Funny, when I started the first post in this blog, I had loads of ideas of things to write about, and I am pretty sure I knew exactly what to write in each of them too. Any of you lot want to explain why the hell I can't think of a damn thing to write now? I blame Gordon Brown. Mainly because he is Scottish.
Ah, I know, I have got something to write about. The only safe place in school. The one place where teachers get to say "bollocks" and "fuck off". Our haven, our shire, our respite from the little buggers out there with the knives and the cuttingly sarcastic nicknames. Yes, I am talking about the Gentlemen's Toilet. No, wait! Come back! I mean the staff room! Staff room! Come back!
Oh, quick tangent - I want you all to make a promise... Talking about the staff room... that poor bastard in the corner that no-one is talking to. Well, that's YOU that is. You a few years ago when you were a Trainee Teacher. You when you were an NQT. You if you ever do supply work. You when you move to a new school. Go talk to the unlucky sod. He is about to experience the worst bleeding year of his life, and you miserable buggers are making it worse. He probably thinks he has BO or something. What he doesn't realise is that it is even worse and it might be a whole year before his colleagues actually talk to him, let alone bond with him. He'll land up with mental disorders as bad as the rest of us by then.
Actually, there is a very very real danger when talking to strangers in the staff room. There is a very real risk they might be a consultant from your LEA. Yeah, I know. I know what you are thinking now. "I'd love to talk to the Trainee/NQT/Punching ba.. er.. supply teacher, but what if I land up getting bored fucking senseless for 20 minutes by some over-enthusiastic gittoid who wants to tell me about AfL?" Well, I have a fool-proof system for working out whether to talk to someone. If they are crying, they are definitely an NQT. Don't speak to them this time unless you have waterproof clothes on, but they will be safe next time (as long as you don't remind them where they are). A vacant stare and many shakes of the head is without doubt a supply teacher just back from 9dnl4. As long as you speak Australian, they'll be fine for a chat. Despairing faces in September are those stupid bastards who moved to your school thinking things could only improve compared to their last place. These people are idiots, and you should speak to them only in mocking tones. The truly vicious might even feign sympathy, then sic some boy whose name begins with "T" onto them (Oh come ON! Can anybody honestly say they have ever met a nice Tyler, Travis, Troy or Tim? Wait, scrub that last one. But you get the point.)
Anyway, signs of a consultant generally include a smart set of clothes and a smiley face, but this can be deceiving. Some of the bastards will try and trick you by wearing too-short trousers and scruffy jumpers and muttering. Some even have beards. In any other industry they'd be the office weirdo. Somehow in teaching they get a pay rise. Here is the trick to spotting a consultant though; they'll generally have all of their worldly possessions (keys (dozens), mobile phone, USB stick, Blackberry, pet alsation) hanging from a colourful strap around their neck. In Hackney it'll be orange. In Hackney orange means DANGER, BEWARE! Boring person here! In Hackney, they are colour-coded, for our convenience.
Where was I before I went on that tangent though?
NO clue.
That'll do then.
Idea for next time: Rant endlessly about the word Facilitate. And Plenary. And Pedagogy. And anyone who uses these words in a non-piss-taking sentence...
I'd better stop now or I'll be sat here for hours.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Saturday, October 6, 2007
My Finest Moment in Teaching
So there I am, teaching my students about the periodic table. All very exciting so far, right? Okay, so... not. But for those of a certain generation you will soon understand the joy this lesson brought me. (Incidentally, I KNOW I shouldn't start a sentence with "But". Just bog off, okay?)
First, a bit of catch-up for those of you who spent science lessons sleeping; the periodic table lists all the elements that everything is made of, and can be thought of in terms of groups (the columns on the table) or periods (the rows). So there I am (still), merrily teaching my students that groups are columns and periods are the rows... and I realise that this lovely, but less-than-academically-gifted group has not got a clue what I am talking about. Now, that is not as unusual as I would like it to be, but I am pretty sure this is a simple concept, so I wonder if the problem lies with something other than my own ineptitude for a change. A bit of exploration with this reveals that not a single one of them can even tell me the difference between rows and columns. Uh-oh. I go a bit further and find vertical-horizontal is a bit of a puzzle to them too. Oh dear, thinks I. A bit of a digression about columns in Roman architecture and the horizon being, shock, horizontal doesn't generate that spark of comprehension I was searching for in their faces (Not many Roman amphitheatres in Hackney, nor even much a horizon for that matter, just rooftops) so I move onto plan B.
Trouble is, at that point, I didn't really have a plan B. Well, I think, remembering that my lesson is being observed by a quiet-as-a-mouse, trying-to-decide-whether-to-become-a-teacher lady off to one side of the lab, I've got to do *something*. Time to regress to primary school, I decide, and quickly get all of the kids holding a finger out in front of them, a little bit like ET. You know what I mean. Moving my own finger up and down, and making the kids do the same, I start reciting "Vertical. Repeat after me - vertical" then horizontal, rows, groups, periods, columns and so on. Pretty soon they are doing it without me showing them with my own finger, moving their fingers with abandon and calling out "COLUMNS!" after me, and having a gay ol' time of it (in the old-fashioned sense of the word, of course - I work in a Catholic school. More on that later too, by the way).
It is at this point, I realise I have become one of my own personal Hollywood Heroes. In a moment of inspiration, I call out "Wax on!".
Awesome.
Almost every boy in the class starts moving his hands in circular motions. Turns out a certain Hollywood movie about a New York boy who moves to LA and becomes a karate champion is still pretty popular with the kids of today.
Yes, my finest moment in teaching was when I became, just for a few minutes, Mister Miyagi from Karate Kid.
First, a bit of catch-up for those of you who spent science lessons sleeping; the periodic table lists all the elements that everything is made of, and can be thought of in terms of groups (the columns on the table) or periods (the rows). So there I am (still), merrily teaching my students that groups are columns and periods are the rows... and I realise that this lovely, but less-than-academically-gifted group has not got a clue what I am talking about. Now, that is not as unusual as I would like it to be, but I am pretty sure this is a simple concept, so I wonder if the problem lies with something other than my own ineptitude for a change. A bit of exploration with this reveals that not a single one of them can even tell me the difference between rows and columns. Uh-oh. I go a bit further and find vertical-horizontal is a bit of a puzzle to them too. Oh dear, thinks I. A bit of a digression about columns in Roman architecture and the horizon being, shock, horizontal doesn't generate that spark of comprehension I was searching for in their faces (Not many Roman amphitheatres in Hackney, nor even much a horizon for that matter, just rooftops) so I move onto plan B.
Trouble is, at that point, I didn't really have a plan B. Well, I think, remembering that my lesson is being observed by a quiet-as-a-mouse, trying-to-decide-whether-to-become-a-teacher lady off to one side of the lab, I've got to do *something*. Time to regress to primary school, I decide, and quickly get all of the kids holding a finger out in front of them, a little bit like ET. You know what I mean. Moving my own finger up and down, and making the kids do the same, I start reciting "Vertical. Repeat after me - vertical" then horizontal, rows, groups, periods, columns and so on. Pretty soon they are doing it without me showing them with my own finger, moving their fingers with abandon and calling out "COLUMNS!" after me, and having a gay ol' time of it (in the old-fashioned sense of the word, of course - I work in a Catholic school. More on that later too, by the way).
It is at this point, I realise I have become one of my own personal Hollywood Heroes. In a moment of inspiration, I call out "Wax on!".
Awesome.
Almost every boy in the class starts moving his hands in circular motions. Turns out a certain Hollywood movie about a New York boy who moves to LA and becomes a karate champion is still pretty popular with the kids of today.
Yes, my finest moment in teaching was when I became, just for a few minutes, Mister Miyagi from Karate Kid.
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