connor is scoring the table with his pen. Michael is drawing on the wall. Somehow, 9 children need pens.
It does not improve.
An Observation With Year 7
They have just had assembly. They are 10 minutes late. I ask them to come in quickly, as we have so much to do! They pile in, noisily and boisterously. They see the work on the board, and quiet falls as they get started, because it's hard to talk and do sums simultaeously. This must be what they mean by a 'settler', I think, and it works sometimes.
The mini whiteboards are untouched on the tables. I give out pens and they answer questions on them. They beam when I praise them, and eagerly explain to each other. Someone calls across the room and I frown - they apologise. We build shapes out of cubes and practice drawing them. Chris asks what a word means, and we explain. Someone asks him for help. Coloured pencils are lent. We do a short test, in silence of course. Jack says 'Will there be board games tonight?'
They have just had Christmas lunch. Tamsin is 10 minutes early, scurrying in to the classroom. She breathes relief, slumps in a chair. The bulk of the class are a little late. Chloe enters, throwing her bag to her chair acorss the room, yelling 'Your mum's a slag!'. Darren and Sam enter wrestling. Kane is singing in the corridor. Matthew is selling sweets and cans of coca cola. There are now three children in the room who do not go to this class. I ask them to sit down 12 times, and then they do, but leaving me clear it is through their choice. 12 children need pens. 'Right, let's get started - get the learning objective down!' 5 more children arrive, including Sinead, who has only twice managed to sit down in my classroom. Chloe starts saying something disgusting about someone's mother and a dog. I try not to cry. Eden's pen breaks and red ink splatters everywhere. An exercise book sails across the classroom. 7 children need pens. Nickesha has broken her finger, can she have a laptop? Lewis finished the starter 5 minutes ago, when are we going to do something else? Connor is scoring the table with his pen. Michael is drawing on the wall. Somehow, 9 children need pens.
It does not improve.
An Observation With Year 7
They have just had assembly. They are 10 minutes late. I ask them to come in quickly, as we have so much to do! They pile in, noisily and boisterously. They see the work on the board, and quiet falls as they get started, because it's hard to talk and do sums simultaeously. This must be what they mean by a 'settler', I think, and it works sometimes.
The mini whiteboards are untouched on the tables. I give out pens and they answer questions on them. They beam when I praise them, and eagerly explain to each other. Someone calls across the room and I frown - they apologise. We build shapes out of cubes and practice drawing them. Chris asks what a word means, and we explain. Someone asks him for help. Coloured pencils are lent. We do a short test, in silence of course. Jack says 'Will there be board games tonight?'
Wednesday 8 February 2012
Pity
Do you know what poverty looks like in a school like mine? It's not
scruffy children, although there are plenty of them, in uniform falling
apart or too small. It's not dirty children, although smell can be a
fairly good indicator of parental income apart from after they've had PE
(in which case, open the windows! Yes, it's cold, Sam. Be quiet.). No,
where you see it is in the boy reading the posters in the corridor, the
two girls sat against the wall staring into space, the 11 year old
slowly swinging on the bannisters. At 7.45 in the morning.
I
arrive at school at about 7.45. The students don't have to be here
until 8.50, but the few I see every morning have obviously been there
some time when I arrive. I'd hazard a guess at 7am, as that's when
school's open. Do you know why they're there? It's nothing to call
social services about, they're not running away. But school, you see, is
heated. At the moment, it's quite cold outside at 7am, and these
children's houses aren't heated.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)