Let’s talk about Bill …
Teaching can be a brutal profession. Young graduates, filled with evangelistic zeal, are inspired to enter the classroom ‘in order to make a difference’. Some love their subject and want to share that love with the next generation. Others want ‘to give something back to society’. Some love the ‘cut and thrust’ of classroom banter, swear that they ‘like children’ or have a passion to ‘make the world a better place’. Invariably, new teachers are idealists.
Yet, many do not make it through 5 years in the profession. The classroom can often resemble something more akin to a battlefield than a place of learning. Instead of intellectual autonomy, the teacher becomes an agent of institutional control: checking conformity with uniform standards, delivering pre-packaged lesson materials and talking in endless meaningless jargon.
The classroom itself is a lonely place. Lonelier than they imagined it would be. Lonelier than anyone would imagine it could be with all those bodies packed together like sardines in a tin. Despite constant rhetoric about collaboration and teamwork, in the end, the teacher is on their own for most of a day. Outnumbered, he has to muster the emotional energy required to be the dominant force in the room for hour after hour. All teachers know that they may not actually be the smartest, most talented or strongest character in that room. And, if they are not teaching their own subject, they may not even be the most knowledgeable. That comes as an almighty shock: new teachers expect to be teaching the subject they signed up for - typically the one in which they have a degree. They anticipate being able to wow their juvenile audience with their hard-earned expertise. ‘At least there’, they think, ‘I will have the advantage.’ No - modern schools frequently take the view that any ‘teacher’ can teach ‘anything’ and a young person, barely out of school themselves, finds that they are trying to explain something they simply do not fully grasp themselves. Unless you’ve been there, you cannot really understand how totally disempowering that is. A PE teacher is told to ‘teach’ French because 5 years’ ago they got a GCSE in French. An Art teacher is told that they have to ‘teach’ DT: Resistant Materials or Food or Graphics. Since when does a degree in fine art equip you to teach Food? A Chemist is directed to Maths. Or a Drama teacher to Music or IT. You feel utterly vulnerable.
I’ve known teenagers who have been sufficiently self-aware to also know that - and who have been prepared to use their own charisma, intellect, social credibility and strength of will to deliberately undermine a teacher. When that happens, the teacher becomes a victim. A class of harmless-looking children can behave like a feral pack; they ‘hunt’ their teacher; they attack, relentlessly and mercilessly. And many a young teacher has been driven from the classroom, their idealism torn to shreds, by the fear of being savaged several times a week, or even a day, by a class who has them ‘on the run’, often surreptitiously led by a single. malicious and dominant character who remains hidden and unseen beneath the chaos. Experienced teachers who’ve fought this fight - and won - can often spot the real malignant force which is persistently working away to destroy not only the classroom environment, the learning of the majority, and the teacher’s own self-esteem. An experienced teacher watching the dynamics of a classroom in which the teacher is a novice can often see what’s really going on in a kind of sub-text.
What this means is that the life of a classroom teacher can be like living on a knife-edge. A teacher’s senses can be on hyper-vigilant alert, all day. Every sound may signal danger. Every move an imminent crisis. At any second, the teacher may be called upon to react, in an instant. It’s easy to make a mistake. There is no space for relaxation. And, if you know that trouble is coming down the corridor towards you in the form of that class you truly dread, the anticipation is as bad as the experience. Indeed, it’s the fear of tomorrow that keeps many teachers awake at night. That sense of relief on realising that the student, whose face haunts your nightmares, is missing today is quite something. I imagine that it’s a bit like going to receive some test results and discovering that you haven’t got cancer after all.
That metaphor of cancer is incredibly apt. Being in a classroom, hour after interminable hour, and having your self-esteem eaten away by that nagging feeling of vulnerability: insecurity, anxiety and that knowledge that you are absolutely not in control of the situation, is like living with a cancer that is insidiously corroding your very being. You are truly an imposter. You are a clown with thick, caked-on make-up which is disguising that ever-diminishing figure which is the real you.
And if you come to work ill? They sense it. There are classes which are super-nice. Lovely human beings who metaphorically cuddle you in a blanket of sympathy. But the others? They have no pity. They will exploit the poor teacher’s vulnerability. These are dangerous times because this is when the unwary teacher can make an error - and the next day find themselves in trouble because they ‘were a bit snappy’ or missed something they should have noticed. A parental complaint comes in and they find themselves having to defend an action or something they said when they were really too ill to be in that tense and pressured environment but they’d turned up out of sheer conscientiousness, thinking they’d cope. Do school leaders show sympathy? Of course not. They behave as if the poor teacher’s vulnerability did not exist. Struggling in with a sinus infection, a stomach upset or, even, hayfever doesn’t cut the mustard. ‘If you aren’t fit, you should have stayed home.’ Very true. But, if you stayed home every time you weren’t 100% up to snuff, especially given that there are several nights in a week when your fears for tomorrow mean that you barely sleep, you’d be in trouble for triggering an attendance warning. You can’t win. If a teacher has five lessons in a day and only one of them is the class from hell, the risk of the day ending up as a catastrophe is 100%, not 20%.
Then, there is the workload. Teachers are always complaining about workload. Yet, they rarely define what that means. A full day in the classroom is emotionally exhausting. It’s impossible to convey to anyone who hasn’t done it how the adrenaline, which has fuelled the teacher all day, suddenly drains as the end-of-day bell screams out and the children hurtle from the room and a sudden silence descends. It leads to a ‘downer’ - which has to be filled by something. Alcohol? Sugar? Compulsive exercise? There are many ‘drugs’ which teachers use to combat this barely recognised, but all too real, sensation. The most benign mean walking with a dog or engaging in an absorbing hobby. The most insidious is alcohol. Many teachers drink too much. It’s so easy to reach for that glass of wine, that shot of whisky, that gin and tonic - just to aid post-school relaxation. But, over a week, that alcoholic consumption is cumulative, and, over years, it’s easy for that one glass to become two, or three - or the whole bottle. There are teachers who would be horrified at the thought but, in truth, by their mid-40s, they have become functioning alcoholics.
All this is cumulative and it makes a normal family life very difficult. Teachers often find that they can’t ’switch off’; their minds race, their fears about what will happen tomorrow and insecurity about whether they did the right thing all whirl around in their minds. Insomnia is common. Irritability with family inevitable. Many teachers actually, and totally unintentionally, neglect their own children whilst spending their entire working lives helping others. Yes: they’d be horrified at the thought and absolutely do not recognise it in themselves. But a teacher who spends every weekend working, and leaving their partner to deal with their own children’s problems is not being a good parent. Children of teachers often spend hours in empty classrooms while mum or dad attends meetings or works after the end of the school day. Such children are patient but few of them will ever voluntarily enter the teaching profession themselves. Some do - but, for many, that decision is internalised rather than understood. And marriages fail because of it. What husband is going to respond well to a wife who comes home every night and does 2-3 hours of work, barely talking to him, and then does the same all weekend, leaving him to ferry the children to swimming or football or dance class? What wife is going to tolerate a lifetime of a husband who talks about nothing but school - if, and when, he talks to her at all - while she cooks and cleans and washes and deals with her children’s every day problems, while trying to hold down her own full-time job? Such relationships inevitably come under strain. Lots of teachers marry teachers. It’s the only way - and children where both parents are teachers really can pay that price. Some families make it work, of course. But many break under the strain. More often, a teacher decides that leaving the profession is the only way to be a good parent or to save their marriage.
Teachers don’t get enough daylight, or fresh air. This is especially true in winter. Too many hours under electric lighting can give rise to semi-permanent headaches. They don’t get breaks. Gulping down a scalding cup of tea in the ten minutes of mid-morning break is not a break, especially when the choice was between this abominable beverage and going to the toilet. Teachers must have strong bladders for it is often impossible for them to relieve themselves for hours. Children demand to be able to go to the toilet whenever they want and loudly proclaim that it’s their ‘human right’ to do so. OK - but their poor teacher must stand there and hold it, for he can’t indulge himself and pop out for a pee just because nature has called on him, too. And - God forbid that you are a young female teacher at a certain time of the month: that tell-tale ‘blup’ warning you that you must not sit down until you’ve been to the toilet - and that possibility might be two hours away.
Lunchtimes are too short. Thirty minutes? If the teacher wishes to speak to a child about something, tidy up and get ready for the afternoon or make a private phone call, there’s no time to eat. Many a teacher has nothing to eat from 8.30 in the morning until late afternoon. No time. And - there’s that rush for the staff toilets again.
Oh - and I forgot - I’m supposed to be talking about workload. The heaviest and most relentless part is, of course, marking. Teachers from an older generation talk of long lunches and more non-contact time in which marking could be fitted in. But today’s frenetic days mean that there’s no time in the school day. Marking must be taken home or it will not get done. Many a teacher, who tries to balance work with family life works late into the night, after their own children have gone to bed … marking. In my teaching days, I’ve marked til 2 am on a Saturday night, marked while walking in fields on a Sunday afternoon and marked during mealtimes.
Teachers also complain about planning. Yet, like marking, planning is part of the job. Even in the era of the classroom delivery model, no teacher can afford to rock up to the classroom without having at least read what they are supposed to be delivering. But many do - it’s easy to spot those who are ‘winging it’. And the children know. Of course they do; it undermines their respect for a teacher when they can obviously see that the teacher hasn’t a clue what is on the next slide. And cares even less.
Then there’s the scrutiny. It’s hard enough to be alone in the classroom. Harder still to be constantly alert to the imminent arrival of someone with a clipboard. You know that the word ‘support’ in teaching is largely code for ‘checking up on you’. Every school has its own version. Did you follow the entry routine correctly? Did you make sure that the children correctly laid their equipment out on their desk? Did you use the approved wording for your lesson objectives? Did you make sure to give praise points to at least three children? Did you monitor skirt length as the children entered the classroom? Check for jewellery? Was the ‘house badge’ correctly displayed? The House system inculcates pride and a sense of belonging - but, apparently, that escapes the average teenager, who will, if not relentlessly checked five or six times a day, dispose of said insignia and, showing a streak of malevolent individualism, walk around ‘un-branded’. It’s the same with uniform. Despite being persistently told that it gives them a sense of community, they will insist on pulling their shirts out, twisting their ties into bizarre shapes and wearing shoes with non-regulation bits of decoration. In the days before clip-ons, I spent many an early afternoon untangling a tie which had been used at lunchtime as ‘handcuffs’ or tied round the head as a bandana. It’s almost as if they don’t want to ‘belong’ to a club they’ve been conscripted into. Strange creatures! But for the teacher? Ah … there are endless protocols to adhere to, driven by fad, by external educational consultants and the whims of school leaders.
And I’ve not even talked about the data mania. In many schools across the country, each child is given a plethora of ‘targets’. Where these targets are derived from is mysterious and their statistical validity unknown. All the average teacher is told is that they define a child’s ’potential’ in your subject and, despite having virtually no autonomy whatsoever to deviate from the externally imposed teaching programme or the imposed protocols regarding delivery, the teacher is told that it’s their responsibility to ‘ensure’ that the children reach these divinely-inspired ‘targets’. Responsibility without power is a recipe for cognitive dissonance and a source of great psychological stress. How many teachers have been told that the targets that have been handed down by holy writ to their students are both ‘aspirational’ yet, also, the ‘minimum expectation’? Is that even possible? How many more have been told that 70% (or even 100%) of their students must achieve ‘above average’? And, if those students fail to achieve this miraculous feat? Well - that’s the teacher’s fault, obviously. It’s a strange concept.
It’s an even stranger world. Most jobs are based on the premise that wages are awarded in return for hours worked. It is beyond the comprehension of the non-teacher to contemplate doing work for no pay. Whether that’s a professional, paid by the hour, or a factory worker, paid for the shift. No-one expects to be told that it’s an ‘expectation’ that they put in extra hours of work for no pay at all. It’s routine in teaching. So - you’re paid to do classroom-facing duties for 23 hours per week and someone comes along and tells you that you’re expected to do two more, after school, hours. Will you get paid for them? No. It’s an ‘expectation’. And the word ‘expectation’ is thrown around like litter in a strong breeze. Run a club? When? In the 30 minute lunch break? Another ‘after school hours’ commitment? Run a revision session during the holidays? Am I going to be paid for it? No - it’s your ‘duty’ to ‘do everything you can’ for the children taking exams. And it’s largely performative. Who, in their right mind, thinks that, after more than a decade studying Mathematics, it was that two-hour session in the Easter holidays which made all the difference? It never ceases. And if you refuse - as you are entitled to do - it’s a black mark. This teacher ‘lacks commitment’. Or worse - they’re ‘unprofessional’.
Oh boy! Is that phrase banded about in teaching. What it really means is that the teacher stands their ground regarding these non-contractual ‘expectations’ or criticises a policy decision, a curriculum decision - any decision. It means that they went home at the end of the school day, rather than stay for extra hours of unremunerated work. Perhaps they expressed frustration with a petty imposition, or insisted on a basic entitlement, like having lunch or dared to go on holiday at Easter rather than run unpaid revision sessions. Most commonly, it means that they simply disagreed with the leadership over something. At worst, it is because you let the Panglossian mask slip: the public persona of teaching is that ‘Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds’. The 11th commandment is: ‘Thou shalt radiate positivity at all times.’
‘Just make three positive phone calls home each week’, they say. Nice idea. But each one of them can be a 20 min conversation. The parent is delighted that their child is doing so well. They’re pleased you rang and, while they’ve got you on the phone, they’d just like to mention … Three phone calls equals another hour’s work … for no extra pay. ‘And - don’t forget to log the call with a brief description of what was discussed’. That’s another half hour. It quickly mounts up.
And the justification for all this? Well, the standard teaching contract contains that catch-all concept of having to do anything necessary to fulfil their duties. And who defines that? As Shakespeare says, ‘There’s the rub.’ It’s as long as a piece of string.
But what about Bill?
What? You thought I’d forgotten? No. Bill was one of the best teachers I’ve ever met. He taught English.
More than that, Bill was the single best manager of people I’ve ever met in my life. He was a Deputy Head from the old school. Started teaching in the mid-70s in a boys’ grammar school and rode the tide of comprehensivisation to become a pivotal figure in everyone’s life. Bill had a saying “No-one has the right to make anyone else’s day miserable.” Bill would shadow a single child around school to make sure that he wasn’t being bullied. He’d make sure that he knew what each child coming into Year 7 from our feeder schools needed. He knew the community: the families and the problems.
But - Bill also cared about the staff. If any teacher had a problem, Bill would be there. Bill had a way of dealing with the most awkward of characters. He massaged bruised egos, alleviated the anxious, calmed the headstrong and lifted up the weary. He solved problems which seemed intractable. When asked, I said that Bill was the ‘oil’ which made the school function. He was.
He was kind, considerate, funny, clever, charismatic - and gentle. That’s not to say that he couldn’t terrify the children. I had many a child ask if they could stay in my classroom at lunch. Why? Because they had English after lunch and they hadn’t done Bill’s homework. They’d not done mine either - but, clearly, I did not inspire the same kind of respect as Bill.
Yet, on his office wall was a handwritten copy of the old proverb: “If you have two loaves of bread, give one to the poor. Sell the other and buy hyacinths to feed your soul.” That was Bill: a good man, a fabulous leader and a truly inspirational teacher.
But teaching broke him - in the end. As in many schools, change starts with an incoming Head, inexperienced and full of jargon: ‘monitor and evaluate’. Bill’s dry humour pointed this out as it became clear that one candidate was heading for the job. Yet, within months, behaviour had deteriorated to the point where some of the children became dangerous and violent. Teachers were assaulted. Everyone’s confidence and self-esteem plummeted. And, of course, everyone turned to Bill. But, as good as he was, Bill couldn’t solve every problem simultaneously and especially with a weak Head who was determined to box him in. It was this Head who asked what Bill’s job really was and to whom I’d answered that Bill was the ‘oil’ which made the school function. He was determined to fit Bill into a ‘role’ on a management flow chart. You couldn’t box Bill in to a defined ‘role’. To ‘cage’ Bill was to drive him …. to drink.
Bill had always liked a drink. But, under the mounting pressure, he drank more. He began to drink so much that he couldn’t make it into school all the time. We all missed him. We needed him. Months passed and, eventually, Bill stopped making it into school at all. He just disappeared. No-one would give a clear answer about what had happened to him.
Later, I heard a story that he’d gone to visit a sick friend. He’d taken the friend a bottle of whisky - and sat and drank it all himself in less than an hour.
Two years after this, he was dead. He was 52.
Teaching really can be brutal.