You might think that teaching in an independent school is an easy gig. But you’d be wrong.
I’ve just completed my PGCE at a leafy private school and it has been tough. Take an early, horrific, double lesson with my year 11 class: I’d spent hours planning and preparing little cards for a matching exercise, but within 10 minutes the cards were stamped, scrunched and thrown all over the floor.
Tom was looking at his phone. David and Oliver sent my coffee flying while practising rugby tackles. When Ahmed came in late, he swore. But his voice was drowned out by Tobias and Henry chanting “Allahu Akbar!”. I told them that their behaviour was unacceptable and forced them to apologise, which they did, albeit half-heartedly.
I held my nerve and dealt with each new disruption in turn, calmly reasserting the rules. I was starting to win the battle, until Oliver sneered: “I don’t have to do what you say. My father pays your wages. And anyway, I don’t take orders from a woman.” Just then, my eyes meet those of another – impeccably behaved – student; his were pleading, mine were apologising.
At the next staff meeting – the air rank with eyerolls and passive aggression – a young maths teacher asked for advice on a challenging class, as he was having trouble controlling them. Suddenly the carpet became an object of fascination for everyone else in the room. Eventually the Latin master offered: “They’re fine for me.”
“Let’s try to keep this meeting to matters affecting all staff,” the headmistress said. “Positivity, please.”
I looked at the maths teacher to offer an encouraging smile; I know how much courage it takes to speak up. But he didn’t see me; his eyes were fixed on the table.
Requests for help continued to go unanswered. By the time my first parents’ evening came around, my questions about how to manage the meetings had all been waved away and I was forced to jump straight in.
“You’ve given Matilda a C.”
“Yes,” I explained, smiling. “It’s a very encouraging start to the term. Her creative writing shows particular promise.”
“I’m paying a lot of money for her to be here. I don’t expect to see grades like this again.”
Back in the classroom, I was preparing for another long, anxious night of marking when I looked up to see Ben standing in the doorway. He was upset. The other boys had been teasing him and calling him names because he’s on a scholarship and couldn’t afford to go on the ski trip. I raised the issue with the pastoral head the next day.
“It’s just boys being boys,” came the response. “He needs to toughen up a bit. Now what are we going to do about the cricket? Two boys have pulled out and it’s going to ruin the whole season.”
In the Easter holidays, I attended a stress management seminar with my PGCE coursemates (all training at independent schools). We discussed our experiences, bleary-eyed, as we were urged to breathe, drink warm milk or try some yoga when we were feeling overwhelmed.
But the reality quickly emerged: we hadn’t even finished the course and some of us were already running for the hills. Hannah was setting up her own business as a personal trainer; Scott was looking into tutoring in Dubai. A variety of other exit strategies were discussed over the day.
I wrapped up the year with a placement at a state comprehensive. On the last day, my group of eager, impeccably behaved year 7s crowded around to give me a card they had all signed. Hameed, a refugee who had seen his home reduced to ash, shook my hand.
“I wish you could stay, Miss.”
“So do I, Hameed. I really do.”
On my return to the independent school, one of my students smiled at me sheepishly and mumbled thanks. He was an E-grade student when we met, constantly disruptive, frequently told (and convinced) that he’d never amount to anything.
We’d had several one-to-one sessions over the year and he’d achieved a B on his end-of-year exam. I’d heard that “make a difference to one child” speech countless times and it hadn’t really meant anything. Until it did.
At the end of term, the prize-giving ceremony rolled around. Floral spray and mortar boards. Champagne. The MP and the mayor taking pride of place. The brightest and best were celebrated and welcomed with their awestruck parents; the rest sat moodily at the back or stayed at home.
“Isn’t it marvellous?” a scone-stuffed mother enthused. “See you next year!”
Names and details have been changed
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