School Days
When I became a teacher, many of my friends looked at me in wonder, sighing their admiration of and fear for me. ‘How brave,’ they muttered. ‘Are you sure?’
I was – and am – sure. But sometimes – not very often – I falter.
As I have said before, our new behaviour policy has turned things round dramatically. The level of low-level disruption has decreased, and most of the worst behaviour has also disappeared – or is dealt with very quickly. But sometimes, despite everything, there are days when you wonder why on earth you chose this career, and how much longer you can go on. Last week, I had one such day. It went like this.
Three or four boys decided that, on this day, lessons were not for them. For two hours, they ran around outside, banging on windows, jeering at the students inside and shouting. Every time they were rounded up, they slipped through the net. Taken to the isolation unit by a senior member of staff, they then legged it back to freedom.
Trying to contain classes of curious, perhaps envious, students became increasingly hard. A spirit of unrest, originally swirling round the courtyard outside my room, took up position in the very centre of my own tiny scholastic universe. This kind of atmosphere usually comes only with high winds or heavy rain, after children have been indoors for too many hours; but this day was bright and sunny, the sky blue and clear. There was no way of knowing what whim had entered the children or why.
By lunchtime, when the errant students were finally removed to a place of safety, we thought the worst was over. We sat staring glumly at our lunches, pitying the hero of the isolation room. But at least there was only one more lesson to go.
We are, of course, all animals. And the younger we are the less we have tamed our animal reactions. Like a herd of deer scenting danger on the wind and taking flight, a gaggle of children picks up an atmosphere and reacts.
Loins girt, I left the staffroom expecting some mild unrest – but that is not what I found. Two girls were scrapping like Zola’s laundresses – grabbing, kicking, hair-pulling and punching.
Now, the rule is not to intervene physically in a fight. But I defy anyone to stand by and see two girls kick merry hell out of each other and not try to step in – you don’t even think about it; you move. Which I did. And ended up with a fine punch to the upper arm for my pains.
By the time a caretaker and another teacher came to pull them apart, the fight had fizzled out; the fight, but not the screaming, name-calling and hysteria. Until one of the girls absented herself entirely and the other burst into tears.
Finally, as I turned into my classroom, I found that some likely lad(s) had emptied every single pot of pens, pencils, scissors and glue all over the floor. The boys pushed past me and ran out, laughing.
On days like that, I remember my friends’ counsel against my going into teaching. But even on those days, as I reach for a much-needed glass of wine, I know that those days are very, very rare.
And the next morning, I’m ready to start all over again.