Saturday, 17 May 2008

Leaders


What are the qualities of great leaders? Which quality is most important? And which one is absolutely necessary for a school to be run well?

Schools are led well by a variety of people. Often they are men, but not always. Sometimes they are good people, but not always. Sometimes they are extraordinary in their leadership skills, and sometimes not. There are so many factors that play a part in the good leadership of a school, that Heads can be downright rotten, and still run their schools better than someone ‘good’ might have done.

I have worked for five Heads in my lifetime. All five were men. All five were white. All five were middle-class. Two were corrupt. Both were taken to court after I had left their employment by the school or by the staff. Either they were accused of bullying, attacking, or refusing to properly pay female staff, or they were accused of having policies of hitting children, cheating at exams, and stealing school funds. One was entirely incompetent and often did not arrive at school until after 10am (we start at about 7:30 am), missed meetings, was a bit of a joker and was always just ‘sitting around’. One was very ordinary, decent enough, a little bit lazy, and did an ordinary job. And one was simply extraordinary, in the way he led, in his dedication, in his brilliance, in his ability to just do the job well, and I consider it a privilege to have worked under him.

Out of these five Heads, three have now retired. One is still a Head at the same school and one was head-hunted for a better-paid and more prestigious headship elsewhere. Who is still in his job? The ordinary one. Who was head-hunted? The incompetent one. The extraordinary one retired and the two corrupt ones were forced to make various amends after they had retired.

What is interesting is that both of these men, who were so very corrupt, and so very twisted in shocking ways, ran their schools better than anyone before or after them. The incompetent one did not run his school well, but was somehow head-hunted for another headship. The ordinary one continues to be ordinary, and runs an ordinary school. And the extraordinary one was never sought by anyone, and eventually retired a happy man.

Losing the corrupt Heads was the worst thing that could have happened to these two now very unhappy schools. The first, while he only promoted people he liked, made life a living hell for those he didn’t, deliberately blocked certain women, and talked about how the black kids had heads like coconuts and had come off banana boats, so terrified most of the staff into obeying him, that the school, in the end, fared better under him than anyone else.

The second, while he siphoned money off into his own pocket, also spent some of that money on his staff. So while the building was falling to pieces, and the children never benefited from theatre visits, and other extracurricular activities, which is what is intended by the government in providing those pots of money, the staff were complicit in the school’s corruption, were grateful for their engulfed salaries, and as such, did as they were told. Hitting children also has the effect of making children behave. When the new, untainted Head took over and didn’t hit the children, didn't cheat at exams, and didn't pay top-up staff salaries, the school melted into bubbling chaos.

My experience has taught me that while one might seek a ‘good’ leader, and one might always strive to be a ‘good’ leader oneself, the complexities of running modern schools are such, that one can never be quite certain of what one should look for.

Thursday, 15 May 2008

The End of a Journey


Our lovely Year 11s are gone. We managed to get away with only a few eggs being thrown. Of course one of them hit a teacher… in the head… but, I know from past experience it could have been much worse.

I have taught my class for 5 years. I took them in when they were little year 7s and now some of the boys are bigger than me, they are all louder than me, and they know a little bit more than when they arrived 5 years ago. In the spirit of our school, the class is truly multicultural, black kids, white kids, Indian kids, Chinese kids. And they are all extremely bright. They are, what we call a ‘top set’.

It is our last lesson together and the sun is shining.

‘Can we go outside, Miss?’

‘Are you crazy? This is the last opportunity we have to revise together and you’re asking to go outside? Absolutely not.’

As I say the words, the teacher and her class next door head out towards the sun.

‘See! How come THEY get to go out!’ They screech.

I frown. ‘Because they don’t have ME as their teacher!’

I hand out some past papers and demand we go through them. They reluctantly obey. Towards the end of the lesson, I get out a little surprise. I tell them how I’ll miss them, that I’ve taught them for five years, how they’ve done me proud. And then I give them some chocolates. They gobble them down, waiting to hear what more I have to say.

So I put on a DVD. This footage was taken when they were in Year 7. They have forgotten it of course. As they watch their little faces, younger by 5 years, and as they hear their younger voices, still theirs, but those of young children, they squeal with delight. I too, cannot help but laugh as watch the entertainment of years long past.

I end with one of my favourite poems.

‘It is by Primo Levi,’ I say.

One of them pipes up. ‘Yes, Miss, he survived a concentration camp, only to commit suicide years later.’

I nod. That’s the kind of class that they are. And I will miss them dearly.

To My Friends

Dear friends, I say friend here
In the larger sense of the word:
Wife, sister, associates, relatives,
Schoolmates, men and women,
Persons seen only once
Or frequented all my life:
Provided that between us, for at least a moment,
Was drawn a segment
A well-defined chord.

I speak for you, companions on a journey
Dense, not devoid of effort
And also for you who have lost
The soul, the spirit, the wish to live.
Or nobody or somebody, or perhaps only one, or you
Who are reading me: remember the time
Before the wax hardened,
When each of us was like a seal.
Each of us carries the imprint
Of the friend met along the way;
In each the trace of each.
For good or evil
In wisdom or in folly
Each stamped by each.

Now that time presses urgently,
And the tasks are finished,
To all of you the modest wish
That the autumn may be long and mild.

An old friend of mine who is now a monk in France introduced me to this poem many years ago. I only see him once every few years. He reads my blog from time to time. I hope he reads this blogpost, so that he will see, how each of us does indeed carry the imprint of the friend met along the way.

There are ten minutes left before lunch. The sun is beckoning. The class claps loudly as I just about manage to get out the last words of the poem without choking.

‘Ok everyone!’ I move my hands as if to ask for silence and they look up at me. ‘So remember everything we’ve learnt together!’ I say. ‘And remember, you’d better revise, because if you don’t, I will find you, and I will kill you.'
They laugh.
'Go and enjoy the sunshine!’ And off they scuttle, leaving me behind, to think about their imprint, and how I hope I will carry it with me forever.

Sunday, 11 May 2008

The Weakest Link

I have always said that Governors have no idea what goes on in their schools. They are our weakest link. Generally, this is because Governors imagine what school life must be like, tend to have full-time jobs or full-time motherhood, and ‘dabble’ at being governors.

But it is also because we, as teachers, make it our business to make sure they have no idea. At least, that’s what the loyal teachers do. The troublemakers would whistle blow, but often are too lazy, or too busy going on strike to even know who the governors are.

I spent some time with 3 of our parent-governors this week. As I am on the governing body, I know them well. But this time, we had some in-depth conversations.

Ms Keen, who has a daughter in Year 7, of mixed-race heritage and thoroughly middle-class, is bolder than most governors. Having spent most of the day in the school, she asked me what I thought was the worst thing about the school.

My mind immediately starts working overtime. Normally, I would just lie. I would find something insignificant to complain about. Or better yet, I would single out something that is outside of the school’s and my Head’s control. But knowing she has spent the day talking to other teachers, and will have perhaps come across those troublemaker teachers, I start thinking of what they might have said, and how I can say something similar, but put a different and kinder spin on it.

I wonder how many of my blog readers this will enrage? Not only is Snuffy economical with the truth when talking to the Prime Minister, but she does the same with the Governors! (And a great number of others too, I might add…) Hmm. Maybe Snuffy is just fundamentally dishonest. Or maybe, it is more complex than that. Maybe, if Snuffy is the one telling these stories, she is trying to tell her readers something about the system?

Another Governor, who I have mentioned before, tells me how she overheard my Head talking to another Head on the phone. She tells me how he was being very smug, giving this other Head advice, which involved an initiative of mine. I smile to myself, knowing that he is only repeating what I said to him the other day. The advice my Head is giving to another Head, has come directly from me, and is to change our school in fundamental way. Do I tell our Governor this? No. To have done so would have made him look a fool. My loyalty lies with my Head. So I make my gratitude for my Head’s support and leadership known and speak of how happy I am to be on his team.

Should I have told the truth? I think not. A team is only a strong as its weakest link. Whatever I may think of my Head or my school, I am not about to betray them. I don’t go on strike. I don’t criticise my Head in public. I don’t behave in such a way that will hurt my kids and my school. But does such loyalty make me, rather than the Governors, the one who is the weakest link in the grander scheme of things? I suppose it depends on how you look at it.

Wednesday, 7 May 2008

I have a dream

On the weekend I met a friend of a friend. Nutcase isn't someone to whom I would usually speak, except perhaps, at a parents evening. He has a gold tooth, and one might say that he and I are from different worlds.

Nutcase asks me about teaching, and as he is black, I speak about the lack of focus of black boys and how many of them want to become footballers. I insist that the media and society in general are responsible for their demise. His response?

'Yeah but Snuffy, every child has to dream.'

I frown. 'Dream? Sure! Dream about being something that is actually possible! These boys aren't going to become professional footballers! They're going to become the cashiers at Tesco, when they don't get any qualifications, thinking they don't need them.'

'But boys have to dream. It isn't right to take away their dreams,' Nutcase simpers.

I am getting more and more furious by the minute. 'Take away their dreams?? If I told you that I was moving to Mars, would you say 'oh it's good she has a dream' or would you say 'she's nuts' and take me to the nearest mental hospital?'

Nutcase laughs. 'You're funny, Snuffy, but I wanted to be a footballer when I was young, and I'm fine.'

What I want to say is: 'Well you're not fine actually. You've got that horrid piece of gold in the middle of your teeth.' But you'll be happy to know I restrain myself. Instead, I continue in my tirade.

'Yes exactly! And you're not a footballer now, are you?' I make a face which suggests victory.

Nutcase chuckles. 'True, true, but there isn't anything wrong with dreaming.'

Interesting point. Is there? I think there is when the dream isn't based in reality. And it is often what the oppressed do. The reality is so stark, that they would prefer to believe something that is far enough from reality to allow them to escape having to actually deal with the reality in any kind of meaningful way. Having said that, was Martin Luther King's dream, at the time that he had it, not also far from his reality?

Nutcase and I argue for some time, in a friendly way, until finally he turns to me and explains what I suppose I should have already known.

'You know Snuffy, the thing is...'

Nutcase grins, and my eyes open wide.

'Well, I have an 8-year-old son, and you know what?'

I shrug my shoulders. 'What?'

'I want him to be a footballer.'

Monday, 5 May 2008

Fundamentally Broken

One of my fellow bloggers used the above phrase and reminded me about the following event. One evening, my phone rings. ‘Dring Dring’

‘Miss Snuffleupagus, Mr Principal here. Sorry to bother you at home. But tomorrow morning we are having a very important visitor. We’ve just been told. I’d like you to be part of the pupil/staff receiving party.’

‘Oh, yes of course Mr Principal. Thank you for thinking of me. But who is it?’

My Principal chuckles. ‘Ah, well, I cannot tell you that. But perhaps you can guess. He is important. It will be a political discussion.’ He pauses as if giving me time to think. ‘So come with a few questions in mind, although it is likely the pupils will do most of the talking. And dress for the occasion.’

The following morning, surrounded by various chosen pupils and fellow teachers, we discover that Tony Blair is 10 minutes away. Everyone is excited and nervous. Heads always push me to the front on occasions like these. I’m articulate, well-spoken, exotic-looking, and I’m fiercely loyal. They know they can trust me to say all of the right things.

Tony is to spend 20 minutes with us, answer our questions about education and give us a chance to shine. We are all thrilled to have been given the opportunity to show-off. We want to show Tony how we are the best of schools, with the best pupils, the best staff, the best everything. This is the experience of every politician. They never see schools as they are in reality. A show is put on for them, and we never tell them truth.

As I wait for Mr Blair, I wonder whether I should say something. Should I tell him some of the stories I write about on this blog? Should I insist on taking him into some classrooms that are simply barred from the view of the public? I also marvel at the way that no one has checked me for weapons. It would be so easy to kill the Prime Minister.

The door opens and in stumble a dozen photographers. Tony Blair is as charming as ever and we speak for a few minutes. The cameras are flashing like crazy. Do I tell him about the lack of discipline in schools? Do I explain about how schools are confined by league tables, exclusion numbers, and data? No, of course I don’t. That’s why I’ve been chosen. I’m fiercely loyal. I would never betray and embarrass my school like that. So instead, I smile, shake hands with the various politicians, and pretend we live in paradise.

Politicians have no idea what really goes on in schools. Like most of the public, they remember their own school lives and assume that most schools nowadays are pretty much the same. By virtue of the fact that they are themselves successful, it is generally the case that they themselves went to decent schools. When challenged, they no doubt think of the many visits they have made to schools. And they feel clear that they know what is best.

Do politicians want to hear the truth? Can they handle the truth? I don't think so. If most people knew what actually goes on in schools, we might have a revolution. Perhaps that's what we need. But how do you tell someone that at our core, we are fundamentally broken?

Saturday, 3 May 2008

Boris and Snuffy

I’m wandering through Picadilly tube station yesterday evening when I run into Charm, one of my friends, a tall, black, successful man who constantly argues with me about my political views.

‘Snuffy! Snuffy! Hey! How are you?’


Startled, I step back. ‘Hello Charm! How are you? Who’d you vote for?’

‘Who’d you think? Man! I’m so upset! It’s all over for us!’ Charm shakes his head.

I raise my eyebrows. ‘It’s all over? Well, Boris hasn’t won yet!’

Charm holds his head in his hands. ‘Nah, nah... My friend just called me. He’s got it! He’s got it! I feel like I might cry.’

My eyes open wide. ‘Boris has WON? Oh my goodness. I can’t believe it!’ I’m sounding too excited and I worry whether my friend might kill me.

Charm frowns and points his finger at me. ‘You voted for him, didn’t you?’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I voted for Paddick.’

(I think I might just keep the voting for Boris second thing under my hat…)

Charm winces. ‘You did? I would have sworn you would vote for Boris. You’re so, well, you’re so…’

Hmm. What am I exactly?

Today, other friends ring me.

‘Hello?’

‘You got what you wanted Snuffy. Boris is your man. You got him. You just wait. Today is a sad day for Londoners.’

‘But I didn’t vote for Boris.’

My friend doesn’t even hear what I’ve said and continues. ‘So now that he’s in, you have your chance Snuffy. You need to contact his people. Get them listening to you. They’ll listen to you now.’

The phone rings again. This time, I’m bracing myself for what might be on the other end.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi Snuffy. It’s me, Soul.’

Soul is black, has a relatively prominent position in the black community, has written books, gives conferences, and is very decent in my book.

‘Oh, hi Soul. So I guess you’re happy then. Boris is in!’

‘Yes, brilliant stuff. I’m going to talk to his people. That’s why I’m calling you. I want you to be involved.’

‘Involved in what, exactly? You think Boris and his people want to hear from me?’

‘Yes, I’m going to set up a meeting. I know people. You’ll see. We’re going to make some changes around here.’

Are changes really possible in this world? Maybe I’m too jaded. I’m not sure it has to do with political parties anymore. We’ve gone so far in the wrong direction that I’m not sure we can ever go back.

The future of London is certainly up for grabs I suppose. It will be interesting to see if Boris makes any difference. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.

Friday, 2 May 2008

The Vote


I rush into my local church-turned-polling station and run up to the table. A small man, rounded shoulders, pot-bellied, hunched over in front of me, turns around.

'Hello Miss Snuffleupagus!'

I'm startled. Oh my goodness. It's Dingbat's dad. I have been teaching his son for 5 years. I have rung Dingbat's dad at least a dozen times this year alone. Everytime I ring, I brace myself, knowing that he will go on, and on, forever.

'Oh! Hello, Sir. Yes, hello!' I stammer. 'Funny running into you here!' I look to the woman at the desk, hoping she will save me.

'Yes?' she whispers. 'Your address?'

I give out my details, as Dingbat's dad looms over my shoulder.

'I need to speak with you, Miss Snuffleupagus. I need to speak with you.' He looks like he might cry. 'Shall we go for a coffee?'

Shall we go for a what? Did I hear correctly? A coffee? No, no, no, this man has to be insane.

'A coffee? Well, I don't think so. Well, you see, I'm in this terrible rush. I really don't have the time.'

Dingbat's dad smiles awkwardly. I look back at the woman behind the desk. She moves her ruler slowly down the page. She looks up.

'You've already voted.'

Huh? 'No, no, I haven't voted.'

'Yes, you have. Your name has been crossed out.' The woman looks behind me. 'Next please!'

By this time, a massive queue has formed behind me. I hold my hand up. 'No, no, wait. I haven't voted. I promise you. I haven't voted.'

Dingbat's dad looks on, worry written across his face. Why won't he bloody well just go?!

The woman sighs. 'Look, your name is crossed out. You have already voted.'

'But I'm telling you that I haven't. I haven't. There must be some mistake.'

'Ok, well where is your voting card then?'

My card? Oh yeah! My card. Wait a minute. I never got a card this time. 'I don't have a card. Here's my ID though.' I shove my passport in front of her. 'I promise you, I haven't voted.'

The woman rolls her eyes.

Maybe I should just go home and forget it?

Dingbat's dad is still standing next to me.

The woman looks behind me. 'Stand to the side please. Someone has taken your card and has voted in your place. I don't know what we can do. We need to look in our books. My colleague will deal with you.'

Am I in a comedy sketch? I look around the room for possible cameras when my gaze is rudely interrupted by Dingbat's dad.

'I'm sorry, Miss Snuffleupagus. How is Dingbat? How is he in school? Is he really that bad?' His Peruvian accent rings about the hall.

'Well, yes, he is a little bad. You know this. But I did manage to get his coursework out of him in the end.' I look behind the desk, wondering how long I am going to have to endure this. A woman is trolling through various tomes and papers, looking very confused.

'It isn't his fault you know! It isn't Dingbat's fault!' Dingbat's dad screams. 'It's that his mother and me... well, I don't have much to do with Dingbat anymore... it's his mother! It's his mother!'

I begin to wonder whether Dingbat's dad is actually going to cry. The queue of people, bored with the wait, are watching this entertaining scene being played out in front of them. Here I was, thinking I was in a church, when actually, I'm in hell.

Finally the woman comes over with some special sheets. 'These are for you.' She hands them to me. 'But you can't put them in the ballot box. We need to send yours separately to the town hall.'

'Thank you.' I smile at Dingbat's dad. He smiles back.

'So who are you voting for, Miss Snuffleupagus?'

'Well, who are you voting for?'

'Lindsey German,' he says excitedly. 'We have to stop the BNP!'

Huh? With Lindsey German? I mean, of course, let's the stop the BNP. But with Lindsey German? Lindsey German of the Socialist Worker madmen?

Dingbat's dad leans in. 'So who are you voting for?'

Oh my goodness...I can't tell him that! He'll think I support the BNP! 'Sir, I'm so sorry, it is just that I'm in this terrible rush. I really must go and vote, and then go. I have to be in Trafalgar Square for 7pm.'

Dingbat's eyes open wide. 'Trafalgar Square? I'm going to Trafalgar Square too! I'll go with you!'

Go with me? Oh my goodness. What do I do? Somebody help me! Somebody! Anybody! I look to the queue, trying to call for help.

'But I'm on my bike. I can't join you. Really Sir, I must go.'

Dingbat's dad looks hurt. 'Ok then.' He sighs. 'See you soon.' And as if God had somehow heard my prayers, here in this lovely church, off Dingbat's dad went, never to return.

I turn to the polling booth. Pencil in hand, I vote. Finally. For a moment there, I didn't think I'd get here. So who did I finally vote for? Paddick first, Boris second. Looks like Boris is going to win.

I wonder who the person pretending to be me voted for?