Into the Breach

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.