by Woog
By this stage the school bell had gone, so Patricia rose. ‘Let’s go meet your class,’ she said.
I am not going to lie to you; I was shit-scared.
The corridors were deserted as I meekly followed Patricia. We passed classroom after classroom and all were quiet—except for one: the classroom we were heading towards.
Patricia flung the door open and burst through like a cabaret star, bringing instant quiet to the room. There were children everywhere. Unsupervised, they were running riot. It took all my willpower not to turn and flee.
‘Class, this is Miss Murphy,’ Patricia said, before promptly walking out again.
In the silence that followed the principal’s announcement, I heard her footsteps click-clacking back down the corridor.
Sixty-six eyes were locked on my face. I greeted the class, then invited a few of the boys to extricate themselves from each other and take a seat on the floor.
I sat on a chair, but before I could explain who I was and what I was doing there, I noticed one scrawny kid had his hand in the air.
‘Yes?’ I said, thinking he might have some valuable information to impart, such as how long we had to go before recess.
‘I’m really f’rsy, can I ’ave some wa-ahr?’
To which I answered, ‘Pardon me?’
‘I’m really f’rsy, can I ’ave some wa-ahr?’
I had no idea what he was asking. I stared at him blankly.
Exasperated, he said, ‘I just wan’ a glass ov wa-ahr, okay?’
A little Jamaican girl sitting next to him explained helpfully, ‘Miss, him are t’irsty an’ want a drink.’
Thanks to my translator everything was suddenly made clear. I granted the boy permission to get a drink of water.
This instantly led to the entire class needing a drink of water. So I lined them up at the door and off we went in search of some water. Needless to say, I had no idea where the drinking fountains were, but I was helped by a few of the kids.
Once at the bubblers, a full-scale water fight broke out. It was winter and it was not warm, but soon the entire class ended up soaked, including me.
My voice rose to a screech as I pleaded for calm.
A kindly teacher who was on a break rescued me. She restored order and got the dripping students into some sort of a line. She introduced herself to me as Gulcan, and to this day I will never forget her kindness. I will also never forget her words of wisdom. ‘Don’t give them even the tiniest inch,’ she advised, ‘or a mile they will take.’
Southwold was officially classed as a disadvantaged school, with 42 per cent of the students eligible for the free school dinner program. Since 1944, children of families on low incomes were entitled to a hot school lunch provided by the government. Margaret Thatcher slashed a sword through the program in the 1980s, insisting that it should be put out to local tender, which the schools would pay for, depending on the financial demographic of their area and the demand. This led to a dramatic decrease in the quality of food provided, as caterers tried hard to turn more profit. I was later to discover that this meal was sometimes the only meal my students would eat all day.
To further compound the disadvantage, 75 per cent of Southwold’s student body spoke no English at home. And, it turned out, many of them spoke no English at school either. So my class comprised thirty-three hungry students from racially diverse backgrounds, many of whom were not able to understand me. It was like peeling an onion, revealing a new challenge with every layer.
That first day was full of surprises, but none more than a lad called David. All day, I noticed, he lingered near the edge of the carpet, touching and stroking it as if he had never felt anything quite like it before in his life. My translator told me that David was blind.
This was the sort of information that it would have been useful to acquire in a handover meeting with their previous teacher, but it transpired that the class had so far gone through four teachers in the current academic year. Each teacher had left because of the stress.
I was stunned. Again, my head urged me to flee, but my heart was already lost to this rabble. Did Sidney Poitier/Mark Thackeray abandon his class when faced with very similar circumstances?
No, he did not.
That first day was long and I could not wait until the home time bell rang out, but I persevered. I was sitting reading with a small group of children (and I say ‘reading’ but we really should have been reflecting on the alphabet, because that was where we were at) when I noticed that a fight had broken out at the back of the classroom.
As far as I can work out, the fight had something to do with the conquest of the Greek territory of Cyprus by Ottoman Turks back in 1571. You might think that was a bazillion years ago, but clearly it was still a sore point for some in my classroom.
‘Turkish dogs!’ yelled Nico as he smashed his rival.
Now, I know that you should not get involved in fights, and you absolutely should not put yourself between warring small men/boys, but I did believe that I had some type of duty of care in this instance and it was up to me to put a stop to the dispute.
I approached the boys, urging peace. And that’s when it happened.
After all these years, an image of Mehmet has stayed with me. He was as solid as a rock with a very cheeky smile. Later, I would find out that he had the foulest temper I’d ever encountered, with a colourful vocabulary to boot. But there was something about him that I liked immediately. I don’t know where he is now, but I suspect he might be languishing in one of Her Majesty’s hotels.
Long story short, I copped one in the guts.
Mehmet took a huge swing at Nico, who dodged away just as I stepped forward. As I felt the wind being knocked from my body, the school bell went. Within an instant the room had cleared, leaving me lying on the floor, gasping for breath. I believe that I might have been in shock. I’m not sure how long I lay there, but when Patricia turned up a little while later to see how I’d got on, I told her, ‘Piece of cake.’
15
THE INSPECTION
As the weeks and months flew by, my time at Southwold Primary School continued to throw challenge after challenge at me. Perhaps the greatest challenge of all was the girl whose parents had named her Friendly.
She was a walking contradiction when it came to her moniker. She barely spoke, but when she did her speech was aggressive and usually littered with profanities. Her mother was basically a larger version of Friendly. I suspect it wasn’t a happy home. Nonetheless, I took the girl under my novice wing, and slowly, very slowly, she started to come out of her hard little shell.
And it was little triumphs like these that kept me going. The day that tough, taciturn girl make a friend was the stuff of dreams. Soon, Friendly and Precious were inseparable.
It was not unheard of to turn up at school one day to find that a new student had joined the class. Or that one had left with no warning. The advent of one new family in particular stands out in my memory.
The Joneses had many children, all of whom were exceedingly skinny with sunken eyes and were riddled with head lice. The children were extremely developmentally delayed. It was quite obvious that we were dealing with a family in crisis. The teachers of the Jones children had to work with the local child welfare agency to make sure that they were coming to school on time, that they were eating lunch and that there were no signs of anything sinister.
As time unfolded, the tragedy of their situation became clear. The Jones children were growing up in a house plagued by incest; their father was also their grandfather. I cannot go into the horrors of the visitation reports that we had to read in order to get some idea of their home environment, but suffice to say it was tragic.
I would look at the Jones girl in my class, her eyes dull and old, and I would try with all my might to teach her to read. If she could just read, I reasoned, she would have more opportunities open to her. Together we persevered, using every spare moment available to us, as I knew that she didn’t have
too much time left with me. By the time the authorities pressed charges against her father and placed all the children into foster care, Irene Jones could read a book. A small book, but a book nonetheless.
Though the grapevine I heard that Irene and her younger sister were adopted together, joining a happy family. I often wonder about them still. I hope that, despite their dreadful beginnings, their lives turned out okay.
David was another one of my concerns. Being legally blind, he could make out light and shade and that was about it. I demanded of Patricia that I get some help with him, as I was still spending most of my time dealing with the hand-to-hand combat that my students thought was part of the curriculum. The inspection was coming up and I really had to sharpen up my classroom management skills. I was aware, however, that every day that slipped away with David sitting there, doing nothing, was making his future prospects worse. Soon a full-time special-needs teacher was assigned to work one-on-one with David. This was an enormous relief because I could concentrate all my efforts on refereeing the rest of the rabble.
Now, this class had never had a plan, had never had a timetable, and the classroom resources we had been supplied were totally inappropriate. Nevertheless, I managed to knock together a program, which looked like a dog’s breakfast given the diverse range of abilities I had to cater for. My one rule for myself was that I was never to lose my shit at the kids, because it just didn’t work. Instead, I kept my voice low, speaking slowly and deliberately.
We were getting there.
One of the great pleasures of this time in the classroom was the staff I worked alongside. We were as culturally diverse as the kids. Each Friday we would head up to the local caff for lunch. Oh, how I miss that caff! For a couple of quid, you could scoff down the works: bacon, sausages, mushies, baked beans and grilled tomatoes all nestled under something called a ‘fried slice’, which was just a piece of white bread that they chucked into the deep fryer. Delicious! I washed it all down with a mug of sweet tea, and felt positively English.
And what teacher worth their weight in chalk would not partake of a few unwinding beverages on a Friday at the pub on the way home? This was where the real action happened, as pints of lager were drained and packets of Lay’s crisps were demolished.
It was like we were a secret club. Occasionally, one of your charges would come into the pub with their parents and look at you as if you were an escaped zoo animal, because teachers live at school, don’t they?
The week of the inspection arrived, and I did what any decent teacher would do. I bought a huge bag of sweets and showed them to the class, explaining that for every day of that week, while we had our special guests, I would give them all lollies if they behaved. Oh, the power of a good boiled lolly.
So popular and effective did my ploy prove, I was kicking myself that I hadn’t thought of this earlier.
I spent a lot of time tarting up the classroom, carefully hanging up the kids’ art on the walls, which had remained bare for so long. I taught my kids about tissues, and how they were not just for using as spit balls.
But I still didn’t know what the fuck I was going to do about Leonard.
Oh, Leonard. Could you be more revolting if you tried? To be fair, he was suffering from some sort of adenoid problem, which resulted in him almost always sporting two long, thin runnels of mucus streaming from his nostrils.
‘Leonard!’ I would cry. ‘Tissues!’
Leonard was unusually tall for his age, perhaps a result of his African heritage, and was particularly fond of spending long periods of doing nothing much but grunting at me.
‘Leonard, please take your seat.’
‘Nuh.’
‘Leonard, I am going to ask you again, please take your seat.’
‘Nuh.’
This would go on and on and on until eventually I would wear him down and he would slowly get up and meander menacingly over to his desk. Just when I thought I had won the battle, he would take his arm and swipe another kid’s desk clean of books and pencils.
‘Please pick those up, Leonard.’
‘Nuh.’
And so it continued.
I say again: what the fuck was I going to do with him, and his rivers of snot and his appalling behaviour? Bribes were not going to work with Leonard, and nor were threats, as he just didn’t give a shit. I had to try a different approach.
I decided to befriend Leonard, to try to make him understand that if he didn’t sharpen up his act then we would all be screwed. I had made such progress with the rest of the bunch; I was blowed if I’d let him ruin it for everyone.
So I kept Leonard very busy that week. He ran all my errands. He was in charge of giving out books, sharpening pencils, taking the vomiting kid to sick bay. Leonard learnt skills in this time that I hope are still with him today, wherever that may be. Leonard cleaned the blackboard, and took the dusters outside at the end of each teaching session to bash them like buggery against the brick wall to remove the excess chalk. (This had the additional benefit of giving him an outlet to release his natural aggression.) Leonard became my main man and I loaded him up with responsibilities. And, heavens be praised, he began to change.
He stopped threatening others with death, which was a delightful turn of events for all concerned. I persuaded him to always keep a tissue in his pocket, and taught him how to successfully deal with the excess snot production he continued to be plagued by. I even managed to convince him to wash his hands.
And then the dreaded day arrived: the Ofsted inspectors came to my classroom.
I was so proud of my class as they sat attentively while I taught at the front of the room. Then, when I asked them to split up into groups, I marvelled at how they all stood and calmly made their way over to their desks. I was floored when Friendly offered one of the inspectors a chair.
FLOORED.
I had done it. I had had my Sidney Poitier moment. From being punched in the guts on that first day, I now had a class of engaged kids who knew that if I turned up each day, then shit would get done.
My last day at Southwold Primary School was 28 October 1996. Patricia handed me a reference and expressed her gratitude. Highlights of the reference include:
Kayte took on a very unsettled class with a range of challenging needs with very lively dynamics.
She settled and transformed the class by showing them her commitment, utilising a wide range of classroom and interpersonal strategies, and planning and delivering work which was both stimulating and satisfying for the children while meeting their educational needs.
This was quite an interesting way of describing my teaching style, considering that I basically just bribed everyone to behave.
My departure was certainly tinged with sadness. I will never forget the faces of those students, and their stories are entrenched in my memory. Mehmet and Nico, Friendly and her best mate Precious. Darling, dear David and revolting Leonard. They will always have a place in my heart.
16
KISS AND DROP
One by one they come through the school gate, often clutching the hand of a tired and grumpy toddler who had to be woken abruptly from a nap. In small groups they gather, seeking shade from the heat of the day beneath the trees. They are probably tired too.
They are dressed in a variety of ways. Some are in gym clothes and have been in them all day. Some are in business clothes. Most are women, mums, though there is the occasional father, looking refreshed and relaxed for some reason.
Welcome to school pick-up time, where the minutes tick by so slowly, you could swear that time is standing still.
Then the bell rings—and all hell breaks loose.
Drop-offs and pick-ups are the very important bookends to the school day.
Drop-offs start with the forgotten, which can include but is not limited to the following:
Note
Lunch
Library book
Homework
Ball
Shoes
T
hing that they borrowed the day before
Glasses
Hearing aids
Hat
To wear a certain colour/cultural costume/crazy thing, because it is a day on which they are raising money for something
The money that they are meant to donate towards the above cause
Manners
Asthma puffer
EpiPen
Medication, accompanied by a signed note and instructions
Money for someone’s leaving present
Sunscreen
Drink bottle
Whatever the trend is at the time, for without it your child will become a playground pariah
Depending on the importance of what has been forgotten, you might find yourself hightailing it back home to fetch it. (If, of course, you can find it.) But more likely than not, the forgotten item will remain sitting on the kitchen bench for the rest of the day.
If you are at the beginning of the school year, drop-offs are an interesting time to observe some spectacular tantrums, as four- and five-year-olds cling to their parents’ legs, wailing like banshees as their chubby little fingers are prised away by whoever is on hand.
Those kindy kids! To see a teacher attempt to arrange them into two straight lines is like watching someone try to herd drunken puppies.
I recall the day my firstborn started school like it was yesterday.
We entered a huge hall, filled with weeping women.
‘Oh God, how embarrassing for them,’ I recall thinking, before handing my child over to the teacher and fleeing the room in tears. I don’t know what came over me. I blame hormones. (I blame everything on hormones, including my recently grown moustache.)
