Confessions of a teacher: Because school isn't quite what you remember it to be... (11 page)

- How did it go?

- The usual. Ross enjoying flirting but that's about it. I had my thigh right up against his legs which he never took away. Not the sign of a guy who's not interested if you ask me. Yet, by ten o'clock, everyone was embarking into taxis heading home. So I decided to join the dinner dance even if it was probably drawing to an end. I had noticed a guy at the walking group: tall, good-looking, I don't know... something about him made me tick inside but I never gave it much thought.

- You went out with him? That's fantastic Dora!

- Well, sot of. He was there and when he saw me, he headed straight in my direction. The party was finishing anyway and they were on the last dance of the evening. We left and went to one of these open all night coffee place and we talked for most of the night. He eventually drove me home and I'll see him again this weekend. Do you know something Jane? That's when it hit me that Ross is playing games. If a guy is really interested in you, you'll know straight away. There shouldn't be any of this 'is he?', 'is he not?' business lasting for over six months.

- Dora, I'm really happy for you. It was about time you found someone who is really into you. Do you... Do you think Ross might be gay?

Dora pauses for a while, a look of surprise on her face.

- I don't think so. He's mentioned a relationship with a girl once, a long time ago.

- Anyway, forget about him Dora. This new guy sounds much more likely to make you happy. I'm really glad for you.

- Oh, thanks.

We part company and I once again cannot cease to wonder at the difference between Dora the individual and Dora the teacher. She's certainly come a long way from running successful homes. At the time where she was most vulnerable, I've seen Dora being like a tormented soul while in the classroom she still managed to keep up the pretence of being the heart and soul of a Brazilian party made of dancing peppers, raving tomatoes and skipping mushrooms. Who said teaching and acting weren't the same? I have barely reached the base of the stairs that Dora calls me back.

- Jane, did you see the new memo from the boss?

- No. What does it say?

- The 33 hours week is back on the agenda. We're all to get a power point presentation from Stewart Williamson at our departmental meetings.

Sure enough, our next departmental meeting is graced with the presence of Stewart and his duly rehearsed power point presentation. The fears about the 33 hours week, he announces, are ill-founded. This will not mean that we will loose our jobs. I can't help but rise my eyes to the ceiling. I don't need to guesstimate on that one: adding one teaching period on everybody's timetable does mean that they can fit far more classes per teachers. Are they trying to tell us that this is not a cost saving exercise? Stewart continues and explain that the number of staff appointed to a school is entirely dependent upon the school roll so nothing will change there. Of course, and he says this quickly and in a hush, we may need to spread the staff differently. Here is the catch he knew he had to mention but was hoping to brush over swiftly. From a purely administrative point of view teachers are known as points. A full time teacher is worth 1.00 while a part time one working half the week is known as a 0.5. There are also 0.2, 0.7 and anything else that fits on that scale depending on the numbers of hours worked. It's always nice to know you're being appreciated! Indeed, the school roll determines how much pointage is being allocated to a school but it is up to the school to spread their points allocation across the various subjects as required. What Stewart is desperatly wanting to keep quiet is that they may well end up needing more teachers in Maths and less in Geography, thus exchanging a Geography teacher for a Math one. The pointage system remains the same but teachers still have to come and go to accommodate the demand. So yes, some of us might well loose our position in the school. Stewart moves along quickly, pointing out the pros and cons of the system and leaning heavily on the pros. He finishes by telling us that parents have been briefed about the 33 period week at a meeting that took place last week and were currently asked to fill in a consultation paper. That very same consultation paper will be issued to staff and pupils after the Easter holidays. The end of the presentation is followed by question time. There are no particular questions as we have discussed the matter before and know full well where we stand. Asking questions at this time would imply that we were considering the matter, which we're not. Lea merely raises the issue that the 33 period week has been a disaster wherever it was tried. Jack, who is back from being ill but still looks like death, and myself echo Lea's sentiment while another colleague, more softly spoken than ourselves, suggests that there are pros and cons to any new system. Stewart leaves us with a somewhat misplaced idea that his presentation went well and we were not against it in principle, hence his shock when he read the minutes complete with the follow up discussion that took place after he'd left. So much so that he went to see Jack to tell him to change the minutes (does this count as corruption?). Jack, obviously, refused.

Only two weeks till the end of term and this is just as well considering that tempers fly high due to pressure and tiredness. The French school party has arrived and we do our best to present a welcome and smiley face despite the fact that we're running around trying to entertain them, get the folio pieces ready to be sent to the exam board, fight with the kids and each other in the process and get back as much aggravation as we give. At this time of year, the busiest by far, an incandescent flame of irascibility descends upon the whole school. We're counting the days: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1... We made it!

Part 4: April, May, June.

Conspiracies and democracy.

The Easter break always marks a turning point in a teacher's life: We know that the worst is behind us. The administrative side of the exams have been dealt with, internal exams have been sent away and all that remains is to send the kids on exam leave. This will happen two weeks into the new term, just enough time for some exam paper practice. Such teacherly state of mind could potentially feed the general public's view that teachers have it far too easy but the reality is much different. While some of our classes will disappear to sit their exams, thus freeing some time in our timetable, we inherit an ever increasing list of tasks we never have time to complete. How about developing this Curriculum for Excellence we're supposed to have been teaching for two years but never got round to develop suitable material for? And why is it we always get caught in the excitement of getting some preparation time when, year after year, we have to play supply teachers to absent colleagues? Supply teachers cost money. Why bother when you have additional free time in your existing workforce? In this particular occasion, our return is also punctuated by the ugly head of the 33 period week plan looming over us. Sure enough, the first thing I find in my pigeon hole is the famous consultation which, incidentally, is not asking whether we are for or against it but merely putting in front of us different possibilities for implementing it. The whole thing is accompanied by one of the boss' famous memo, except he has surpassed himself this time. The usual opening sentence is followed by a diatribe against the Union's perspective and alledged scaremongering activities against the 33 period week. It continues with an even more virulent and direct attack on the representatives of such Unions in the establishment who, apparently, have engaged in a personal vendetta against the SMT in general and the headmaster in particular. Besides, should we ever query where we stand, we are all reminded that this isn't an exercise in democracy. At this stage, war has been openly declared. The very same Union representatives have instructed their members to return the consultation form unfilled as a stand against the whole project and a number of staff members have signed a letter to the boss stating that they were perfectly able to think for themselves and the Union view point on the matter just happened to coincide with their own. The usually accommodating professionals that we are have been galvanised into commando action against the forces of Evil. Even the most mild-mannered and softly spoken amongst us have expressed their shock and disbelief at the tone and content of the memo. Never in the history of Teaching has a wedge been so swiftly and effectively dug between staff and management. Bring on the war! It is them against us, common people against the KGB, democracy against dictatorship!

A week later, it is the kids' turn to be subjected to the infamous 'consultation'. Each year group has been assigned a time to gather accompanied by whichever teacher they happen to have then. I have the pleasure of escorting my first year class. After checking the register, I tell them that we are all going to troop down armed with a pen or a pencil. For the first time they amaze me by each having brought their own writing implement. All are ready except for Dylan. Not that he doesn't have anything to write with; actually, he has on this occasion been pretty swift at retrieving his bruised pencil case from his bag, but can't decide which pencil to take with him: Certainly not the red one which is used as part of his helicopter contraption nor the blue and silver one which his brilliant for indicating various reference points on his treasure map. As for the two remaining ones, well... he seems to have plans for them which in no way involve writing. I solve his problem by offering him one of my own pencil. After all, I'm not planning any scientific or technological experiment any time soon. Dylan gracefully accepts my offer and we're all ready to march down. On the way there, I tentatively try to gage their opinion by asking Samitra, who is walking next to me, what she thinks of the whole thing. "I'm totally against it!" she replies. "But don't tell my mum. She voted yes". A warm welcome awaits the first years in the assembly hall where tables have been carefully laid out for their benefit. Once they are all seated, the headmaster announces sternly that they will have 20 minutes to fill in their answers and that there is no point telling them what the 33 period week is about considering their parents had a meeting about it and it has, no doubt, been the subject of lengthy family discussion. The kids get on with it and it doesn't take me long to realise that, whatever way those family discussions went, the children are all against it. They use the final comment box to express their opinion with no uncertainty. "That's preposterous!" claims one of them. And Kevin to wonder again at the magnificence of the word... "I love that word". Most kids agree with him but very few seem able to spell it. "Insane!" comes the other suggestion from one end of the table. "I love that word too", says Kevin. It is certainly far easier to spell and, with the exception of a couple of badly spelled 'preposterous', they all opt for the latter. As I read over their shoulders, a flock of 'insane' has spread over every single comment box. We even manage to get a couple of variations in the spelling with two 'insain' and one 'insaint'. I don't know that the 33 period week is within the realm of immorality but I'm pretty sure we can keep sanctity, or lack of thereof, out of it! And as the day progresses, every year group is brought downstairs to follow the exact same procedure. One of the prefect enrolled in collecting the consultation papers told me that the third and fourth year were no less shy in expressing strong opinions against it, albeit in a somewhat more artistic than literate form. They handed in a collection of drawings representing male sexual appendages and human heads that left no doubt as to what they thought of the new headmaster. To prevent any incertitude about the message, some had even labelled their drawing and included the name of the head. I think it is fair to say that on first analysis, staff and students are firmly against the idea, even if it is not an exercise in democracy. By all account, it is left in the hand of an independent organisation to sieve through the results and deliver the verdict.

A few days later and we've all returned to a most familiar routine. The school uniform is back on the agenda. An e-mail has come in to each and everyone of us from the desk (or computer to be more precise) of one of the school secretaries. It bears the mention at the top and in capital letter: SENT ON BEHALF OF THE SMT. I can see why as, if it had been sent on the 1st of April, I would definitely have classified it as an April the fool joke. It states that once again, the KGB wants to tighten the wear of the proper uniform. They have therefore chosen to focus on one aspect of the said uniform which is... (roll of the drum)... The feet! As we allegedly all know, kids' shoes have to be black. Apparently, an increasing number of them are coming in with brightly coloured Dock Martins which are NOT acceptable. Even coloured laces on black shoes are not permitted. We are kindly requested to enter a specially devised code next to their name on the register should they offend in that department. Lea's answer is immediate: "I'm not going to start examining children's feet!", a sentiment shared by everyone. How dare these children introduce a touch of colour in an otherwise perfectly dull and boring school uniform!

Motherhood and pyromania.

Only one week before the chimps go on exam leave. There's not much time to do anything worthwhile with them and our time is spent between last minute exam practice, which I hate because my heart sinks when I see the depth of their ignorance, and intensive vocabulary revision. It's up to them now and I console myself with the fact that, in my experience, they usually manage to pull something out of the bag on exam day. I have to say, the chimps have slightly matured over the last few weeks. Not much, mind you but I no longer have to spend ages getting them seated before starting a lesson, a recent improvement that unfortunately comes a bit too late. However, let's be thankful for small mercies and enjoy the fact that they are nicely seated when I come in without the need of any intervention on my part. As I walk in that day, Sam, the young mother, has managed to get herself a captive audience. She's on a rant that makes no sense to me but has something to do with the baby. "No, I won't let her walk him like that", claims an indignant Sam, "and if she thinks I'm a bitch, she's seen nothing yet. I sent a text to Jake to tell her that and they sent me back a text saying I was a bitch and I'm not a bitch and Jake had better do something about it...". On and on it goes like a teenage delirium. Sometimes, it is better to let those rants work themselves out rather than interrupt, so I pretend to be busy with the register until I can no longer pretend and just look at Sam. She catches my eye and say: "Do you like my story Miss?". "I would if I could make sense of it Sam". To my horror, Sam proceeds to explain the whole business to me.