A Message of Love to the British School System

I was terrified, yet stared in fascination as the entire class started chanting “Let’s go fuck-ing men-tal!” to the tune of “I am ev-il Ho-mer”. Their regular science teacher, Mr. Ellis, had quit earlier in the day, telling the Headmaster to "stick this job up your ass" in front of the kids and staff as he walked out the front door into the grey November mid-morning. I had no plan. The students had decided to reject my peace offering to take them to the computer lab. They said, "We want to go outside and play footy". When I told them we couldn't do that, the chanting began. 56 minutes before the bell. Every piece of science equipment in the room posing a potential threat to my existence. Surrounded by these monsters, I stared into their ravenous eyes and saw no potential for compassion, remorse, empathy, or any other traits that define the human from the savage beast. It occurred to me that at any point they might try to jump me. 55 more minutes to go. What would happen? It could only get worse from here. A voice inside my head was singing, “I’m not here. This isn’t happening’’.

I remember my interview day at North Cumbria Technology College in Carlisle; an area of Northeast England long abandoned by the government, media, and industry. The locals took warmly to me right from the beginning. The number one question I encountered while looking around for a place to live was; “You're teaching English? How can you teach English if you're from Canada?" The school may have stolen a page from The Simpsons and sent all the troublemakers down to the basement for some ‘bee-guarding’, as the class I taught for my trial lesson was clearly a group of child actors. A group of such well behaved students could not exist in England. One of them even said to me “I hope you’ll be my teacher next year”.

I remember faces, and I did not see any of those kids when I came back in September.

Ahhh, September . . . Even if I was living out of a bag that first week at a B&B that blared karaoke every night until 1am, I was ready to educate! Molding young minds and turning them onto great writers, and introducing them to books that will transform their perspectives of the world. Oh, I was going to be a real hero and change the whole system, already contemplating what actor would play me in the film adaptation. (Maybe those inspirational teacher dramas are slightly contrived).

I arrived on day one with my pink tie and assumed that nobody dressed this well could possibly fail at anything. I expected to win them over during our first class discussion. Questions such as, “What type of music are you interested in?” received answers like, “None”.

What type of hobbies do you have?”

“…None”.

Then the eyebrow-raiser: “Well, what do you want to do when you finish school?”

“…Go on the dole”.

I started that week teaching English for grades 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11, grade 8 science, with one mystery period looming on Thursday. Everybody I asked gave me a different story:

“I think that’s Health; there is a booklet on how to teach it…”

“Oh, that’s a tutorial period. You don’t have a home form so it’ll be a free period for you”.

Many things were a mystery. That Thursday, with one minute remaining before the bell, as I was just about to break down after my worst lesson to date (where kids had thrown books out the window) 30 messy, frustrated, excitable grade 7s flooded into my room. The Deputy Headmaster drops by to tell me it’s actually drama that I’m teaching. The Head of the drama department quit the day before so there was nothing, not even a class list. The Deputy’s advice before walking out the door: “You’re a teacher, improvise!”

I did not take drama in high school. I have never stepped foot in a drama lesson in my life. I have no idea what happens in a drama lesson. I’m like “Um, let’s try some jumping jacks,” and maybe sneak outside and hit the fire alarm.

The first week did end on a high note as I experienced first hand why teachers find the job so rewarding… my first gift from a student: A portrait of me! The drawing was of a large penis and balls entitled "Mr. Sideburns".

The weeks went by and my tolerance for ambiguity and the absurd grew greatly. One day I handed out worksheets for grade 10 English and one child burnt them all with his cigarette lighter and threw the remains out the window. Another time I stepped out of the class for 5 minutes and a pupil ripped the video I was showing out of the VCR and smashed it into bits all over the room. So much for the age-old, foolproof lesson solution of kicking back and showing them a video . . .

Eventually, crazy becomes normal and futility becomes humorous. Besides that one point every day when you tell yourself you are going to quit, you get used to it. The idea that a group of kids would only refer to me as “Young Skywalker” seemed perfectly reasonable. No longer appalling was it to have kids come and tell me to "wash my hair." I was grateful for the advice. Now I knew what it felt like to be the kid that is picked on in school.

Things, however, are never as they seem. During the final week before Christmas, rumors of my departure spread around the school like wildfire, and the reaction left me blindsided. Cards, gifts (not of the “Mr. Sideburns” variety), adulation…on my last day, I practically couldn’t get the kids out of my room at 3:30.

I realized it was possible for students to be miserable to their teacher every single day, do their best to stop you from teaching anything, and at the same time really respect and admire you. Perhaps you are the only positive adult role model in their daily lives. At a school like this, following the curriculum should be the teacher’s least concern. The best role you can play is to go in every day and be a good person and try to show that you care about them, no matter how wretched some of them might behave toward you.

In Canada, I can approach a troublemaker by saying: “Listen, you are going to behave and complete the work I assign or else you’ll be back here with me next year.” But in England, the pass/fail requirement had been eliminated, and with it the notion of moving to the next year by basis of achievement. My pupils felt they had no attainable goals and the system reinforced this sentiment. Kids pass whether they do any work or not, and the work gets harder every year. The short-lived pain of failing a primary grade is exchanged for the lifelong behavioral problem that forms when an unprepared child is moved up in the system. I had a student in grade 7 that could not spell his last name. I had to log in to the computers for him. In his shoes, I know how I would react in the classroom when the teacher asks for us to open our books.

Ideally, a strong public school system allows families on “the dole” to raise kids that will integrate into the working-class, spawning children that can move on respectively. In England, the families that can afford to send their kids to private schools do. Who can blame them? The last of the major industries and employers left Carlisle by the turn of the century. There will be no helping hands for NCTC students when school’s out, in a world they know dangerously little about and that demands skills they do not possess. The simple fact is that I ended up caring about each and every one of those students, no matter what may have happened. Even the meanest kids at North Cumbria Technology College deserve a better fate.

How did those remaining 56 minutes of ‘alternative’ science go?? I have no idea. I honestly don’t remember.

Comments (0)

Subscribe to this comment's feed

Write comment

Email Name		Title Comment smaller | bigger
		I have read and agree to the Terms of Usage. Write the displayed characters Add Comment