It’s been nearly two months since I said a bittersweet goodbye to my comfort zone and started teacher-training. At first everything was relatively peaceful and undemanding. I spent my induction weeks learning the basics at university before observing lessons, getting to know the students at my placement school and getting lost more times than a wide-eyed year 7.
Then it all changed. In the week before half term I was let loose on the students and – despite reading a squillion pages of pedagogy and listening to days of lectures on classroom basics – found myself woefully unprepared. You quickly feel as vulnerable as a fluffy lamb to the slaughter when you’re tasked with engaging 30 teenagers.
My first experience of taking the register was borderline traumatic; after offending a significant portion of the class by pronouncing their names wrongly, I forgot to hit save, triggering a loud alarm that notified students of my incompetence. To make matters worse, the interactive whiteboard refused to interact with me (I’ve yet to fathom exactly how much pressure you should apply). And it took me a week to convince students that I was not a sixth-former assisting lessons to enhance my Ucas application.
But, even with these odd wobbles, it could have been worse. The sweaty nightmare about students putting me in detention and calling my parents because my lesson was crap has yet to come true. I even managed to deliver a few successful starter activities, including teaching French pet vocab to year 7 and translating motivational wellbeing quotes with year 12 Spanish. I would go so far as to say that some of the students have responded to my teaching, or at least they haven’t all totally zoned out, which is all I can ask for at this stage. But the amount of time I’ve spent preparing these 10-minute slots doesn’t bode well for teaching 10 hours a week.
I’ve also received encouragement and feedback from the patient teachers observing me. My consistent use of Spanish and French (rather than English) has earned me brownie points, but I need to work on projecting my voice. Without these supportive colleagues I’d be done for. I’ve always admired good teachers, that’s why I wanted to be one, but I can confirm that it’s really not as easy as they make it look. Pre-PGCE I liked to think of myself as an island, but my dependence on my mentors has shown me the colossal impact supportive colleagues can have.
It’s comforting to know, however, that feeling up shit creek sans paddle is totally normal. There was an entire lecture dedicated to this during the induction. I’m on a psychological journey – one that goes from unconscious incompetence to conscious incompetence then to unconscious competence and finally conscious competence. I’d say I’m currently wavering between the first two stages, which is both draining and frustrating (and sometimes makes me wish I could just be medically unconscious until it’s all over).
At first it was hard to see how the barrage of pedagogical theories I had been taught would help me when it came to the crunch. But observing teachers and using some of them – albeit gingerly – in my own teaching, has made a few pennies drop. I’ve learnt how to structure a lesson, avoid death by grammar, channel energy in lively groups and cater for my students with special educational needs and English as an additional language. While I’m under no illusion that taking reams of notes is very different to putting these skills into practice, at least I now have a bit of a springboard to start from.
After all this I greeted this half term with a big hurrah: no 6am alarm and no 34 stops a day on the crushingly slow Piccadilly line. This mini break has allowed me some time to reflect on the laughable list I drew up before the course of what I was determined not to do. Here’s how I’ve got on:
Cry or make a child cry I’ve avoided both so far. The former is infinitely more likely than the latter. These kids are tough and I’m not.
Use Comic Sans. I have an irrational aversion to this font, but haven’t had to use it yet. What’s utterly ridiculous is that I ever thought that changing fonts would be a top priority when “repurposing” resources. Secondhand resources are a gift, no matter what the font.
Go to school on a hangover. I’ve been told it’s best not to hit the hooch hard when you have to deal with children the next day. I’ve avoided it so far, but I have been warned that it’s both inevitable and regrettable.
Quit the gym. I’m a great believer in exercising for physical and mental wellbeing so am determined to keep up my regular visits even if it’s just for a couple of sit-ups and a nap on the comfy mats. I need to stay strong to fight off the constant threat of bugs.
Let my ironing pile up. This has happened. Two words: time management. I overhauled my work wardrobe in preparation for my career change, investing in tops with appropriate necklines and non-ridiculous washing instructions. With this swish new look comes a commitment to ironing, which I’m struggling to embrace.
Eat biscuits or cereal for dinner. Again, this can be avoided with effective time management and by establishing routines that include occasional visits to shops that aren’t part of a petrol station. Hobnobs are delicious but seven of them does not constitute a balanced meal.
No doubt many of more of these silly self-promises will have fallen by the wayside by the time I come to writing the next instalment – but until then …
