Much of my blogging, since I decided to get into teaching some three years ago, has been concerned with the subject of poor behaviour in schools. I’ve been banging on about it so long that I must at times have sounded like a scratched record. And while there have been some sympathetic ears, my overwhelming feeling has been that the behaviour issue is often downplayed and not taken particularly seriously. I hear a lot of outrage from some quarters about cuts or about tests, but when it comes to the massive issue of behaviour: silence. So I’m rather pleased that we’re finally talking about it.
It all started with an article in Schools Week written by Laura McInerney entitled: “What if it’s behaviour that makes new teachers leave?” This was followed by a flurry of responses on Twitter, with anecdotal evidence that indeed behaviour is one, if not the leading factor for teachers leaving the profession. That’s not to say there hasn’t been the usual pushback on this issue. This prominent edu-tweeter posted the following:
And a former school inspector had this to say:
Since I am one of those people whose teaching career was blighted by poor behaviour, I would beg to differ with the above points of view. I am not alone. Here’s what one teacher had to say about her NQT year:
As far as I’m concerned, behaviour is the number one issue at the heart of many of our problems in education. Sort out behaviour and in one fell swoop, without making any other changes in your school, attainment will rocket up. Sort out behaviour and you’ll finally plug the haemorrhage of teachers from the profession. Staff absences will also miraculously reduce. It is no accident that the majority of schools that needed my services when I did supply work were schools with behavioural issues. Sort out behaviour and your teachers will be able to actually teach rather than fire fight. It is a complete no brainer, and yet so many school leaders still don’t accept that it is their primary responsibility to ensure that their schools are safe, calm spaces to work in.
Sorting out behaviour is not exactly rocket science. Several schools in this country do it very well. At the very least, school leaders could go visit them and learn a thing or two. But really, what are we talking about here? Having high expectations of your students (beware the soft bigotry of low expectations – just because children come from poor and socially disadvantaged backgrounds doesn’t mean they can’t behave). Devising clear, simple rules, communicating them to students and staff, and then rigorously enforcing them for a consistent approach. It is eminently do-able.
Come on school leaders of the land, sort out your systems. Don’t blame individual teachers and make them feel like failures because they couldn’t manage the behaviour in their classes. The absolute cheek of it! Blaming teachers is the biggest cop out in town. It is not a badge of honour to be able to control a class of rebellious teenagers. Some people are naturally good at it, others struggle. That alone does not make a good teacher. There are so many talented people out there who would make great teachers if only they were supported with behaviour. Tom Starkey makes this point eloquently in his oh so excellent blog this week:
Sort out your systems first, then look at individuals. Without functioning systems, you’ve no idea what people can do. Great teaching can only be enabled if systems support great teaching.
And Ofsted, please, please, make school leaders accountable for behaviour. I still haven’t forgotten how one of my previous schools – with shockingly terrible behaviour – could proudly emblazon its front gate with a quote from an Ofsted report saying “Behaviour is good”. Scratch a little more under the surface and find out what behaviour really is like before making such stupendously incorrect statements in your reports. Just, for goodness’ sake, sort it out.
Every so often – actually rather frequently – a controversy or heated debate erupts within edu-twitter which, if you dig down to the root of it, usually represents another round in the ‘trad’ versus ‘prog’ battle.
I get that some people are heartily bored with this particular debate and that others maintain the dichotomy doesn’t actually exist. Moreoever, I’m pretty sure a good many teachers, too busy to do the Twitter thing, are blissfully unaware that this debate is occuring.
“What’s a trad or a prog?”
I too, before deciding to get into teaching, could not have told you what these labels meant. I would also like to point out that I’m not particularly keen on labels. I always get a bit uppity about having to answer questions about my ethnicity when applying for jobs or filling out various other forms. Eek. Don’t label me! I’m me, a unique entity, not “Asian other” or “Middle Eastern”, though technically those terms might apply. So I can understand some people’s resistance to the idea that teachers might be ‘trads’ or ‘progs’.
Some may be uncomfortable with the combative aspect of this debate, which can often get a little heated. They might express sentiments such as “Let’s play nice and stop warring with each other” or “We’re all on the same side and want the best for our students”. I suspect a minority of people also like to virtue signal their neutrality.
And yet it’s obvious to me that there are fundamental differences in outlook and approach that manifest themselves in various ways. A look at recent debates, for example the one on school exclusions, will generally see people range into two camps. In this instance, people on the more progressive spectrum were calling for a reduction in the numbers of exclusions, and people on the more trad spectrum arguing for their necessity.
Secondly, it’s clear to me that the status quo, or you can call it the establishment, is profoundly progressive in its outlook. A significant proportion of educationalists – university lecturers, ITT tutors, educational consultants and senior leaders in schools – have a progressive ethos, even though they might not like to describe themselves as such. Consequently, many trainee teachers as well as the more experienced ones, have been exposed to progressive ideology throughout their careers and led to believe that it is the accepted truth. It was the need to bust such myths that prompted Daisy Christodoulou to write her seminal book “Seven Myths About Education’.
In the last few years, a proportion of teachers have, through Christodoulou’s book (and others), social media, grassroots conferences such as ResearchEd and the edu-blogosphere, begun to question the orthodoxies they had been inculcated with as trainees. These nascent ‘trads’ are still a minority in education but a growing one. It’s amazing how quickly ideas can spread, and how movements can snowball. It would not be too far from the truth to describe the trad movement as an insurgency in UK education.
Now of course, some established people are unhappy about this. The insurgency must at all costs be suppressed. No academics or consultants, who for years have been peddling certain practices to schools and teachers, want to hear the rising voices saying such practices are nonsense, or ineffective. As a result many teachers in the ‘trad’ camp have faced concerted campaigns to silence and discredit them. One approach has been to claim that there is ‘no best way’ to teach and that most teachers use a combination of groupwork and direct instruction anyway. A more recent attempt to discredit trads has been to claim that education debates should be nuanced. Thus I saw in my timeline today a blog being discredited for lack of nuance.
At its worst, this suppression can take a nasty and downright sinister turn. Schools and headteachers, being publicly shamed and harrassed for their supposedly ‘no-excuses’ approach to behaviour management. Individual teachers being reported to their schools for things they might have said in blogs or on social media. I myself have experienced such malicious actions, which practically derailed my career in education (but I’m still here). Some of what I experienced is described in this blog by Andrew Old.
So please, edu-twitter, don’t tell me the debate between trads and progs doesn’t exist. Don’t tell me the debate doesn’t matter. Why else would it get so heated and so underhand if it didn’t matter? We are not debating here whether porridge or toast is best for breakfast. This debate, this battle, is the most important one to be had because it directly impacts the life chances of hundreds of thousands of children in UK schools. Do we continue to let them down, with lax behaviour, knowledge-poor curricula and ineffective pedagogy, or do we confront the misguided ideas that have driven down standards for far too long? I know which choice I’m making, and detractors can shove their nuance up their backside.
It’s that time of the year again. The long holidays are winding to an end and preparations beginning in earnest for the new school year ahead. I logged in to Twitter today and found loads of posts, mainly from NQTs, stressing about whether they had set up their classroom well enough or prepared adequate resources.
Even experienced teachers are feeling nervous, and having strange school-related dreams. It’s like a new theatre production about to have its first night. The actors have practised their lines, the costumes and sets have been finalised, and everybody is holding their breath to see how it will go.
There’s a lot of that performance anxiety in teaching. It’s probably always been this way, though I wouldn’t know for sure. Some people relish the tension and anticipation. Some are less able to cope with it. I’m glad I’m not an NQT this year, as I was supposed to be. In fact, more and more, I’m glad not to be a teacher.
I will be going back to school this September, but as a TA in a new primary school (new to me at least). It seems like a pleasant, well-run ship, with well behaved pupils. I’m looking forward to meeting the children and getting stuck in. I’m glad though, that I don’t have to worry about setting up my classroom, doing data drops or any of the accountability measures that teachers face. I will clock in, do my bit, earn some money, then go home, well in time to pick up my boy from his school without him having to go to after-school care. He won’t have to go to before-school care either. What a blessing!
Of course there are some downsides. I will be earning less than I was last year and less than I could be earning as an NQT. That’s a slightly bitter pill to swallow but in all honesty, I’m lucky enough not to need the extra cash. For a few hundred pounds a month more, I would have to do exponentially more work, a lot of it of the unpleasant admin/accountability variety, as well as work far longer hours. Also, being able to have my evenings and weekends to myself allows me to develop other side projects, most notably the writing of my history booklets – to be found on LearningForMemory.com.
Another downside is that I will have less responsibility and be given more menial work at times. I will be at the bottom of the school hierarchy. And yet… I will still be teaching. Everytime I sit with a child and read with them, or help them with their writing or their numbers, I will be teaching. There is still much scope for job satisfaction and usefulness. It’s not what I had hoped my teaching career would be, but in the present climate, this is the best compromise I can come up with. It turns out that when it comes to work/life balance, quality of family life trumps everything – in my case at least. I suspect I would have been more willing to do the long hours at work if I had felt they were being well spent. Inputting data into spreadsheets, attending pointless CPD and endless meetings – these felt like a waste of my time when I could have been picking my son up from school and asking him about his day. And the straw that broke the camel’s back was behaviour. Having to deal with surly, rude and disrespectful teenagers on a daily basis was not the recipe for a happy working life.
So this is my conundrum. I love teaching. I love lesson planning. I love working with kids. I’m good at explaining things. But I could not be a teacher today, in the current schools climate. I think that’s a pity, not just for me but for the teaching profession as a whole, which can’t really afford to lose talent like mine. Perhaps the profession needs to take a long hard look at itself. Perhaps senior leadership teams should start to question the sacred cows that have been the orthodoxy for so long. Just because something has been done a particular way for ages doesn’t mean it’s necessarily the right thing to do.
I recently started looking into potential new schools for my son, as we are hoping to relocate in a year or two, move away from the rat run of London for somewhere more laid back and picturesque. In the process, I signed up with the Good Schools Guide, and started reading up their reviews of some schools. I was struck by the number of times teachers in these reviews were described as willing to ‘go the extra mile’. And struck by this quote from a headteacher, who:
Has high expectations of his staff and spells out the commitment at interview; ‘I pin them down, no woolly promises to help will do. This job is a vocation.’ He is scornful of phrases such as ‘work-life balance’, believing that, in term time, successful teachers must be prepared to involve themselves far beyond the classroom itself, including meetings at odd times; ‘Ten o’clock in the evening is not unheard of.’
I wonder what kind of teacher turnover this head has at his school. I wouldn’t be surprised if, after earning their spurs for a few years, many of his teachers decided to look for greener pastures. He is, unfortunately, not alone in having this kind of attitude towards teaching. I remember on my first teacher training seminar being told that teaching was not a profession where you could just clock in and out, and that we needed to be prepared to work long hours, sometimes until 10 pm on some, if not all nights.
By no means do I denigrate the idea that teaching is a vocation for some people and that many such people thrive on totally immersing themselves in school life. These people are often the ones most likely to progress on to headships – because they are willing to go the extra mile. However, I don’t think we can build a school system on the proclivities of a minority of people. Most of us want to have a life outside of school, and to be able to leave school concerns behind us when we walk out of the school gates at the end of the day. For many people, it is a job, not a vocation.
Just to let you know, today’s blog is a personal one, with not much to do with education. It’s been prompted by a short trip to Belgium I made yesterday to visit my uncle, who is very unwell. I had calculated roughly while sitting in my train carriage that I hadn’t seen my uncle for 22 or more years. For many of those years, I had simply lost touch with him, until I got a call out of the blue last year.
My uncle is from Syria, my late mum’s younger brother. I remember seeing him a lot during my childhood. He owned a fashion boutique in Damascus and would travel to Europe every year, visiting Milan, Paris and London to buy apparel from wholesalers to sell in his boutique back home. In London, he would stay at home with us, updating mum on the latest family gossip and showing us the garments he purchased each day. He would always bring with him some tasty treats from Syria, such as home made apricot jelly (a particular Damascene specialty) or pickled eggplants stuffed with garlic and pine nuts (delicious, I promise you). But then we had the Gulf war and the Axis of Evil, which made it more difficult for my uncle to get visas to travel abroad. We saw much less of him after that.
I myself travelled rarely to Syria. My last trip there was, I think, in the year 2000, and was totally unintended. I had been sent on a business trip to Beirut for a few days – at the time I worked for a consultancy that specialised in the Middle Eastern markets. On the spur of the moment, I had telephoned one of my aunts to say hello, and she had read me the riot act about not coming to visit them in Damascus. “Just get into a taxi and come over, it’s only an hour’s journey away”, she said. So I checked out from my hotel and asked the receptionist to sort out a taxi for me, and then made my way towards the Syrian border.
The taxi driver was friendly and chatty, and quite familiar with this commute between the two neighbouring capital cities. At the border checkpoint, I presented my passport (I was a Saudi Arabian national then, not yet a British citizen), had it stamped and sent on my way. However, just as we were about to drive off, a man in military uniform stopped our car and asked if he could nab a ride with us. The taxi driver was unable to say no. This big man, with a gun sticking out from his side, turned to me with false bonhomie and started asking me questions. The taxi driver turned silent and fearful, as for the remaining part of the journey, I was grilled on who I was, what my connection to Syria was, what was my reason for making this journey, who was I visiting, where did my aunt live, and so on and so forth. After half an hour of this inquisition, we arrived in Damascus, and the security official asked to be dropped off on a street corner, allowing us to drive off. I heaved a sigh of relief, as my taxi driver went back to his garrulousness. Looking around the city, everywhere were billboards and posters of the recently deceased Hafez Al Assad, and his son Bashar who had succeeded him as ruler of Syria, together with patriotic slogans – a daily reminder of the almost totalitarian dictatorship in charge of the country. I kept my visit short. My family was welcoming but I couldn’t shake off that feeling of oppression when everywhere we went involved passing a security checkpoint, where the encroaching power of the state could be felt at every level. I vowed not to return, at least not until there was a better, more open regime.
During that short visit, I met many family members, but not my uncle. He had been ostracised by the rest of the family for his womanising ways. After his long suffering wife had asked for a divorce, he had taken up with a girl half his age, a girl from the provinces, that is, not from Damascene high society (shock horror). I heard he had married this young woman and started a new family with her, but as he was beyond the pale now, he had not been invited to the dinner being held in my honour. There was also another member of the family, my aunty Nadia, who had been similarly excluded. After an unhappy marriage, she had turned to drink and men for solace, and tales of her licentious behaviour had, it was claimed, stained the family name. This all sounds rather Victorian, doesn’t it?
When my mum was alive, she had been the glue keeping the extended family, if not together, at least connected. But my mum passed away in 1999, and after that I received little news about my uncle Marwan and my aunty Nadia. The war started, though my family in the affluent part of Damascus seemed curiously unaffected. Facebook posts showed them dressed up to the nines attending weddings and lounging in cafes. About two years ago, I heard on my cousins’ WhatsApp group that aunty Nadia had passed away, and assumed she had died of old age as she was close to 80 years old. I heard nothing about my uncle until that phone call about a year ago, telling me he was now in Belgium but giving little detail as to how he arrived there. I promised to visit, but got sidetracked with work and life. Then I heard he had been admitted to hospital with a life threatening illness, and then sent home for the little time he had left. The visit could not wait any longer.
It’s funny how, you can be apart for decades yet still feel that instant connection and familiarity when you meet up again. This is how it was yesterday. I had brought some old family photos and we sat together and reminisced. I met my uncle’s wife for the first time – a lovely lady – and my two young cousins, a boy aged 11 and a 13-year old girl. Later, I found out about their harrowing journey to Europe. Back in Syria, they had given shelter to my elderly aunty Nadia, whose home in Ghouttah (near Douma) was in a zone of intense fighting. One day however, she had decided to head back to her flat – she wanted to get hold of a stash of money she had hidden away. No amount of pleading could persuade her not to go. She didn’t make it back from that short walk a few blocks away. It’s presumed she was shot dead by a sniper. They never managed to recover her body.
In due course, the fighting got ever closer to my uncle’s home, and they took the decision to leave. Everything they owned was liquidated in a few days, their home, their furniture, any of their belongings that could bring in some cash. They flew to Turkey and paid a smuggler to take them in a boat to Greece. They got on the rubber dinghy late at night, and luckily the sea was calm. After a while, they saw the lights of a boat approaching and panic set in. If it was the Turkish coastguard, they would be returned back to Turkey. But luck was on their side, as it was the Greek coastguard, who took them onboard and deposited them on mainland Greece. From there, they were dispatched straight to Germany, but my uncle’s wife had heard through the grapevine that refugees were no longer being welcomed there, following a backlash against Angela Merkel’s earlier decision to let many of them in. They decided to sneak away from the centre they were at, and with the last of their money, bought coach tickets to Brussels. Arriving there on a cold winter’s evening, they found the office for processing refugees closed, and sat outside, not knowing where they were going to spend the night. They had no money left.
And there, they were accosted by a kindly expat British couple, who took them into their home and gave them shelter for a week, while their documents were being processed. They were then told to go to a detention centre in a small town about an hour away. With help from the British couple, who paid their taxi fare there and even put them up in a hotel when they arrived and found the processing office closed, they finally ‘got into the system’ and were housed in the detention camp, four to a room, with communal bathrooms. They stayed there for four months, enduring many interviews to ascertain whether they were truly who they said they were. The camp was full of Afghan and Iraqis, many of them claiming to be Syrian, with forged passports in tow. Some of the interrogation involved them being tested on streets and details about Douma that only someone who had lived there would know. Finally, they were given residency papers and waited a few more months before they were housed.
In all that time, I was blissfully unaware of their fate. I watched footage of refugees in boats on the news, like everyone else, never thinking it directly affected me. Cushioned by the creature comforts of home, I felt sympathy but disconnected from it all. These awful things were happening far away, to other people. It was sad, yes, and I made charitable donations to organisations involved in helping refugees, to help me feel I was doing my bit. Finally, sitting across from my 72-year old uncle, reality came to bite. In all that time of tribulation, they never called me or my sisters. They didn’t have my number, but a few enquiries would have procured it, as they were able to reach me last year. Maybe it was pride or a sense that they had no right to ask for help from family members they had not spoken to for decades. In the end, it was not me who helped them, but an anonymous British couple. It’s no exaggeration to say that I don’t feel too good about myself right now.
My edu-Twitter feed is currently a hive of posts about the forthcoming elections to the Chartered College of Teaching, which was set up to be a teacher-led organisation but now looks like it will be anything but teacher-led. The discussion has been spearheaded by Andrew Old’s recent blog (entitled “I was wrong about the Chartered College Of Teaching. It’s worse than I thought it would be”), as well as this blog from Greg Ashman and this thread from Michael Fordham.
From the looks of it, influential and already powerful people within the education establishment will have their voices amplified even more via this new organisation (which as I understand, has failed to recruit the expected numbers of teachers to its membership). Now, I have only worked in schools for the past three years, and been on educational Twitter approximately the same amount of time, but one thing I have noticed is the enormous amount of push-back and gatekeeping from an establishment keen on maintaining orthodoxy and silencing dissenting voices. Andrew Old summed it up nicely in this Twitter post:
I don’t particularly want to use this blog to add much to the discussion on the Chartered College of Teaching and how it’s run. My main focus in writing this is to investigate the question: do we really need it? I still struggle to get my head around why our cash-strapped government needs to spend millions of pounds on a new organisation for teachers. I’m told it is to develop the professionalism of teachers, by providing them with access to research and high quality CPD, as well as the all important certification of becoming a ‘Chartered Teacher’. This will, it is argued, provide a career path for teachers to rise within their profession.
Now, if you’ve been on this earth as long as I have, perhaps you too might be a little sceptical about certification as a way of guaranteeing quality. Just because someone holds an impressive looking certificate, and adds a few more letters after their name, doesn’t really mean that this person is any better at their job than someone without such accoutrements. Similarly, we all know that just because a school has been rated ‘Outstanding’ by Ofsted doesn’t really mean that the school is actually outstanding. These are often arbitrary judgements, made by people who are as prone to bias as anyone else. More often than not, such accolades are simply proof that said school or said professional has jumped through the requisite hoops, said and done the right kind of things to appear to be outstanding.
If the primary aim of the Chartered College of Teaching is to provide teachers with research and CPD, then here too I would question the need for this to be done via a well funded organisation. Opportunities for high quality CPD are plentiful without having to pay the rather steep price of membership. Just going on edu-Twitter, connecting with other teachers and reading blogs or articles they share, is a free and easy way to improve your practice. There are also many grassroot teacher conferences out there, such as ResearchEd, NorthernRocks, and BrewEd – to name just a few – providing teachers with a forum to share best practice. Some Multi-Academy Trusts also provide competitively priced CPD sessions in which they share good practice with other teachers and school leaders (I’m thinking here of Inspiration Trust, which has run some very interesting courses recently). So there’s plenty out there for the reflective teachers wanting to improve what they do.
I would argue that the best way to enhance the professionalism of teachers is to actually let them get on with their job and:
teach in classrooms where good behaviour is the default;
not bog them down with pointless paperwork;
trust teachers to do their job instead of micro-managing them;
provide them with opportunities to visit other schools and network with other professionals;
and, most critically, good leaders in their school, that set the right culture for the teachers to improve.
The amount of money that is spent in education on things that do not actually feed down to helping students improve is mind boggling. Organisations with large amounts of funding inevitably become bureaucratic beasts and vulnerable to takeover by the ‘established elites’. Do we really need this? I leave the last word to Mr. Blachford, who is a supporter of the CCT but concerned about the influence of non-teachers on the profession:
I have just finished reading ‘The Teacher Gap‘ by Rebecca Allen and Sam Sims, an important book in the educational lexicon which should, in my view, be essential reading for all stakeholders in schools – heads, middle leaders, teachers, governors and even interested parents. Not forgetting, of course, policy makers in government.
I read it with mixed feelings, because it spoke so eloquently about my recent experience, even though it wasn’t, of course, about me specifically. For anyone who doesn’t know my history, I enrolled on a school based ITT course (training as a history teacher) last September but bailed out a few months later for various reasons, many of which are explained very well in the book. I read this passage with a dawning understanding of my predicament:
Even worse, because it is the low performing and disadvantaged schools that suffer from staffing shortages, the schools with the strongest incentives to take on trainees are often not those that are best placed to support them. High performing schools with excellent working conditions generally have less need to recruit new teachers. As a result, those schools with the greatest strength and stability to deliver training experiences are often not the institutions who are incentivised to do so.
It goes a long way towards explaining the dearth of high quality history teacher training positions in my area. To remedy this situation, the authors recommend two things:
Create an institution that can collect accurate information on which schools have the capability to provide high quality training placements. [I’d be interested to see how this could be done without some schools ‘gaming the system’. Also, in this crowded institutional landscape, do we really need to add a new institution, rather than enhance the remit of an existing institution?]
Provide funding for reluctant schools to train novice teachers.
Another of the problems highlighted with teacher training in the book is that it is far too ‘front-loaded’, which can be overwhelming for new teachers. Novices are expected to learn everything there is to know about teaching in the first two years, after which no further formal training is required of them. This doesn’t give them time for deliberate practice and mastery of different aspects of teaching. Very often, new teachers are having to plan a whole career’s worth of lesson plans in the space of one year. It’s suggested that schools should support novice teachers by providing them with lesson plans prepared by experienced colleagues and ensure that mentors give non-judgemental support, and act as genuine role models rather than just going through the motions and doing the paperwork. Also, the training teachers should be allocated their own classroom, even if it means the head of department goes without (wouldn’t I have loved that!)
These are all things that can be done by schools without waiting for policy makers. However, policy too could be changed to tackle that front-loading aspect of teacher training. The authors advocate a system whereby it takes two years for a teacher to obtain a diploma, and then a further four years of practice before they obtain their full teaching qualification, all the while receiving support and coaching. In this way, novice teachers would have the space to master their craft in a supportive environment rather than being cast out to sink or swim.
These are all sensible, if expensive, proposals. However, in my view, they fail to take into account two things. Firstly, the elephant in the room that is behaviour. The book touches on this issue but doesn’t delve into it far enough. This is a shame, as I think poor behaviour in schools is one of the most critical issues in teacher recruitment and teacher retention. New teachers wanting to engage in deliberate practice of different aspects of teaching – which is what they need to do to become expert – are often compelled to put all their focus on managing behaviour. If we want teachers to develop their teaching, then they need the space to teach without constantly having to fire-fight disruption in their classroom. I would suggest that an important part of the capability judgement on whether a school is suitable to train new teachers or not, is the quality of the behaviour systems in place. As a minimum, new teachers (and experienced ones too for that matter) should not be running their own detentions. School leadership should be visible and proactive in ensuring good behaviour is maintained.
The second thing is that it’s all well and good to advocate extensive coaching and mentoring over the course of several years, but this only works if the quality of the coaching is good to start with. I believe there is a deficit of expert people who can help develop good teachers. There are pockets of excellence here and there, but country-wide and system-wide that is not enough. Novice teachers to this day are being taught about learning styles on some ITT courses. There is also a structural bias towards teaching constructivist pedagogy (particularly in the university-based PGCEs), where didactic teaching from the front is frowned upon. How many ITT courses I wonder are introducing their trainees to Rosenshine’s principles of instruction, or discussing the merits of explicit instruction versus inquiry learning? There was an interesting Twitter thread not long ago discussing things people had been taught on their PGCEs which they now realise were wrong. This prompted a prominent academic to censure them for slagging off their courses. In my experience, that type of push back, or gatekeeping, is fairly common and symptomatic of that constructivist or ‘progressive’ bias when it is challenged.
The Teacher Gap also discusses other factors which are contributing to the exodus of teachers from the profession. Workload, lack of autonomy and the audit culture in schools are laid bare for the chimera that they are – none of these measures (which have made teachers’ lives much less tolerable) have improved outcomes for students. The message is clear. Restore trust in teachers, and manage out the minority that can’t cope without being audited to extremes. The collateral damage of trying to micro-manage this minority of under-performing teachers is killing the profession. This book should be a massive eye opener for school leaders vested in their tracking systems, or book scrutinies or data drops. I wonder though how many of them are self reflective enough to digest this message?
I watched an interesting video clip yesterday, kindly shared on Twitter by Martin Robinson, of an interview with Roger Scruton. It’s long (about 52 minutes altogether), but well worth the time if you can spare it. I had of course heard of Roger Scruton – mainly through people tweeting soundbites of things he has said – but I had never heard him speak before. The interviewer in this clip (an academic from Berkeley University) commits the cardinal sin of talking more than the person he’s interviewing, but the result is that it feels more like a conversation than an interview.
Why am I writing a blog about it? I’m not entirely sure, but maybe it will become clear as I write. There’s a moment around 23 minutes into the interview, where Roger Scruton discusses the importance of teaching grammar at school and his experience, coming from a poor background, of going to grammar school. He compared the approach taken by his teachers then with what is happening in schools today:
“our teachers as their first instinct when they found you were handicapped by the language that you’d learned from your parents was to take you in hand, give you the advantage which your family had not, so that you could catch up with the others. I think that idea of teaching, that you’re actually lifting people up, so as to be able to receive their inheritance, that idea has gone to a great extent. It’s much more now that the teacher comes down to the level of the student.”
I was struck by the truth of this observation. Of course, this is not the case in all schools. There are some wonderful teachers and leaders in this country, determined to give their students, no matter how disadvantaged their background, the knowledge and skills to be able to accesss our shared cultural inheritance and to join that great conversation of mankind that has been going on through the ages. But they are a minority. Overall, my experience of working in a variety of schools the past three years, has been an inexorable dumbing down of content in order to make the curriculum more accessible and engaging to students.
In this context, I think the idea of a personalised curriculum, where what is taught is more dependent on who the student is and what level of attainment he or she has reached rather than on an ambitious curriculum for all, has been corrosive for our education system. I remember some years ago working as an LSA in a year 7 class, and the set text in English one term was “Terror Kid“, a novel by Benjamin Zephaniah. I can see that the book ticked a lot of boxes, written by someone from the same Afro-Carribbean community as the majority of the students and dealing with the subject of violence and terrorism, very on message with the whole ‘Prevent’ strategy. The fact that the book contains an implausible plot, stereotypical tropes and, worst of all, pedestrian prose, is conveniently overlooked. I can think of no clearer example of teaching being brought down to the level of the students, rather than aiming to lift them up, and I can almost guarantee that no independent school in this country teaches that book (I could be wrong, correct me if I am).
Now, I’m not particularly intellectual. I must admit to spending a large part of my youth reading Mills & Boon type novels (though I also devoured ‘War and Peace’ in less than a week). I still feel a little intimidated in conversations with people who obviously know much more than I do. For example, I’ve had several illuminating Twitter chats with The Grumpy Teacher, an anonymous history teacher, where I’ve felt a little out of my depth but gained fresh insights about the Feudal System, among other things. When I decided to get into teaching, I had great hopes that my staff room would be full of Grumpy Teachers, from whom I could absorb, osmosis style, knowledge and erudition. So it has been a particular disappointment that often – and I have no wish to blow my own trumpet here – I have found myself to be the most intellectual person in the room.
This, I feel, has been the single biggest crime perpetrated by the progressive, constructivist posse on education today. I wonder how many excellent and knowledgeable teachers have been driven out of the profession over the last few decades, because what they had to offer – knowledge – was no longer valued.
I had an experience yesterday which made me want to write another blog. These last few weeks, I’ve been doing some supply work as a way of earning a bit of extra cash before I start my new job in September. I’ve worked as cover in both secondary and primary London schools, and while the experience has been valuable and informative, I’m glad it’s coming to an end.
There seems to be signicantly more demand for supply cover in certain kinds of schools, the ones with high rates of absenteeism because the working conditions are less than good. The ones with poor behaviour. My first supply job was actually rather pleasant, lulling me into a false sense of optimism. “This is easy money”, I thought at the end of that first day. Not so now. Some jobs were one off days, others were several days in a row, and others were regular repeats. So when I got the call yesterday morning to say, there’s a job at __ primary for a one-to-one with a SEN student, I knew exactly which one it was. Off I went, signed in with the receptionist who knew me well by now and went to see the SENCO. “You’ll be one-to-one with S”, she said to me apologetically. “He didn’t come in yesterday, so if he doesn’t come today, I’ll put you somewhere nice”. I got the sense that everyone was rather hoping this boy didn’t turn up. Of course, he did come.
As far as I can tell, this student never actually sits in class with the rest of his cohort. He is taken out to do one-to-one work, for which he is rewarded with “choosing time”, a euphemism for time playing on the laptop. Last time I worked with him, that’s what he did for pretty much the whole day, apart from running off a few times, and making me chase him around the school and the playground. The class teacher handed me some books and worksheets for him to complete, without any great hope that he would do them. After a half hour of him acting up (basically lying down under a table and moaning that he wanted his usual TA, not the supply), he got what he wanted: the laptop (after which the moaning stopped). Immediately, the latest video game ‘Fortnite’ came on, while I shrugged internally and picked up a book to read. I tried every so often to remind him of the work he was supposed to do, and eventually he promised to do it after morning break. As it happens, there was a PE lesson after break, which he was allowed to take part in since he had been so quiet all morning (laptop time can work wonders that way).
So anyway, I come back after lunch and remind him of his promise to do some work. Quick as a flash, he’s off to hide under a table and have another of his tantrums. One of the school staff comes over to him and coaxes him out. “I don’t want her”, he says, pointing to me. “She’s evil, I hate her.” Some time is spent talking to him and calming him down. No attempt is made to get him to apologise to me. Then I’m left with him again. I pick up my book and sit down to read. As far as I’m concerned, he can spend the rest of the day on that dratted computer. But no, he gets up and decides to go for a walkabout, so of course I follow. “Don’t follow me”, he snaps.
“I have to, it’s my job to supervise you”, I reply.
“Then I’m going to see Ms M” (the head teacher).
He runs down the stairs and I follow at a more sedate pace. I reach the head teacher’s door and look up through the glass to see him inside her office. Satisfied that he’s where he should be, I find myself a seat outside her office and wait to see the outcome of this chat with the head. Ten minutes later, I see the boy beckoning me through the window. I go into the head teacher’s office. She smiles at me and says “S will spend the rest of the day in my office but he needs his laptop. Would you mind going to fetch it for him?” I put a gracious smile on my face and say “of course”, and trudge up two flights of stairs to go fetch the laptop. When I bring it back, no words of thanks from the boy. The head teacher is the one who does the thanking, then asks me to re-join the class.
Back up two flights of stairs I go, but half the class has gone off for a transition day at their new secondary and I’m not needed. With an hour to kill until home time, I walk a few doors down and poke my head into a year 4 class. The frazzled teacher there welcomes an extra helping hand so I settle in for the rest of the day. It immediately becomes clear why the poor teacher is frazzled. Behaviour. I spot a boy in the corner dancing a little jig to entertain his classmates, and loudly talking over the teacher. He also seems to be the only child in the class to have a laptop open in front of him, playing some video game. Quelle surprise. The worst behaved child is given a laptop (I find out later it was a reward for having behaved in the morning).
And so, after an hour in that rowdy, disorganised classroom, I finally went home, breathing a sigh of relief. I’m not planning to go back to that school again, no matter how many coaxing phone calls I get from the agency. In fact, I think this is the end of the road for me as a supply cover. Life’s too short and the sunshine is beckoning me, telling me to start my holiday a little bit sooner. Before I head out into the garden for a bit of R and R, I’ll leave you with one last thought. That school was rated ‘Outstanding’ by Ofsted.
I have just returned from a lovely overnight stay in a country house spa hotel to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. It was everything I could have wished for, particularly the relaxation of not having a child around. I padded around in my complementary bathrobe and slippers, helped myself to drinks and magazines, reading them in a suspended swinging chair. I swam in a large and peaceful pool, luxuriated in the jacuzzi and managed a few minutes in the steam room. Everywhere I went, people spoke in hushed quiet tones. Mobile phones were not allowed. As I lay back on my deck chair, I breathed in the sweet smelling air and relaxed totally for the first time in months.
This has been a tough, bruising year for me. Actually, a tough couple of years. And I’m a bit tired now. There have been highs and lows, wonderful children that have found a place in my heart, challenges and achievements. Teaching is rather a mixed bag, bringing deeply fulfilling moments for every dark, horrendous day. But I’m tired.
Just last week, I had to deal with stroppy, rude, disrespectful teenagers who refused to put their mobile phones away when I asked them to. On Friday, I had to supervise two boys who for various reasons had been excluded from their classes, only to spend that time on laptops playing rather dubious video games that seemed to involve lots of killing. When I castigated them for the language they used, one of them responded “That’s how we talk where we come from miss. You know, we get lots of stabbings here.” My enduring memory of last month was trying to restrain a child who in a fit of anger was throwing heavy items around and then banging his head on the table. And for everyone of these extreme situations, I have encountered plenty of the low level, but equally soul sapping stuff. “Shut up”, “racist”, “pig”, not to mention regular instances of the F word seem to have become everyday language in some quarters. Not to mention total contempt and disrespect for the adults (until they ‘earn the respect’). The quiet peaceful world of my hotel spa and its clientele seems a million miles away. They could be parallel universes.
I know it’s easy to stereotype, and that not all children are in gangs or have special needs, but inner London can be quite grim. There just seems to be so much deprivation, so much disfunction. Children have been exposed to so much brutalising behaviour that the possibility of turning them into polite, functional members of society seems ever so slim. Yet it can be done. Anyone visiting Michaela school can be in no doubt that, in the right circumstances, those angry, anti-social children can be turned into beacons of civility. I’m told it’s not just Michaela, but that other schools are also achieving fantastic behaviour and culture. I’m sure that must be true, but my experience, which now runs to over a dozen schools (thanks to a stint doing supply work), tells me otherwise.
So I’m glad Amanda Spielman has focused on behaviour in her recent speech at the Education Festival. Ofsted is to add a separate judgement for behaviour in future inspections, and will take measures to ensure they get an accurate picture – not the sanitised version that is often presented by savvy school leaders. If you ship out disruptive children for a school trip on inspection days, Ofsted are going to be on to you (I hope). Every school can manage to show off a well behaved class during an inspection. But what about NQTs, new and supply teachers? Are they getting the behaviour? What is it like at transitions? What will students say about the behaviour, when asked in anonymous questionnaires? There are numerous ways of sussing out the behaviour in a school and Ofsted seems to be determined to get to the truth. This is long overdue.
In the meantime, I’m hanging in there, but compromises have been made. I’ve accepted a job next September, with shorter hours, less responsibility and less pay, but the plus side for me is that the behaviour I observed on interview day is good (it has to be said the catchment is affluent middle class), and my son will no longer need to languish in before and after school care. I’ll also have more time and energy to devote to my side project, Learning For Memory. September 2019 will be my crunch time. I’ll have to enrol on a teacher training course then or have to go through the palaver of sitting my professional skills test again (which I don’t fancy doing). Will I bite the bullet and do it? Maybe a year working in a good (not in Ofsted terms) school will help convince me to go for it. At the moment, much as I love working with children, much as I love the act of teaching, the profession of teaching is not one I want to join.
It is a given that teachers in schools today must differentiate to accomodate the different learning needs of their students. The Teachers’ Standards, by which all teachers new and old are held to account, state quite clearly that teachers must:
5. Adapt teaching to respond to the strengths and needs of all pupils
– know when and how to differentiate appropriately, using approaches which enable pupils to be taught effectively
– have a secure understanding of how a range of factors can inhibit pupils’ ability to learn, and how best to overcome these
– demonstrate an awareness of the physical, social and intellectual development of children, and know how to adapt teaching to support pupils’ education at different stages of development
– have a clear understanding of the needs of all pupils, including those with special educational needs; those of high ability; those with English as an additional language; those with disabilities; and be able to use and evaluate distinctive teaching approaches to engage and support them.
Differentiation can take many forms. It could be that some pupils are given extra scaffolding to complete a task. It could involve the teacher amending the question asked of a particular pupil, taking into account their level of attainment. Quite often also, differentiation takes the form of giving a different range of tasks to a class. Worksheets can be simplified to enable lower attaining students to access the work. And I’m sure we have all seen the Powerpoint slides with tiered tasks, usually three different iterations that are easy, average or difficult, masked under some euphemism or other.
Beyond that of course, there is differentiation in the form of grouping by ‘ability’, either setting by subject or streaming. This can take place as early as Reception year – that is four year olds going on five. I have observed first hand how setting works in Reception, and the experience has troubled me. The past few weeks and months, one question above all others has nagged at me and it is this: ‘When will they catch up?’
You see, these four or five year olds were put into different groups for their daily phonics lesson, based on their ‘ability’. Except of course, this has nothing to do with ability. Some children will have had the benefit of going to nursery (particularly the autumn born ones) and will have been exposed to phonics beforehand. Other children will have arrived in Reception having never been exposed to letters and their sounds. The problem is compounded when some of these children come from families where English is not the first language spoken, the EAL children. Right from day one, therefore, we are confronted with significant differences in attainment, and we know this gap will get wider and wider as these children progress through school (I read some stats about this somewhere, some time ago but forget where – maybe someone can remind me).
Phonics is the main building block of literacy in those early years, so having different phonics lessons means effectively that, right from day one, children are being given a different curriculum from one another. The differences are striking. I was given the lowest group, and tasked with teaching them the phase 2 sounds (basically all the individual letter sounds). I was told to focus on a particular letter each lesson (starting with s, a, t, p, n), to sing the letter song, name some words that start with that letter (e.g. ‘a for apple’) and get them to air draw the letter (or draw it on each other’s backs with their index finger, which I found did not work particularly well). I tried getting them to practise writing the letter of the day on their mini whiteboards, but was told off because apparently the children were not developmentally ready for this. Finally, we would attempt to decode some simple CVC words (consonant, vowel, consonant).
At the other end of the scale, the ‘higher’ children experienced very different phonics lessons. As a cover teacher, I would occasionally teach them when the main class teacher was absent. These children were learning digraphs, split digraphs and tricky words. On their mini whiteboards (yes, they got to have them), they would write sentences using the digraph sound of the day. So when we look at how different the curricula are, we should not be surprised at the big differences in outcome. In a way, through our actions, we are ensuring that the gap not only remains but that it widens. And as I practised the split digraph sound a_e with the ‘highers’, my thoughts turned to the ‘lowers’ who had yet to be exposed to such sounds. How were they ever going to catch up? The truth is, there was no expectation that they would.
This saddens me. Actually, it angers me. Those ‘lower ability’ children are not born with learning deficiencies (at least none of the ones I had the privilege to teach). They are just as capable of learning as the others. They just haven’t had the same start in life that others had. They haven’t actually been taught what the others know. By labelling them as ‘low ability’ and giving them a simplified curriculum, we are denying them the opportunity to catch up. If they are behind their peers, the solution is not to give them less to learn but the opposite. For example, if everyone else is having one daily phonics lesson, then these children should have two. Ideally, they should be exposed to the same curriculum as everyone else, and then given extra intervention sessions to help them master what the others have already mastered. You do not close the attainment gap by giving the ones falling behind easier work. The logic of that is irrefutable surely? So why isn’t it happening across all our schools?