Not so long ago, the primary school I work in was judged to be outstanding. Since then, every single full-time teacher has left. I am the last one standing from that time.
Back then, we were led by a passionate, driven and visionary headteacher. Our school had clubs for art, sport, music, dance, drama, cooking, gardening and more. Values were at the heart of everything we did.
Our head believed in and trusted her staff: she stood between us and anything that might distract us from doing a good job. Whinging parents were kept from the door; governors were remote, spectral figures; government directives were just the latest nonsense; meetings were always brief.
We were told that this was the one chance for these children to get an education. If we could look in the mirror at the end of each day and honestly say that we had done a good job, that was enough. Let Ofsted come, let them judge, there would be no knee-jerk reactions, no concessions, no fear.
Fast forward a few years and we’re expecting the call once again. But this time, we’re terrified. Our new headteacher is a scheming careerist who filled the senior leadership team with his own sidekicks. Our brilliant deputy left, one middle leader moved away, one retired and another resigned as a result of stress.
Meetings are now spent poring over observation criteria and scrutinising recent reports from local schools. Newly-qualified teachers (NQTs) and less experienced staff have no support and are regularly slapped with “requires improvement” judgements. They are given two weeks to pull their socks up or face the grim reality of capability procedures. In a recent training session we were all reminded that “failing” teachers can be out of a job in as little as six weeks – which was great for morale.
This is on top of frequent drop-ins, governor walk-arounds, scrutiny of books, data analysis, performance management reviews and parent forums. But when you’re coaxing one statemented child out from under a table and trying to get another into the classroom after a difficult playtime while delivering a four-tiered differentiated maths lesson in fancy dress because it’s World Book Day, the ever-present possibility of a knock at the door feels like too much pressure.
Meanwhile, our amazing results from the time of the last inspection have become another stick to beat us with. In the new world order, our previous teacher assessment has been written off as far too optimistic. Our results have taken a nosedive; teachers have been told to get real and show progress. This means that, despite all the extra scrutiny and hard work, it will be impossible for us to secure another outstanding judgement. The only way is down.
But I know that this is normal. I know that we were incredibly lucky before. We existed in an idealistic wonderland. We were not ready for the new curriculum, our marking was shoddy and our cloakrooms were shabby but the children loved learning and had loads of fun. This self-fulfilling rhetoric took us all the way to the top. In fact, we were completely spoiled – and not prepared for what was to come.
Last night I met up with two teachers who were part of the old team, who have since left teaching altogether. Both loved the job and were great at it, but have taken significant pay cuts to take back their lives. One said that she had gained more than she ever expected by leaving the profession; she hadn’t realised how much of herself she had lost until she began living again. Interests, clubs, week-night socialising, reading, cleaning, having pets, spending time with loved ones and so much more had all become possible once again.
It’s these happy, well-adjusted people who should be standing up in front of our children, not petrified, lifeless drones with no backbone or vision. So as much as I am dreading this year, with my friends gone and the dreaded phone call on the horizon, I will be there. I’m not going anywhere. Let them come, let them judge. There will be no knee-jerk reactions, no concessions and no fear from me. I will be at cooking class on Monday, book club on Wednesday and out every Friday night, if my renegade former colleagues will have me.
