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'll-call-referal-Oh-fine-miss-whatever' dance which is so necessary to the dignity of 13 year old boys, and he hands it over. I'm busy, so I pocket it, telling him he can have it back at the end of the day. Much indignation, but he settles down.

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.

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?'

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.

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.