Op Ed
Education revolution, Kev? It’s a rebellion (page 21)
Foul language, threats, schoolyard fights, appalling ignorance…handling a classroom is just an exercise in behaviour management, writes teacher Katherine Summers.
“‘You’re a f… old slag, Miss.’ (A bit less of the “old”, thank you, Kimberley.) Not for the first time, I think that today is the day that I will give up teaching.
“I dodge a Year 8 compass aimed at me – part and parcel of the daily assault and abuse which is part of my teaching workload. There’s no use making a report: the kid might be suspended for a day or two but come Monday he’ll be back in the classroom, grinning, swearing and trashing the joint.
“This generation of Year 7s and 8s is the worst. In a way, I am amused that no matter how foul the language, they always tag a ‘Miss’ at the end. Example: “F…you, Miss!”
“Actually, guys, it’s not unusual for a teacher to ask you to take out a pen and paper…it’s called work, and until Mr. Rudd gives us a laptop we’re doing it the old-fashioned way.”
“Two girls in the back look busy…I go over to them. Jessica is trying to pierce the earlobe of her “bestie” with a dirty drawing pin. The planned lesson goes out the window. We have a lesson about how to pierce your skin safely and hygienically and how “post-operative care” is required and to never “share” drawing pins or needles. (Most of the students don’t have the money to pay a professional and even if they do, it’s considered “tough” to do your own.)
“Don’t get me started on the girls. They are foul-mouthed, they write in texta all over their things, hands, arms, thighs. They refer to each other and themselves as bitches, slags, sluts, hoes, c…s. They have an permanent iPod earpiece in one ear and a mobile phone on the other.
“They speak freely and knowingly about sex. Their lives revolve around alcohol, boys, the shopping centre and themselves…yet they’re still kids with a hopeless look in their eye. What put that there? Sometimes I’m too scared to ask. Sexual assault, abuse, family dysfunction, drugs, sickness, poverty? Plain old lack of manners or self-discipline?
“They don’t like to work. They have no dreams. No role models.
“I’m gonna have a baby, Miss, and get the baby bonus.” They don’t know who Napoleon is, or Leonardo da Vinci or Mozart. Their idea of history is anything older than they are. “Adolf Hitler? Surely you have heard of the Second World War?”
“I probe, just vacant stares. It’s scary, the breadth and level of their ignorance, these parents of the future. Education? Where do you start?
“Troy, a boy with crooked teeth, bruises and scabs, puts his head down on the desk. I go over to him, his elbow is bleeding. We run it under the tap and put a paper towel on it. No point telling him to go to the nurse, she’s never there. I touch the top of his (dirty) hair. He’s thin, marks all over him, he doesn’t eat properly. Most kids’ idea of a breakfast around here is a Mars Bar and a can of Red Bull.
“The boys are different from the girls. They swear but they’re not as grown up as the girls. They’re still kind of bewildered, even innocent. They have to fight to survive the playground, not getting the crap beaten out of them at recess. And, yes, we patrol the playground as part of our “duty of care” (a fetching luminous yellow vest – I’m thinking of wearing it out).
“We break up the fights. They take them out of sight, what can you do? I tell my students they all have the right to be safe…but they know and we know that reality doesn’t match the education “version”.
“This morning’s duty is unpleasant, it’s raining, cold. There’s nowhere for the students to go, so they huddle in nooks and crannies, under eaves and doorways.
“I see a gaggle of girls forming. “Violent Vi” is in the middle and I can tell she’s bruising for a fight. Last time I met Violet, she had beaten up Sharron because she had heard Sharron’s boyfriend was a racist. (The kids don’t bother to check the facts, these fights nearly all go on hearsay.)
“Vi has the back-up of her extended family…they appear from nowhere for a “rumble”. Who wants to take on a whole foul-mouthed group threatening violence? Vi is untouchable because she is Aboriginal. She’s not held responsible for anything she does. In our culture of apology there’s no room for truth. One day it will be over for Vi because she’ll knife someone…I’m keeping my fingers crossed it won’t be me.
“There are the politicians on the telly, talking about “education revolution.”
“Come and take my students for a month, Kev. See how you get on.
“Curriculum documents keep pouring from “on high” – this outcome, that outcome.
“They haven’t got a clue. It’s not about education anymore. It’s all about behaviour management, a fun subject. Not English Literature, Media, Drama, Maths, Science, Music or Art – not any more. Ninety per cent of teaching is about getting a kid to behave.
“We moved into a new school building designed by people who must be completely obtuse. There are open-plan classrooms with three exits – not including the windows. The kids roam around, climb out the windows and move through classes in packs. Contrary to rumour, teachers have only one set of arms and legs and can only man one exit at a time.
“Then there’s the question of pay. I’ve been teaching for four years and I’m among the working poor. A single mum. And I thought teaching would be a good balance. Five years at university, for what? I’m still driving the 1978 Ford Cortina I went to uni in. Like everyone, my mortgage payments keep going up and the Education Minister is earning what? A tiler friend, who works with tiles, not children, makes more in one day than I do in a week. His broken tiles don’t keep him awake at 4.00am.
“Teaching is a 24/7 responsibility…you are never free.
“Being a teacher is like being the boy with the finger in the leaking dike: it’s overwhelming and endless.
“And the Government doesn’t really care about these young people who are the future of Australia. “Touch the future!” the recruitment campaign runs. With what, Kevin?
“I did this, Miss” I look down and sigh. It’s Michael, face half hidden by a hoodie. He’s puny, tiny compared to the other boys. But he has speed on his side. The things that come out of that mouth of his you’d have to hear to believe. Michael offers me a torn piece of lined paper. I look down, expecting the usual lurid doodles or obscene scribble. To my astonishment, it’s a story, a page and a half of writing – unheard of.
“It’s a story…about a boy and a dog…it’s sweet and real.
“Michael!” I grin at him. “This is just fantastic.” Michael glows pink – as if I’ve just opened an oven door. Then I see it: that glimmer, that hope. I look into his eyes.
“I think – maybe today’s one more day that I don’t give up teaching.”
Katherine Summers is a teacher and writer and says names have been changed to protect student identifies.
From The West Australian