by Anon
She grizzled.
‘You were supposed to be brainstorming. Is that correct?’
She nodded begrudgingly.
‘Everyone in the class was working hard. Working. Hard. Because they want to succeed. Because they appreciate Sir’s Outstanding teaching –’
I looked quizzically at HoD, who gave me a nod of benediction. This seemed an odd circumstance in which to be given some of the only praise I had yet received. It might only have been a mind-fuck to gull an eleven-year-old into making an admission of guilt, but I was going to take whatever I could get. Turns out, SMs always had your back in a Parental Meeting. They would go over the lesson in which there had been a behavioural incident and show the kid and the parent how the teacher had done exactly the right thing, even if you hadn’t. It was tricky to get used to the paradoxical treatment you received from the SMs: in the context of parents, you were always right and the kid was lucky to have you as a teacher; in the context of other teachers, you were usually failing.
‘And you decided … You. Decided … No one else … You. Decided. That this was the moment to come to the board. Yes? … And then once at the board you wrote a word … A word that you know is inappropriate and offensive. Is this correct?’
She grizzled.
‘You knew. You. Knew. That you should not say this word, let alone write it on the board … You. Knew. This would cause the greatest disruption possible … A word which was very insulting. Why did you do it?’
Mercedes shuffled from foot to foot. She twisted her fringe, looking at each of us in turn, then grizzled something inaudible.
‘I am sorry, Mercedes. I did not catch that.’
‘Ssmsmfreshlikeastrawberry.’
‘Please. Speak. Louder.’
‘I meant they were fresh like a strawberry.’
Mercedes looked at me. At VP. At HoD.
I looked at HoD. At Mercedes. We all looked at VP. The Most Unflappable Woman in Christendom was not going to break.
‘Fresh. Like. A. Strawberry?’
Mercedes grizzled and nodded.
‘That is not an insult I am aware of. Sir? Is that an insult you are aware of?’
HoD shook his head.
‘Sir? Is. That. An. Insult. You. Are. Aware. Of?’
I shook my head.
‘No. That would be a nice thing to say to someone.’ VP turned to me, her Jedi stare unwavering. ‘If I said to you, Sir, that you are fresh like a strawberry … what would you say?’
Erm … I would be very freaked out indeed.
‘I would say, “Thank you. That’s very kind,’ I spluttered.
‘You would, wouldn’t you? You would be flattered. You might buy me flowers.’
I might. After I took you paintballing.
VP turned back to Mercedes.
‘But that is not what you meant. Is it?’
‘Yeah, it is,’ she grizzled.
‘Yes, it is, Miss.’
‘Yes, it is, Miss.’
‘No, it isn’t, Miss, because you see, Mercedes, what you meant by that insulting curse word was that some of the other members of your class were fresh off the boat.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
VP tilted her head as her Jedi stare intensified.
‘Yes,’ said Mercedes.
‘And I will not have such lack of respect in this school.’
Mercedes was given a week of Late Detentions.
*
Kieran’s offence was deemed so grave that we needed a Parental Meeting followed by a suspension. We finally tracked Dad down and explained the severity of the situation. He reluctantly agreed to come in.
Kieran waited outside VP’s office as VP explained to Dad that we had tried to do our best for Kieran, that he had had many chances, but things were getting out of hand. Dad didn’t give a shit. Just looked at us like we were the problem. VP gestured for Kieran to enter. He slouched in, sat down and stared at the table. VP read him the riot act.
Bad attitude, slippery slope, nearly Year 8 now, the choices we make now affect the rest of our life. Crush. Suffer. Burn.
Kieran didn’t move. A long silence. Suddenly, Kieran leapt up and screamed, ‘I DON’T NEED DIS SHIT!’ in VP’s face.
She stared implacably. ‘Calm. Down. Kieran. Just. Sit. Down.’
Even Dad told him to calm down. But Kieran wasn’t having any of it. He spat on the floor, punched the glass wall of the office, and stormed out. No one moved as a giant cobweb spread slowly across the shattering glass wall.
I saw Kieran’s whole life play out in that moment. Excluded from school after school, crime, prison, the whole sorry shitshow. This was the most profound feeling of failure yet. We had tried to change the narrative, to deviate the river. But sometimes the torrent is just too strong.
Thus Kieran was excluded from the noblest kingdom in the world.
*
In the summer, we studied The Pearl by John Steinbeck. Like the Greek Myths, The Pearl is the perfect book for Year 7s of any ability. It is short, clear and full of deep wisdom about class and morality.
Kino is a pearl fisherman, like his father and grandfather before him. When his son is stung by a scorpion, he must find money to pay for the doctor, who will not see them as they are too poor. He finds ‘the pearl of the world’ at the bottom of the sea, a pearl as ‘perfect as the moon’. But their relative wealth and security bring danger, envy, corruption and death.
We imagined the perfect world in which Kino’s family lived; we discussed the destruction of rural fishing villages in Mexico as a result of global warming and tourism; we created the songs they sing in the town – the songs to the fishes, the sea, the light, the dark, the sun, the moon, the Song of the Family. Mercedes won with her ‘Song of Fam’. We talked about the baby getting sick – most of them had baby brothers and sisters so could understand how upsetting this would be. We wrote an essay on the despised doctor. We talked about corruption and greed and how money ruins the world and how crazy it was to make people pay for healthcare in crazy places like America. We wrote stories about finding the most valuable thing in the world. Their writing still had the imaginative openness they had at the beginning of the year, but now it had more control. They had learned to craft a story.
Like the town in The Pearl, a class is like an animal. It has a nervous system, head, shoulders, feet, ‘a whole emotion’.
The Set 1s were now bullying Rachel – about her dyed hair, the fact she didn’t know where Mexico was, her song. I moved her to the front to sit with Femi, who was sweet and generous to her, but I could sense the class making fun of her behind her back. I kept meaning to report it officially, but I never took it to the next level. I had no idea how bad it was. What we see in class is the tip of the iceberg, to quote the opening slide of my metaphor lesson. Once Rachel got home, she opened up Facebook to be faced by abuse.
One day, I walked past Rachel’s house. She was with a bunch of naughty boys I recognised from Year 9. She greeted me warmly and said, ‘That’s my English teacher.’ It felt good to be stopped on the street like this, like being some kind of local dignitary – a vicar or doctor or something. The boys laughed and asked me what she was like at English. I told them she was very good at English, and the boys all laughed at her.
And that was it. She stopped working, stopped caring. English was no longer her thing. The animal had turned on her, forced her to become someone else.
I was never told why she left – whether she was excluded or whether she left voluntarily – but I knew I would miss her and I felt like I had failed her. I never quite looked at those Set 1s the same way again. They had lowered her confidence by quietly, insidiously, bullying her, but because I was so caught up in the more explicit bad behaviour of the Set 4s, I had let it slide.
Lesson #160
Never Let Anything Slide.
As the end of term approached, cards from kids were pinned to the notice board in the Department, providing a new strain of the
ubiquitous competitive virus.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the greatest teacher of them all?
Mentor and Tom had a few cards, but they only put up the funny, poignant or well-written ones. Little Miss Outstanding had already amassed at least ten cards above her desk, which said things like ‘Dearest Miss. Thank you for everything you have done for me. You are so kind and funny and clever. You really are the best teacher ever!!! Please, please, please teach me next year!!! Your favourite student.’
There were no cards above my desk.
*
The last week of term was spent filling in end-of-year self-evaluations and raiding the store cupboards for dystopian novels I could teach Year 12 the following year. I couldn’t find enough of the 1984s or Fahrenheit 451s for my class because Little Miss Outstanding had gone in weeks before the end of term – long before she even knew she would be teaching Year 12 – and pilfered most of them. I knew where they were, mind. She was already appropriating Room 10 as her own room for next year – she was in there every break time, putting up her posters of Laura Marling and perching her fluffy wombat on the computer. I found the books in the cabinet at the back and then hid them on top of the cabinet in Room 11, way out of her reach.
I was going through all my final paperwork with Mentor; she was just about to officially rubberstamp me as a Qualified Teacher, when HoD barged in.
‘Ah, newbie,’ he said, a smirk spreading across his face.
‘You can’t call me that, any more.’
‘All right, ring piece. Has Miss told you about your classes next year?’
‘Not really. Other than I’ve got Year 12s. Dystopia.’
‘Yeah, right. That’s fine. Easy. How about a real challenge?’
At last. The Holy Grail. He’s going to give me Year 13. The Waste Land.
‘Next year we are setting up … I can’t even say the words …’
‘What?’
‘Next year we are setting up … The MEEDJA DEPARTMENT.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh God, no.’
‘Come on …’
‘Please, no …’
‘It’s the chance to set something up, big kudos, we are talking major responsibility …’
‘Anything but that …’
‘Come to Daddy …’
‘Literally: Go. Fuck. Yourself.’
‘Congratulations on becoming a teacher of Meedja Studies.’
I slumped into the chair and held my head in my hands.
‘And who, pray, is my Head of Department?’
‘You and Tom. The Dream Team.’
I couldn’t believe it. All these years, I had been preparing myself to be a man of letters, a carrier of the culture, a lightning rod of erudition. MEEDJA? The very thing that I despised more than anything else. The very thing that was corroding their minds and souls.
‘When did this happen?’
‘Just the other day. Old Head was never going to sanction it. In fact, I remember telling him we needed a Meedja Department, and he said, “Over my dead body.” Well, he’s gone now. The new guy is only too happy to get rid of all that fusty crap like Classics. The Latin teacher was getting pathetic results. Meedja is a gimme. A free hit. Just look at websites and write the first thing that comes into your head. Come to the Library and we can Google your first scheme of work. First lesson: Analyse mise en scène in Babycat videos.’
*
For my last lesson with my Set 1s, I asked where they would most like to go on holiday. A boy at the back thrust his arm up in the air and said, ‘Bhutan.’ I asked why. He said, ‘Because it is top of the happiness index. They have no screens. And low pollution. And excellent climate.’
*
I asked the Set 4s the same question. Milosz stuck his hand up.
‘Milosz?’
‘’Merica.’
‘Why?’
‘Cos it’s sick.’
‘Why is it sick?’
‘’Slebrities.’
*
I didn’t have anything planned for the rest of the lesson, so as a final treat – in addition to the bag of Haribos and cola bottles – I let them write letters to their favourite celebrities. Dear Beyoncé. Dear Kanye. Dear Kim. Dear Wayne. You is the best. Love Me.
I let them read them out. Salim’s was wonderful, but he was still too shy to read, so I read it out for him.
Shah Rukh Khan
Delhi
Dear Mr Rukh Khan
I should be typing this but I have to write in my big and good pen I hope this is OK so yeah.
I will like to ask you a couple of questions if I may, my name is Salim and I am 11 years old and live in the UK, If you would kindly tell me how you can become so famous and be in all the cool movies I would watch that all over again more than 15 times. I follow you on Twitter and Instagram so I know that you have a lot of fans. You have 15 million Normal Fans. This leaves 750,000 Crazy Fans. You also have some Hating Fans. I have calculated that you have 150,000 Hating Fans there are 15,000 Hating Fans in Britain 30,000 Hating Fans in America 45,000 Hating Fans in Australia and 60,000 Hating Fans in India. This makes a total of 150,000 Hating Fans.
Don’t listen to the Haters. You have inspired me to be a movie star and play in movies even though my parents want me to be a doctor. I want to be like all you people strong, famous and the best of all. When I watch your films I was inspired I would be jumping from the sofa and to the table copying your moves. Any way I am so happy to watch your new film and I will be buying front row seats if I can. My brother was not aloud in cinema until he was only seven. But my dad said he will take me to the cinema in 2 months because he thinks if we spend 25 pounds on popcorn and drinks and the tickets then that is enough for a month or more.
Thank you for reading this letter, and please reply back
Yours faithfully,
Salim
On the last day of the year, there was a cluster of kids hanging around the Department in tears, thunderstruck by the imminent loss of Ho6. Pity the poor buggers – like me – who had to take her classes next year. Ho6 had tried to keep it shtum, but the ads had gone out in the papers, so everyone knew.
The final assembly for Ho6 was a deluge of tears, cakes, screeching, hugging, cards, dancing, exhortations of joy and pain. She had been at the school since the Year 13s were in Year 7. She showed photographs of the kids through the years, which prompted great gasps and sighs. As she left, she was mobbed and hugged. Shrieks filled the silent atrium. ‘I’m gonna miss you so much’; ‘You’ve meant so much to me’; ‘You changed my life.’
The staff gathered in the Canteen to bid farewell to all the leavers. Ho6 read out a selection of letters kids had written her to excuse their late work, laughing through tears.
After sparkling wine, hugs and have-a-great-holidays, I buzzed myself out of the gates for the last time as a New Teacher. From now, I would no longer be the newbie. I was now the Old Guard.
As I walked out of the gates, Donnie ran up to me and thrust a card into my hand. It was a picture of a red-faced man with steam coming out of his ears. In the top righthand corner it said
IT PARTY TIME!
And inside in bright-red felt-tip:
YOU ARE THE BEST TEACHE
IN THE WORLD EVER!
PART TWO
11
Someone Must Think Something
The ‘nice holidays’ were nearly over. The world was in clover; my brain was denuded. The smell of Caribbean barbecues and the chirruping of swifts filled the hazy air; all I had done for weeks was sleep, eat and stare at the wall. Occasionally, a thought briefly peeked above the stony earth, only to retreat as swiftly as it had come, fearful of its own growth. One day, Milosz came round to look for his uncle’s parrot – he was mortified to realise my house backed onto his – but, apart from that, I had precious little interaction with the human race. It was beautiful.
At the end of August, we went to Thailand wit
h Tom and Kate. Tom and I got drunk and talked about teachers for the first two nights; after that, there was an embargo placed on us discussing school. After a week, I started getting anxious because I hadn’t done any preparation for the new term. I kept asking Tom what we were going to teach in Meedja, but he waved it away, saying, ‘It will be fine. It will all become clear when we get back. We can’t do anything until we have the cameras and the editing equipment anyway.’
I spent the last few days frantically buffing up on my dystopian literature. I skimmed 1984, Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451, Children of Men and The Handmaid’s Tale, but I couldn’t work out what was dystopian about them. Here were totalitarian regimes, fearful of women, outsiders, intellectuals and books, using surveillance and dumbed-down mass media as means of control. It all seemed pretty realistic. If we swapped the dystopian and non-fiction units, no one would notice.
On the penultimate day, we went to the market in town. As I was buying a fish, I gasped in wonder at how other people lived.
All these people in the world outside of school. All these happy, uniformless children running around playing with sticks and selling fruit, learning how to do things just like that.
‘HI, SIRS!!!!!!’
Oh, shit. Yasmin, from Year 10. On holiday with her family. Of course she was.
It was time to go home.
*
September appeared suddenly, like a child nicking in before me in the queue to take a sponge with custard. There were only a few days to prepare for the new year. I dry-cleaned my suits and replaced the soles on my brogues.
I made a resolution to exercise every day before or after school because I needed some way of keeping the endorphins up, keeping regular, getting the fuckers out of my head, staying sane. The women in the Department went to Zumba or Spin. Tom played five-a-side with the PE lads. Even the MegaDumper found time in his busy schedule dumping to do some rock climbing.
