Darcie Boleyn - Something Old, Something New

I have to make an effort to stay upright in my seat as I listen to it all. I am so tired of the doubt, exhausted by the scrutiny of books, of lessons, of planning, and of me. I came into this job fifteen years ago and in that time it has changed so dramatically that I barely even recognise it any more. It was meant to be a stable job that I could fit around my child, then my children, one that would provide a good income and a pension whilst being sufficiently stimulating to maintain my enthusiasm.

It has not been that for some years.

The English syllabus, my own subject, changes almost annually as different levels of the educational hierarchy decide that specifications need tweaking and pupils need more – or less – challenge, but the end result is always the same. Teachers are to blame for our illiterate young. Teachers are to blame for our ill-mannered young. And teachers are to blame for… well… just about everything that can’t be blamed on doctors, nurses and the police. Perhaps the most bewildering thought is that I’m supposed to work until I’m sixty-eight if I want to get my full pension. I mean, that’s almost another thirty years! I’m burning out now and wonder how I’ll ever make it that far.

As the head rounds up her speech, Laura gently pats my hand, dragging me back from my thoughts. ‘Ready?’

I nod reluctantly. But as I am about to rise from my chair, the head teacher holds up a hand. ‘And finally… I would like to welcome two new members of staff who are joining us today. The first is Melody Cromwell. She is our new second in Mathematics. And the second is Phillip Brown, who is here to cover Miss Hillman’s long-term sick leave.’ She grimaces at the word sick and my stomach clenches. This senior manager, just three years older than me, who spent a mere six years in the classroom before beginning her ascent to the leadership team, loathes sickness. I fear for poor Miss Hillman, I really do, should she ever return.

The new teachers, fresh meat for the predatory system, smile around at everyone with the confidence of the young and reckless. They do not yet know the truth about this world of red and green pens, this autocracy of deadlines, sleepless nights, irritable bowels and stomach ulcers. This is a world where frailty will lead to your destruction. The worst movie villain has nothing on our senior leadership team, where the trade union has been crushed and no one dares try to revive it.

But the new teachers will know the truth… very soon…

As I drain my coffee and place the mug next to the sink, the music from a well-known TV show plays through my head, and I almost laugh – almost – as I make my way to registration, imagining a giant finger jabbing at the newly qualified teachers. You’re hired… or … you’re fired…

I wonder which is worse.

****

The week passes in the usual blur of trying to pack too much in to too short a time and before I know it, Friday is upon me and I am teaching the last lesson. In spite of the exhaustion, I am always filled with jubilance during this lesson because it is the end of the week and the chance to breathe and relax, if just for a few hours, is in sight. This is week one of the timetable, so I have Year Ten, Set Three – persuasive writing. I have more chance of teaching Dragon how to bark I will survive in Spanish than I do of educating these teenagers about forms of writing, but I will try regardless.

‘So…’ I eye the young people – our future, our pride and our joy – as they sit facing me. Which is a good start. At least they’re actually sitting down and looking my way. I wonder if some of them are conserving energy before their Friday night drinking binge at the local park. I’m not being cynical, they openly brag about their plans to seek inebriation on Friday evenings—and sometimes during the week. One of the girls blows a pink bubble that pops and sticks to her lips and chin. I look away as she half-heartedly picks at the tacky mess, knowing that reprimanding her for chewing will only result in a debate I cannot win. ‘What makes a good piece of persuasive writing?’

A few hands drift into the air but many of the pupils drop their gaze to the floor, praying that I will not ask them to contribute. I pick one of the raised hands. ‘Harry?’ I try not to stare at what appears to be a smudge of tomato sauce below his left eye. How on earth did he get it up there? Or is it a scab? I can’t quite tell.

‘Repetition, Miss.’

‘Excellent!’ Always praise them: positive behaviour management. ‘And could you give me an example?’

He frowns, drawing his partially shaved black eyebrows together, and his eyes go blank. I wait. And I wait. Come on! I step from one foot to the other, twirling my board pen in my right hand like an ageing jazz band member. I want to help him out, but so many times we are told: Don’t be afraid of the silence. Give them time and they will answer. And this from people who’ve never taught, or who taught for all of three years before climbing the educational career ladder.

Nope. He’s not going to answer, is he?

Another hand slowly raises and I meet the boy’s eyes. ‘Do you have an example of repetition, Aaron?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Would you like to share it?’ I encourage him to tell his peers as they stare at him, eyes wide as saucers as they roll their forbidden balls of gum around their open mouths. I try not to notice that some of the busy tongues are decorated with large silver balls. Jewellery is forbidden, so the pupils pierce tongues, necks, belly buttons and who knows what else in an attempt to craftily defy the system. But rebelling is a part of growing up, so the experts say.

Aaron blushes and I think I’ve lost. But then, he takes a deep breath and his nostrils flare. I bite my lip and watch him. The other pupils watch him.

What will he say?

What? What?

‘Bag a bargain!’ His eyes light up as he whispers to the class. My stomach lurches. Not that, please not that annoying catchphrase for a bargain retail chain ! ‘Bag a bargain!’ This time a bit louder. Then the pupils around him join in. ‘Bag a bargain! Bag a bargain! Bag a bargain!’ They get to their feet and start swinging their arms out in front of them as if they want to sing to the world. Shanice, a small yet rather loud girl who wears thick black eyeliner and has a pierced tongue which has given her a speech impediment, points at me. ‘Come on, Missth. Join in!’

I stare at her for a moment then back at my PowerPoint, which is frozen on my board. I press the space-bar on my laptop as if it’s a panic button that will summon a special forces rescue team, but nothing happens. Technology has deserted me and I cannot access YouTube and the nice educational video I’d planned to share. I glance at the classroom door, torn between worrying that someone will arrive to find out what the commotion is or just opening it and fleeing. But I can’t run, however much I want to. I need this job; I have to provide for my children, I have bills to pay.

Then I think, what the hell, it’s Friday , and I walk into the middle of the room, take a deep breath and fling out my arms.

‘Bag a bargain!’ I squeak.

‘Louder Missth!’ Shanice waves at me.

‘BAG A BARGAIN!’ I belt it out this time.

The kids cheer and clap. ‘That’s it Miss!’

Then we sing in unison, pulling faces and making silly gestures to imitate the overly enthusiastic actors on the television commercial. Thankfully though, no one here is dressed in the luminous spandex featured in the advert.

As the pupils sing and laugh, then quit as suddenly as they began at the ringing of the final bell, I reassure myself. My lesson has not, as it might seem to some, been abandoned. It has evolved. For even though, to an outsider, what just happened could seem weird and a deviation from a more formal teaching method, it is one that will work for these modern-day children. Because if they learnt nothing else in my lesson today, I know that they will never forget the persuasive technique of repetition.