Once upon a time, before I became a teacher, I had a friend who was already a
teacher, and we decided to go on holiday together. We set off for a hot part of the
world at possibly the hottest time of year, and for the most part our visions of
pool-lounging and cocktail-slurping and swatting giant insects were realised. But
something strange would happen whenever we talked to people and they asked us what
we did. I was quite happy to divulge the dullness of my daily grind, but my friend
would elbow me in the ribs as some fanciful or absurd job title spilled from sun-burnt
lips, leaving me slightly puzzled. You see, I always thought that saying you were a
teacher was a perfectly acceptable thing to do; after all, the teachers I knew were
mostly friends from university who seemed to be living pretty much the lives they were
living as students: sharing houses, going down the pub, playing on games consoles, and
generally not taking life too seriously.
So you see, I never really understood my friend’s reluctance to let people know there was a teacher in their midst. Until I became one myself. Now I see it all too clearly, and have been known to poke companions in the ribs myself or at least give them a steely glare as they are about to confess my profession to holiday companions. The reasons for this are not always straight-forward, but can be generally summarised as follows:
1. People see teachers as bastions of society and morality, and those responsible professionals who look after their kids for five or more hours a day. They do not want to know that teachers have a life outside of school, and frown upon seeing them baring pale flesh on exotic beaches or hogging the karaoke at a dodgy ex-pat bar.
2. People see teachers as those scary / boring / bossy people that made their own school days a misery, and don’t particularly want to share bar or beach space with that type of wacko, thank you very much. Besides, all that learning can’t be good for you can it? I’m probably mentally correcting their grammar as we converse over spaghetti and lager.
3. Those other people on holiday are actually teachers themselves. Now this category can actually be subdivided into teachers who don’t want others to know they are teachers in case of reasons (1) or (2) – like me – or teachers who actively seek out their own kind when on holiday because they can’t actually bear being apart from their work or their kind. Teachers who seek out other teachers are a group to be very much avoided, because they really are a scary lot. This is yet another reason to deny to everybody that you have anything to do with schools, and make up fanciful professions such as administrator or zoo-keeper to anyone who asks.
In fact, teachers who seek out other teachers maybe just can’t help themselves.
It takes a lot for me to be able to unwind from work – my insomnia is testimony to
that – but a few thousand miles, a different climate, a few bottled beers and a lack
of TV and newspapers is usually quite helpful. But once I’m in that state of bliss,
it’s only fragile, and is easily shattered by somebody peering over the top of their
glasses in a certain way as they study a menu or crossword, or by a stern voice echoing across the
pool. I try to ignore it, but then the niggling feeling is confirmed: as I
surreptitiously glance around, the other holiday-makers come into clear focus –
they are not just Les and Janet from Wigan, but actually Les and Mrs Johnson, SENCO
at Wighall Middle School, and Mrs J has just cornered Shelley from Blackpool (also
known as Miss Price) to discuss how many statemented kids they have at their respective
schools.
Some people claim to have a gaydar – a radar that spots the only gays in the vicinity. Some teachers have a similar device for picking out members of their profession so that they can corner them at the bar and bore them senseless with talking shop. JUST LET IT GO! That’s what I want to yell. And that’s why I am so reluctant to confess what I really do for a living on holiday.
Unfortunately, with the entire teaching profession taking their holidays at
the same time, the chances of bumping into other teachers on holiday is very high.
And they permeate every type of holiday you can imagine. Cheapo package on the
Costas aren’t just reserved for normal people, oh no, they’re full of teachers
who, just like you, waited until the last minute to get a late deal. Cultural
tours? Right up a teacher’s street. Backpacking in some remote corner of the
earth, far from the madding crowd? That’s just the type of thing that appeals to
a teacher. Soaking up the rays in an exclusive child-free hotel? Look around,
you’re not alone.
I’ve been hungover, with bloodshot eyes and slicked back hair, cramming boiled
eggs in my gob at a communal breakfast table, when a middle-aged woman has sat
herself down and within thirty seconds has called over to me, “You’re a teacher,
aren’t you?” I’ve been sat on a plane, ready for a snooze, when the woman next to
me has started talking – and talking and talking – about her school and how nice
it is to get away from it all, and what’s my school like, and so on for the entire
four hour flight. Do I have “that look” about me, even on holiday? Is it the grey
skin, the twitching eye, a haunted look when children come close, the desire to plan
everything in timetable style? Does the DFES number come with an indelible mark on
your forehead, only visible to those in the know? So why haven’t I seen it?
It’s all very strange, and infuriating, and I can think of only two solutions at the moment: firstly, a remote villa far from anyone else, particularly those who single you out to discuss Ofsted or out-do you on behavioural issues at their school, and secondly, staggered school holidays around the country to reduce the risk of running into a concentration of schoolteachers when that’s exactly the thing you’re trying to escape.
added 16/4/05
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