For one moment I seemed to be on top of things. My desk looked relatively clear,
marking was pretty much up to date, paperwork had been dealt with in a “bin or return
with a squiggle” manner, and I relished the feeling that I would be able to spend some
quality time planning lessons to incorporate the recent changes in our scheme of work.
That one moment lasted such a very brief time. Then the bubble burst, and suddenly I
was finding myself waking at all hours of the night, my first conscious thoughts
concerned with my exam classes or a forthcoming course or planning sheets I’d
overlooked.
Utmost in my mind was one of my exam classes. The coursework deadline was looming
large on the near horizon. We’d already lost a couple of lessons to snow closure and
training courses, and I was trying to ignore my pulse racing every time I thought of
their tatty coursework folders, barren on my bookshelves. I was anxious to see the
class, to whip them all in to shape, to put the fear of failure into them, and to
badger them like they’d never been badgered before: the culmination of a year and a
half’s worth of nagging. When the lesson with the class finally came round, I was
waiting with hands on hips, folders splayed out on the table in front of me, and The
Most Serious Look Of The Year on my face. Guess what? They didn’t notice. In they
sauntered, slinging down their bags on top of their folders, wandering over to the
window to peer out hopefully for their mates, randomly tapping the computer’s keyboard,
and finally slumping down into their seats, baseball caps pulled down low over lazy
eyes. Oh fuck. The battle lines were drawn.
I cajoled. I spoke slowly and seriously in lots of sentences where every word
started with a capital letter. They started pulling out bits of paper, half-written
coursework and old exam papers, while I stood at the front like one of Bruce’s Dolly
Dealers, holding up official pieces of paper which they should have filled in but now
couldn’t find. Suddenly everyone needed me over by them right at that moment to help
them sort out their folder, which we’d tried to do only two weeks before. They mixed
up their work with their neighbour’s work and then couldn’t tell the difference. They
shuffled the good stuff with the rubbish and then wailed for help. I dashed from table
to table, trying to prevent the paper chaos from growing any further, pacifying those
who were waiting impatiently, ignoring those who were leaning dangerously out of the
window in favour of those who were finally realising they should have been working for
the past year or so.
One sulky boy threw down his folder, effing and blinding because he couldn’t find
any of his coursework, and I had to sweet-talk him into sitting back down rather than
storming out, while I tried to make sense of another boy’s writing. The only boy to
have finished his coursework was wandering around the room, knocking folders off desks,
as he made his way to the PC to entertain himself for the next half an hour. Another
delinquent went to join him and advise him on how to illegally download a game from
the internet, something else I could only ignore as it was preferable to the barrage
of abuse he’d just hinted at as the stress began to filter through to him; he’d
already told me where I could stick the exam. Charmed, I’m sure.
At one point I slowly closed my eyes and re-opened them to look heavenwards, perhaps
for inspiration or salvation. When I saw the large snowflakes silently fluttering down
outside, I couldn’t help but exclaim this meteorological fact to the girls I was
currently sitting with as we listed how much work they had to finish in two days.
Big mistake. Any sense of seriousness and work ethic I’d tried to impose on the
class evaporated as they all dashed towards the window, speculating on the chances
of the snow settling, and gleefully informing me that if school was closed then I
wouldn’t have their coursework in by the deadline anyway. It was a kind of beautiful
moment, I suppose, if a bit of a squash by the best vantage point, as their street-wise
attitudes dissolved with the combined childish glee of watching snow fall in thick
wads.
However that was no consolation to me as I gripped my car’s steering wheel on my
way home that evening. The snow was still drifting down, and it was starting to
settle on the roads. For the first time I could remember, I prayed fervently for
the snow to stop and for lessons to be resumed as normal the following day, so we could
tame the coursework beast once and for all.
I’ve tried to rationalise with myself over this one. If the kids aren’t bothered over their coursework, why should I be? Especially as I only half subscribe to the pressure we heap upon them anyway. We all know that GCSEs can be retaken, and that in a few years’ time none of them will be worried about the grades they got. But we all know by now that there’s a bigger body to whom the exams matter more: the school. And subsequently the government and its bloody league tables and statistics I suppose, but as far as all are concerned, if my classes produce the mediocre coursework they can only be bothered to do, that’s a poor reflection on me.
Should their results be those that they actually deserve, i.e. not that good, there
will be words, and not very flattering ones, amongst my department, and from senior
management. My teaching skills will be questioned. Nagging and badgering tactics will
be scrutinised under the heading of “discipline”. Possible future pay rises may be at
risk. And I will probably be made to feel that I failed the children in my care,
risking their future chances in life because I didn’t manage to kick them through the
course and across the touchline of the C/D grades border.
Other teachers serve their pupils like waiters scurrying back and forth with dish after dish for their delectation: writing their revision notes for them or giving out writing frames so structured that it’s like join the dots. All so that they will complete the work that’s supposed to show their true potential. I’m not surprised any more. Once you realise that the class’s results are a reflection of you, the teacher, deservedly or not, survival instinct kicks in and the fact that these children are having everything done for them is conveniently overlooked.
So that’s where some of the stress comes from. It’s far from the ideals of creating
a generation of independent thinkers and learners. It’s more like a production line
where each child has to pass the quality assurance, even if the flimsy façade starts
to peel away the minute they leave the factory – sorry, school. This is not what I
entered teaching for. It’s more akin to those headless workers from the Teacher
Training Agency’s ad campaign, who sat there all day in a factory, removing the heads
from dolls. A fitting metaphor to leave you with there. I’ve got things to stress
about elsewhere right now.
added 6/3/05
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