I have something on my chest. It's currently inflamed and looks like I have
the onset of a terrible skin condition. It's as red as the red flag, gently
restricts my breathing at worst, and over the years has provoked countless
shrill exclamations of 'are you alright?'. I've had it as long as I can
remember in times of heightened anxiety, arousal, anticipation, to go on. I am
currently seething.
As a non-oligarch student of Literature at a London university I work part
time. Following a brief stint back home over the Christmas period where I
slotted back into luggage shop tribulations- a grave error- I put my foot down
and secured a job as a tutor of GCSE English back at uni. The firm; based in
Hackney are relatively newly fledged and fundamentally the loveliest bunch of
young professionals keen on helping students of all ages gain confidence in
academia in both private and group tuition in schools across Greater London. As
a student who was once reliant on tuition to shoehorn me through GCSE Physics I
understand the importance of getting through to a pupil who may not necessarily
connect with the subject but is eager to work at it for the sake of a grade. So
far, I have tutored GCSE students with abilities ranging from a D/E grade to A,
and whilst I am still very much a fresh face to the sphere of tuition, I'd like
to say I take immense pride and attention to lesson planning, listening to
students and asking for their own feedback to sculpt the lessons round their
areas of focus. To be totally frank, there are few things I enjoy more, and I
can get an immense adrenaline rush out of it.
I have so far worked at two schools, one in West London and one in East London;
both being light years away from my former secondary school. As a student who only
left secondary education about four years ago, I'd like to say I was still
fresh from the oven. I loathed my school wholeheartedly, having transferred
mid-GCSE following a family relocation to North Devon. A rurally isolated private
school; mine perpetuated a grotesque class divide with Damien Hirst’s darling
tottering down corridors whilst I hopelessly attempted to integrate. 150 years
old, the school held close Freemason ties [insert pun on school ties]
shamelessly made known to pupils with the presence of the enormous Masonic rugs
rolled up in the corner of the drama studio and 'special favours' that my Music
teacher has mentioned that several of the male teachers would make for the sons
of Masons. In fairness to my parents they were aware this was unsurprisingly
going to be an awkward time to move any 16 year old from the costal metropolis
that is Brighton so sent me here in the hope of an amicable environment and
quick solution to salvaging an education for a furiously hormonal young woman.
My experience of secondary school, as most teenagers find in retrospect, was
painful. I was distinctly made to feel aware of how much money my parents did
or did not have in comparison with my peers, and as an extension I felt an
enormous sense of guilt at being there and so insufferably miserable. Girls
were forbidden from wearing trousers (there was no option), boys had to have
hair of a certain length, my peers frequented homophobic and racist slurs so
often I gave up on trying to call them out.
It wasn’t until I moved back to the city and
discussed this with friends at university I could finally express my pent up
frustration at a school so retrograde in its deeply conservative ideology.
What I would not understand until four hours ago is that arseholes are not
exclusive to the private sector. Call me a fool.
The schools I teach at in West and East London are both Academies. I value
my job, and in light of this I am going to abstain from referring directly to
the school(s) in question. What I am not going to abstain from is the
expression of the conversation I had today with a year 11 pupil, ‘A’. ‘A’ is a GCSE
student in her final year of secondary school. She is diligent, has grubby fingernail,
is the most methodical planner of essays I have ever encountered and quite
honestly is absolutely charming. This said, half of the scheduled sessions I’ve
had with her she’s called off or she’s had doctor’s notes. Today was evidently
a lucky day and sure enough she was waiting outside as soon as I had finished
with the previous group session. ‘A’ looked visibly drained.
I open the school approved ‘tutor pack’ that the head of department has
instructed us to use. A smarmy, deeply condescending woman; it is evident by
her manner that she has very little respect for us tutors, let alone her
students. Today in the earlier session she swans in making no attempt to speak
to us privately and waltzes in mid-session to my colleague, asking if her
students have been making ‘insightful comments’, then reprimanded another for
slouching, both in the most poisonous tone I have ever heard a teacher speak to
a student. The whole premise of tutoring is breaking the boundaries of
formalities to tailor to the student’s learning and allowing them to feel
comfortable to broach questions on the topic that they may find challenging.
Two weeks ago she stormed into my session and in front of my entire group
session and told me my whole lesson plan was incorrect in explicit earshot of
my students. That evening I sobbed to my boyfriend and drew a tiny effigy in my
journal.
I asked ‘A’ how her week had been. She gnaws on a biscuit in
response, “it’s from study club miss” she says, embarrassed and wiping the
crumbs from her mouth- completely ignoring my question. We propose to look at a
creative writing question we had planned from the previous session; we look at
the mark scheme. ‘A’ highlights the key words, slumped into her chair and I try
to keep a chirpy tone, anxiously sipping on my own cold coffee. When we finally commence writing a creative
passage she slumps even further. “I’m really sorry miss” she confesses, “I’m
exhausted.”.
I ask her what time she was in this morning, presuming 9AM;
my own earliest lecture and a pain at that. She tells me that students must be
in for 8:11 promptly every day. If a student is more than 1 minute late they
lose their break time and their lunch time is halved. I gawp, and she
continues, the other one-to-one student who my colleague is overseeing chirping
up too, and before I know any better they are both outpouring. Girls must have their hair in ‘one unit’ [one
hairband- two are deemed unprofessional]. If a student is caught rolling their
eyes or saying ‘oh my god’ they are excluded for a week. Any student put in
isolation must ask permission to drink water. The school day is 8.17AM to 6PM,
for 5 days a week plus compulsory Saturdays 9AM-1PM. ‘A’ informed me that the
academy would be rolling this out over the Easter period as well. What’s more is that before the start of every
single of the six lessons that make up the day, the students stand behind their
chairs and recite:
‘Throughout this lesson I aspire to maintain a calm disposition and an
attentive air so that in this class and all classes I can fulfil my true
potential’.
Whilst immediately evoking visions of a Dystopian 1984-esque
institution, nay, prison, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the pupils I had
taught in India, rote learning a Robert Louis Stevenson poem but who could
barely spell their own name. The words are hyperbolic and pointlessly archaic
to the extent that their meaning is totally redundant. It’s a literal fucking incantation
to the ghost of the Grammar school.
I couldn’t shut my mouth if I wanted to.
What is perturbing is that this academy is doubtlessly not
exclusive. Gove’s upheaval of the UK education system now places immense
pressure on students through the introduction of linear A-Level exams culminating
in exams at the end of the 2 year stint meaning Universities shall have to
consult a student’s grades at GCSE, exams typically sat when a student is 16
years old.
I asked ‘A’ if she thought the strictness of her school
improved her grades? She said no.
Did the strictness of
her school detracted from her enjoyment of her studies? She said a little.
I asked ‘A’ what she
intended to do once she had completed her exams. Her friend sat across the room
said she had been planning to ‘stick it out’ for sixth form. I tried in vain to
stress that the levels of discipline at this age are far higher than at A-Level,
let alone in university.’ A’ was keener to leave as soon as she had the chance
to do so.
Well done Michael Gove, it’s working. You’re dissuading future
generations from pursuing further education, apprenticeships will be on the up
and A will secure herself a job through hard grit, providing she sticks at the
same industry for the rest of her life.
I don’t know what I’m proposing, if proposing at all. I am
documenting the perspective of a child emotionally and physically drained by a
school fighting for funding like tigers over a buffalo.
This school’s principles are grotesque [as I’m sure hundreds
other are] and the most perverse and industrious husk, devoid of humanity
and nurture I have ever had the misfortune to teach at.
I am still seething.
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| A [my] sad puppy, as a reflection of the author's angst. |
