Monday: The scene is common enough for any school - staff closeted together, cuppas in hand, waiting for the head’s briefing before the first lesson. Except this school is special, it’s for pupils with educational behavioural difficulties. I’ve been on a five-week posting, my first time in an EBD school. The pupils arrive in taxis and greet the deputy with a cheery “Morning, sir”.
A good start, but these boys and girls have been taken out of the mainstream because of their volatile nature or emotional difficulties. They are now in a world that is very much their own and I’m ready to expect the unexpected.
Tuesday: Events always seem ahead of me, putting me forever on my guard and keeping me constantly alert. Normally the spark for any potential classroom explosion can be spotted, but sometimes there’s no warning. A pupil is asked to pick up his book and the response is a torrent of abuse, without any apparent reason. Seconds later he apologises. Fine, until the next time.
I try to stay positive, but I don’t think I’ve got the tolerance, understanding or strength of character to withstand the knockdowns.
Wednesday: Sticking to routine is all important. If the youngest children lose their own teacher for just one session, it seems to be a signal for complete mayhem, with lesson preparation counting for nothing.
My science lesson for Year 8 breaks up amid a battle of Lego missiles. Seeing was believing and 20 years of teaching experience counted for nothing. At moments like this defining one’s feelings is impossible; an unqualified sense of helplessness alternates with a desire to chastise more forcibly.
But the expedient smack is out. Nevertheless, when a 14-year-old pushes his faces within inches of mine, instinct and professional responsibility are a long way apart. I felt shaken, reflecting on what could have happened, yet minutes later the same boy is the model pupil, working away blissfully at his project worksheet.
Thursday: These special school teachers are the new breed of hero.
No amount of financial consideration is great enough to compensate for the levels of anxiety, the constant barrage of filthy insults, the threat of being thumped, battered or butted; the sensation of defilement at being spat upon.
They are so constantly harangued that classroom management is often impossible.
I can’t believe that some bureaucrat somewhere decreed that the children must be taught the national curriculum with every one of its attainment targets.
Occasionally a ray of sunshine peeps through, but black clouds soon follow. Today Year 8 was hard at work when a girl pupil walked calmly from her seat and planted a perfect right hook on to the jaw of a hopelessly unwary victim. Bedlam. From utopia to open warfare in five seconds and sanctions seem more limited than ever.
Friday: Last day, thank God. I never realised it was like this. Special school was a phrase, EBD another acronym.
This job with its prerequisite for skills in tightrope walking and its nervous tension incurs a high price. In five weeks it has changed my personality, affected home life and disposition to family, destroyed personal morale and self-esteem.
Self-confidence has been nullified to a point where the capacity to teach has evaporated.
The teachers here have inner strengths I have not previously found, champions of lost causes, deliverers of the real mission impossible. I wouldn’t have their jobs for all the tea in China, but I feel a need to tell the world about them.
Mike Hopper is a part-time secondary teacher in Merseyside.
