Confessions of a teacher: Because school isn't quite what you remember it to be... (9 page)

As I sit in the base, I decide to check again the comments I have entered for each pupil before Christmas. Long gone are the days where teachers were entrusted to write personal, heart felt comments on their young charges. Is it because the spelling standards have dropped as drastically for the teaching profession as what they have for our pupils? Is it because we can no longer be trusted to fit in with political correctness? Or because we cannot be trusted at all? Whatever the reason, technology has supplied us with the wonderful facility of cutting and pasting to generate a somewhat bland pupil's report with a few variations available. This is how it goes: each report must contain four parts: comments on the pupil, on what he or she is good at, areas they could do better in and what's next. For each of these categories, we simply select from a bank of comments pre-installed on the computer. As simple as that! It's not exactly that we are strictly forbidden to write our own stuff, but we would then have to be prepared for the possibility of heavy censorship. The comments at our disposal are in themselves a work of art. They seem designed to test to the limit parent's ability to read between the lines. For example, "always tries hard in class" often implies "but is really not very good at it". Things can become even more tricky when asked to find positive aspects in a pupil's performance when there are none that come to mind. We don't need to worry any more as we can have things such as: "has a very nice French accent" (but that's about it), "work well in teams" (just as well the other members of the group do the work for him or her), or my own personal favourite "shows an interest in the French speaking world" (whatever that means). I check on the very last of the report and everything appears fine. All I have time to do is hit save before the bell that announces my regular meeting with the chimps rings. It does so in good time.

Dictionary skills and other medical problems.

In view of their results in the preliminary examinations, it is quite clear that the chimps need to improve their reading skills. So, to that effect, I am bracing myself to teach them (yet again) dictionary skills. "There are two reasons why you might not find the French word you're looking for in the dictionary" I say to them. "Number one: Because you're in the English to French section of the dictionary. Number two: Because the word you're looking for is a verb and the dictionary only gives you one form for each verb and not all the possible endings. That form the dictionary gives you often ends in -er". I give them 'jouer' (to play) as an example and the five possible endings for this verb. I then write 'jouent' on the board which is one of the five forms this verb can take. "Try to find 'jouent' in the dictionary". I can see that a quarter of the class is looking up in the wrong section of the dictionary while another quarter is struggling to work out where in the alphabet does the letter 'j' appear. Even if I told them that it was between 'i' and 'k', it wouldn't make any difference since they would be equally struggling to find 'i' and 'k' by any other means than turning each page of the dictionary one at a time. In any case, it doesn't matter because the whole point is that they can't find this form of the verb in the dictionary. We manage to all agree that it can't be found. "Oh but look!" I say to them. "That '-ent' at the end of 'jouent' is one of the five endings. Let's see if we can replace -ent with -er and find it in the dictionary now that we have jou
er
instead of jou
ent".
They look it up. This time, only 10% of them are looking in the wrong section while the exact same 30% is still struggling to get to the letter 'j'. At long last, they now agree that they can find it and it means 'to play'. I then give them five basic sentences with a verb that has one of these five endings. All they have to do is spot the ending, replace it with -er and look up the meaning of the newly obtained word. Most of them seem to have got it, even Louis. Having said that, I'd better check what he's writing. To my horror, Louis has written 'jouer' for the first two sentences despite the verbs being 'regardent' and 'aiment' respectively. Worst is still to come. As he reflects and ponders on the third sentence that says 'habitent', a sudden flash of recognition passes through his eyes and he duly writes 'jouer'. He then proceeds for the third time in less than a minute to look up 'jouer' in the dictionary. What does he expect? that the dictionary is suddenly going to provide a different meaning when he looks it up for the third time? Maybe I should give him a book mark to save him looking up the same word every time. "What are you doing Louis?" I ask the boy. "Well, it says 'habitent' so I take -ent away, replace it by -er and it gives me 'jouer'". "No! Write the letters you get if you do that. How does it give you 'jouer'"? "But you said it gives you 'jouer'". "That was just the example!" I reply, tearing my hair out. "Ah! I get it now!". Does he get it? At this precise moment, probably. Would he get it next week if I gave him the very same exercise? Most unlikely. Will he get it the day of the exam? Definitely not. Still, for a fleeting moment, a sixteen year old boy has successfully found five words of French in a dictionary. Let's be thankful for small victories even if battles are never quite won.

Battles are sometimes very difficult to win. One of mine comes in the form of a first year girl whose general knowledge, or lack of it, never ceases to amaze me. Julia, since that is her name, is currently wrestling with a relatively simple exercise I have set the class. They have five sentences in French requesting them to answer with a number in French. There are phrases such as 'how many days in a month?", "how many months in a year?", etc. These forces them to read in French and practise their numbers. From where I stand, I can see Julia frowning, chewing her pen, deep in concentration that is so obviously leading nowhere. As the ever helpful teacher that I am, I approach Julia's desk and look over her shoulder to check her answers. I am dumbfounded. To the question 'how many months in a year' Julia has written 'neuf' (nine) in her huge and squiggly handwriting.

- "Julia, what is 'neuf' in English?"

- "Nine!", she clamours, proud of her knowledge.

- "And what is the question asking you?"

- "How many months in a year" she says, delighted at the fact that she can answer this one even though it's thanks to the girl sitting next to her.

- "But Julia, there aren't nine months in a year!"

- "Yes there are!"

- "No there aren't."

- "Why do pregnancies last nine months then?"

- "What's that got to do with anything? They last nine months because that's how long they last. This is why we say they last nine months and not a year!"

Julia can sense there is something in my logic, although she's not quite sure what it is. Some of the kids around her start to giggle and the boy right behind her can't resist a bit of teasing.

- "What month are we in, Julia?" he asks.

Julia hesitates for a minute and answers in all seriousness:

- "huh, I don't know... maybe... We're in July!"

Laughter irrupts all around her before I have time to do anything about it.

- "No, dummy. We're in January" says the boy between tears of laughter.

- "Well, July, January... What's the difference? They both start with 'J'", replies a now sulking Julia. I do my best to save Julia's composure and ask the class: "And how do we say January in French?" all, except for Julia of course, answer in unison: "Janvier!". And Kevin once again to ponder: "Janvier... I love this word". He's no doubt added this one to 'bibliothèque', another one of his favourite words.

I must be honest, children of Julia's calibre are pretty rare but they do crop up every year with increased frequency. I make a mental note to check Julia's educational and medical records again, just to make sure there isn't something I've missed when I read them the first time.

At the beginning of every year, we are requested to check the medical records for any child we might have in our class and sign it. I never knew that medical records could be that entertaining. We seem to produce a generation of increasingly ill children and it must be very hard for the medical profession to keep up with it and come up with new labels. There are obviously the common ones such as Dyslexia, asthma and ADHD (attention deficit disorder). Curiously, the symptoms of the latter seem to completely vanish when the sufferer is playing a computer game or on a mobile phone, but apparently, doctors haven't yet made a link with this being a possible cure. Other diseases are far more imaginative. Something called Hirschprung translates concretely in the child having to be allowed to the toilets. Somebody else is a selective mute: can speak when they feel like it but mostly chooses not to. Another child's poor listening skills means that his name has to be mentioned loud and clearly before saying anything to him. A boy called Declan has a sickness phobia which triggers panic attacks. The mere thought of someone about to be sick will apparently cause him to twist the skin on his neck. Declan is in one of my classes but luckily, there's been no threat of sickness incident so far. As for little Nathan, his stress levels mean that he is unable to verbalise answers and will make noises instead or simply repeat what has been said to him. I have always been of the opinion that they should build hospitals adjacent to schools. The reverse would work as well but either way, it would make a huge difference if the medical and teaching professions could work side by side. At any rate, I cannot find anything specific on Julia apart from what I had already read: 'Julia lacks some of the basic knowledge expected from a child of her age'.

Harsher times.

February brings on its wings more bad weather and the permanent dark clouds that grace the skies echo the despondent mood of the entire teaching profession. The workload multiplies in an unstoppable flurry of paperwork and the tension rises as we're only too aware of the numerous deadlines that loom over us. Although there is a new boss in town, I've still only managed to catch sight of him twice and by all account, I'm not the only one. He seems to operate from the shadow of his office, communicating with us through the old same memos which all start with "Colleagues...". Matters that had been bubbling under the surface have now been made to boil over and our base is no longer a welcoming hide-out for Laura and David. Wrists were slapped, no doubt, and good working relationships have been restored. Well, on the face of it anyway. I was just talking to David in the corridor the other day when his boss passed by and commented on the weather with a grin that would have put to shame the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.

- "She seems quite friendly these days" I said to David.

- "Mm, only pretending. I can't stand the bitch."

Come to think of it, neither can I. She's one of the power crazed mob who's heading for the top and doesn't care who she has to squash in the process. It occurs to me that I haven't seen much of Dora either since the new term began. I expect that means no further romantic developments. Not that I was expecting any. I suppose, if I really wanted to find out, all I'd have to do is lurk around Ross' den in the computing department. I may get a chance to catch up with her on Friday as we have another one of those in-service days.

Friday morning and I meet Lea over a freshly brewed cup of coffee. We have a brief chat before heading down to the traditional staff meeting that inaugurates this type of event. At last, here is my opportunity to get a good look at the top man himself. He stands awkwardly in front of the assembled audience, balancing himself from one foot to the other in the midst of the humming noise from various conversations. Tall, slightly balding and overweight, he stands there not quite knowing what to do and wondering how to get the meeting under way. He braces himself and coughs nervously but loudly enough to get silence. He opens his mouth to speak and manages a long continuous whirring sound that even Lea and I can't hear, despite the fact that we're sitting at the front. I have never seen anything like it. His lips are moving but it is like watching an old silent movie. I can't help but think that it would look quite good if we could have subtitles but I doubt very much the plot would be of any interest. The performance doesn't last more than five minutes before a booming voice emerges from the crowd: "We can't hear you, mate!". I couldn't have put it any more eloquently myself. The boss shifts position uneasily and summons up his lung power: "Is that better?" he shouts. Nods from the crowd answer his question.

- "Good morning" he starts again. "I would like to start this meeting with a summary of the RIF".

I look at lea and she looks at me. We have no idea what he is talking about and the puzzled looks all around us tell me we're not the only ones. Luckily, someone on my left leans over and whispers knowingly: "Record of Inspection Findings". I don't really know why I thought that knowing what a RIF was would make my life any easier. What follows goes so far beyond my comprehension and that of my colleagues that we all pretty soon give up on attempting to make sense of it.

- "It was shown that learning demonstrates impact of specific targets within the S.I.P/D.I.P, particularly around the BGE. However, young people's understanding of HWB and connecting this to their learning across subject areas is not sufficiently developed."

I know how these young people feel. My understanding of HWB is equally under developed. As a matter of fact, I don't have a clue what it is and neither do Lea or Mister know it all on my left. Unperturbed by the blank faces in front of him, the man continues but this time in plainer English.