School holidays finished and I had to start work. I can’t remember if I mentioned that I’m a teacher. I remember this episode of the simpsons where Lisa gets a crush on a supply teacher who is this singing, philophising all round nice guy. He sweeps into springfield, mary poppins like, charms everyone and then steams off on the train to the next failed school that needs him. My experience of supply teaching is a fair bit different.
My first day started at about 6.00 in the morning when I woke up and got ready, not knowing if I was even going to work that day. It all comes down to the agency. Agencies run everything in London. They’re like the pimps that organise, protect, disicpline and profit from the workers. I’ve experienced whole schools with just agency wrokers. By paying a premium to the agency, head teachers get a work force that they can hire and fire at will. You can be sacked at any time with no notice. The idea is to look busy and to never complain.
Anyway the phone rang at about 7.30 and I was sent out to a school in the east. Forest Gate I think it was. The first problem was trying to find the place. I arrived at the school about an hour and a quater later feeling cold and anxious. I was late and had had trouble finding the right bus stop.
I rushed up to the receoption desk and was told to sit and wait. Just like that “Sit over there and wait.” Said a young blond woman.
A mother was complaining loudly to a teacher, black and Arabic looking kids with very styalised versions of the uniform wrestled with each other and made a lot of noise. A sign read “Bin a Knife – Save a Life.” As though it was assumed that they were all armed but that through an act of great self sacrifice, a choice could be made to discard their weapons. I tthought about the book Papillon and how they had all carried knives to protect themselves in the French penal colonies.
I waited for about twenty minutes. Finally a harried looking woman who introcuced herself as Jo scurried over. Students were bumping into each other and barely avoiding us as they yelled and pushed their way into the school. They called out to the blond woman at the counter, calling her miss in a way that showed they thought she was cool. She seemed happy about that.
Jo spoke to me really quickly whilst handing me a wad of papers.
“This is your timetable and this is a map of the school. This is the list of rules and regulations, and these are green sheets that you use if you have a serious behavioural problem. Just fill it in and send it to the office and the duty teacher will come and sort it out.”
She continued, “Now I see that you’re back here tomorrow. Try and get here by 8.20.”
“I..” I began, trying to say something about only getting the call at a certain time and waiting for 20 minutes and how hard it was to find a bus, but she cut me off, suddenly turning friendly.
“Well good luck with your first day at our school. Have you been in the country long?”
“Actually today’s my first day working in the U.K.”
“Oh Really!” She said significantly. “Oh. Oh well good luck then!” and she left laughing loudly, through the crowd.
English schools are very much like English houses. They are very old, very tall and are abosoloutely cramed full of people. I held my map up and began navigating towards my classroom. It reminded me of trying to find a hotel from the New Delhi railway station using a ten year out of date lonely planet map.
Most of the teachers that I encountered along the way seemed to be rushing from one locked door to another. But there were a few that, whether they were in line for promotion or just had the kind of personality that will not allow them to resist confrontation, stood there ground. And these teachers really went for it. I meen that they
really, really yelled there little heads off.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”
“HOW DARE YOU BEHAVE LIKE THAT”
“WHY HAVE YOU STILL GOT YOUR HAT ON? CAN’T YOU HEAR ME?!”
Given that the other teachers were too elusive to be asked for advice, it was towards these confrontational teachers that I had to direct all of my queries.
Ducking out of the crowd I snuck into the eddy provided by one such screaming colleague.
“THIS IS THE FIFTH TIME THIS WEEK I’VE SPOKEN TO YOU AND YOU STILL HAVN’T LEARNT.” The little lady exclaimed. (there did seem to be a large proportion of woman in the stand and fight category)
“Excuse me but is this the right way to J10?” I timidly enquired.
The thing I found most amusing about these people is that they have the perfect ability to moderate their voices.
“Hello sir, Australian are you? Lovely place Australia, my daughters there you know. No J10’s back the other way “MOHAMMED, GET THAT HAT OFF AND COME HERE.” “Thank you Mohammed, could you please take sir to J10.” Nice to meet you sir, chat to you later.” “YOU THERE WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!!”
Outside J10 thirty or so students variously slouched against the wall, played with their phones or play fought with each other. Their uniforms and general attitude were instantly recognizable as being something other than what was expected of them in the school handbook.
“Thanks Mate” I said to Mohammed and he disappeared without a word.
My Australianism was noticed by a few of the students and they began enthusiastically a chorus of “G’day Mate” “Strewth” “Crikey” and more randomly “Kangaroo”.
I’d been told to expect this.
“Right, students, can we just be a bit quiet and..” My effort at beginning a rationale dialogue was overshadowed when a yeller, who had quietly snuck up behind me, let go with her full artillery.
“HOW DARE YOU STUDENTS BEHAVE THIS WAY.” “RIGHT GET UP AGAINST THAT WALL THE LOT OF YOU. GET YOUR JACKETS OFF, PUT AWAY YOUR PHONES AND BE QUIET!!”
The students became silent and did what they were told. There eyes however remained quite scarily rebellious.
“RIGHT NOW IN YOU GO. AND IF I HERE ONE COMPLAINT FROM SIR ABOUT YOUR BEHAVOIR YOU WILL BE ANSWERING TO ME!”
She handed me some work, it was a geography class, and then disappeared into obscurity, thus completely hollowing out the threat of retribution she had just made to the students.
Gently the door swung shut and I experienced that moment that all new teachers dread and experienced teachers realish, when the door shuts and its just you and them.
Actually it turned out to be quite a good class, and that’s the way the day panned out until after lunch time. I just explained that here was some work and that, basically if they were interested they could have a go at it. If not then I’d prefer if we didn’t make each others lives difficult. This is the social contract between the student and the supply teacher. I, the teacher, won’t make you, the student, do anything, as long as you the student, don’t make me, the responsible adult, do anything in terms of discipline or teaching. Mostly, more or less, this works, although there are always a few dingbat students or teachers that ruin what is otherwise a very satisfactory arrangement.
I think this may be why Australian teachers are so sought after by schools. We generally posess those qualities of laid backness, a low work ethic, a thick skin and an awareness of a good thing, that make us ideal as temporary teachers.
It was good until after lunchtime. At lunch itself I had an encounter which was probably nothing but has been playing on my mind. I had to leave the school to go and get something to eat. This was itself a weird experience because schools here are compounds and you have to leave through highly supervised and very substantial gates. Outside I went and found a sandwhich and coffee and on the way back I had the experience I’m talking about. Two of the students I would teach in the next class were talking to a skinny looking bloke on a scooter. I don’t know why I noticed them but I did. Maybe because they stopped talking and stared at me as I walked passed. Or maybe because people remember basically everything and that those two students were to make my life hell in the next class, and that guy on the scooter, well I’m sure I’ve seen him again too.
There was a bottleneck getting back in through the school gates and I had to explain to the supervising teachers what my business was to gain admittance.
The cold and the crush just didn’t seem to be noticed by the students. A happier mood seemed to set in for the afternoon and I relaxed and tried to enjoy the interesting differences between a London school and a Melbourne school. Mostly it was the sounds of their accents that I enjoyed listening to. Even the white, Arabic and African kids seemed to use a carribean, gangster slang that sounded oh so cool. I can’t even begin to say it but it sounded to me like the cricketer Viv Richards was running a mafia unit targeting schools. “Ya man, we can bang him in de class roooom.”
I found my class room with time to spare and felt organized. It was a science class and I hunted around for the science office to get a key and find what work was available. After ten or so minutes of looking I gave up and went back to the classroom door, which was still locked. Students had started turning up and the bell went. I noticed that those two students I had seen at lunch time were part of my class.
“You need a key, don’t you sir?” Said the taller of the two. “They don’t look after you supply teachers do they sir? I bet you havn’t got any work for us either, have you sir?”
This sir thing drives me nuts. It’s like the ties they are supposed to be wearing. These token efforts just provide chances to take the piss.
“Yes I need a key.” I replied in a friendly voice. “Do you know where..” I began but stopped when a black man in a lab coat stode towards us.
“Sorry sir. Mr McHenry only called in sick this morning. Havn’t really got things organized. Here I’ll open this for you.”
He opened the door and I started to say to the students. “Right everyone quiet please and..” But they all burst past me and went inside.
We went in too, somewhere in the middle of the throng. I thought I’d introduce myself at least to the man who was helping me. “I’m Ben McEwen” I said, offering him my hand and trying to sound formal.
“Right, Mr. McEwen sir. I’m Mr Stokes. I’m the science assistant”
“What work do we have for them?” I asked.
“Mr McHenry hasn’t left anything I’m afraid. I’ve looked in his office. “You, Bradey, What you been working on? “
“Don’t know sir.” Replied a short Indian looking boy with glasses.
“What was the last thing you did” He addressed this to a table of girls near the front of the class, some of whom were playing with each others hair, whilst others lay with their heads on the table.
“We just did something on cells” came a helpful reply.
Mr stokes opened the book and found a page related to cells. Alright, get them to work through this sir. Science office is down on the left if you need anything. Nice to meet you I’ll see you later.” He turned and strode out of the room.
Bang, the door shuts and its me and them.
If this were a horror film lightning would have struck at this moment. Fury and upheaval would be demonstrated in nature. Did I notice a flick in the flourescent lighting?
“You know you look like Steve Irwin, Mate! Say crikey!”
“Not now, Right listen class the first thing I want to do is take the role. If you can just be quiet for a minute and let me know if I call your name.”
“Say crikey!”
“C’mon cobber, say crikey.”
I ignored them and called out the first name. Abdullah, Rahab Abdullah.
Burts of hysterical laughter broke out.
“C”mon abdullah” One of those two students repeated in a mock Australian accent, whilst lifting up the arm of some social isolate trying to dissapear into a corner.
“Are you Abdullah?” I asked. Again trying to change which vowel I stressed and make it sound more African. There were louder birsts of laughter and the general tone was one of a clear lack of control on my behalf.
“I’m mohammed sir” the student said.
“Don’t you fucking lie to sir, I’ll fucking bang you!”
“All right that’s enough!” I exclaimed going for my very unpracticed stern voice. “Take you seat please!”
“Its Ab-du-lah” the helpful girl at the front table enunciated. This is Abdullah” and she pointed at a clearly embarrassed girl next to her.
“Right, sorry about that.”
I scanned the names in front of me and sighed. I wasn’t going to be able to pronounce any of them.
“Would you like me to take the role sir?” Said the helpful girl. “Mr McHenry always lets me.”
What should I do? The shorter of those two students I’ve been mentioning (I never did learn their real names) had started kicking a football around the back of the room. The room itself was substantial and contained numerous dangerous and expensive looking things relating to science.
“Thanks that would be great.” I said to her. Feeling that I had at least one person on my side, in the process surrendering the ability to know exactly who was in the room and what they were called.
“Whats your name?” I sked her.
“I’m Milly sir.”
I went to deal with the ball situation.
It was a big room with a series of square tables, all equipped with sinks and gas outlets for bunsom burners. The students were mostly talking loudly to each other. A few were out of there seats and a small group were playing football. None of them seemed concerned that I hadn’t provided any work yet.
“Right, I’m prepared to put up with a lot but there is no way you are going to play football in here.” I said with emphasis.
“Crikey it’s a football!” Said the shorter evil student, shoving the ball in my face and then throwing it towards an accomplice just as I reached to grab it.
“GIVE ME THE BALL!” I shouted at him.
“I havn’t got it sir” He replied as he kicked it away.
“ALL OF YOU STOP THIS!” I fumed. The volume from the rest of the class had risen so loud I could barely be heard even when I shouted. The other evil student was spraying water with his hand under the tap at a group of girls.
“QUIET!” I shouted to the whole class. “THAT’S ENOUGH! I DEMAND THAT YOU ALL BE QUIET.” There was a tiny pause in the noise as if they all stopped just to see what I looked like when I lost control of my temper, and then the noise returned just as it was.
I looked at the clock. Just under twelve minutes had past out of the one hundred that I had to kill before the class finished.
Whack! The football hit me on the side of the head. All the girls tables burst out laughing. The ball hit a display of dinosaurs footpriints on the side bench and plaster fragments went all over the floor.
“Right. I’ve had enough. I said keeping my voice under control.” I strode to the front of the class and found my green sheets that were to be used in emergencies. “What are those boys names?” I asked Milly.
“Oh that’s Winston and Gerrard. They are very naughty.”
“Thank you Milly” I said and smiled at her as I wrote out a quick description of the events that had taken place.
“Can you take this to the office for me” I asked her.
“Of course sir. Can Steph come with me?”
“Why not I replied, handing her the forms.
Towards the end of the class, when I realized that the girls were never going to return, and that no help was ever going to turn up, I looked at the role which the student who had called herself milly had marked for me. There was no Milly on there, or a steph or a Winston or gerrard. In fact there were thirty two names on the sheet, all ticked present, and, whilst admittedly quite a few students had felt free to leave, I still only counted twenty bodies.
I’d finally gotten the ball. I’d had to be the piggy in the middle between the alleged Gerrard and Winston for a while as they kicked it around me. One of them eventually misjudged a kick and I dived on it, skidding across the floor in my new Lama wool jumper. I clutched it to me as I walked around the room, wary of the sudden approaches that tried to punch it out of my hands. Most of the attention was focused between the girls and boys as they screamed and yelled and flrted with each other. Sometimes they turned on one unfortunate student or another. There was at least half the class clearly not enjoying themselves. These students sat quietly or tried to read a book as balls and wet paper towels and insults sprayed around them. They were apparently resigned to this classroom reality. The best I could do when an attack was launched at one of them was to try and put the attention back onto me. To take the bullet so to speak.
I’m not a yeller. I new from previous experiences that there was nothing I could do to bring the class under control, short of finding a teacher with some clout to do it for me. It’s just about managing your frustration. Look at the clock, think about the money, and ignore.
