Once upon a time, my career was working with children, of many, many varieties, but mostly angry ones. For the first time in my life, a child tried to strangle me with a ruler, I was punched whilst attempting to break up a fight, and I was threatened with criminal charges.
As an on call supply teacher, my phone would ring or not ring at silly o'clock in the morning, five days a week. Some days the call wouldn't come, and I felt relief so strong, that I allowed myself a short, celebratory dance. But other days, it did ring, and thus began the dread.
Apparently a degree (any degree) and a CRB check, qualifies you to cope with troubled children. Well, it doesn't help you explain to year 8 why you're taking their French class, when you don't speak French. Or how to help a severely disabled boy build a truck in DIY. It certainly didn't help me undress and dress a boy with down syndrome for his swimming lesson (he sprayed me in the eyes with deodorant and ran around the changing rooms naked). And I guess it didn't come in handy either in feeding children unable to feed themselves, or changing the nappy of a teenager.
What I'm saying is, that as I get older, and this time becomes more embedded in the past, my anger only intensifies. I went to a different school almost every day, and in my head, apologised to parents that I was the best they had. How was this ever allowed to happen? Yes, I feel sorry for myself. I was struggling to get a job, it was very much a lump it situation for me. But I had zero training and support throughout. Half the time, I had no idea what I was doing.
What do you do when a girl, abused by her father, who's brother is in prison for rape, whose clothes are saturated with urine, and whose hair is alive with nits, runs over to hug you? I hugged her back.
What about when you've told someone off for being racist, and then you spot his father, that same day, yelling racist abuse across the car park at other children?
There are schools which operate like prisons. Where you have to escort every child to the toilet, because the twelve doors en route have to be unlocked and then locked behind you,
It wasn't all traumatic; I had some truly incredible moments. Like helping a boy to finally understand Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, by making it relevant to him and his friends, like teaching Polish children how to read, meeting all these tremendously talented, joyful children, and the teachers who gave up more than just their time. It just worries me that this is still the status quo.
We do need more qualified, specialist teachers. We don't need any more fresh from Uni, raised in cotton wool, closest-they-ever-came-to-suffering-was-a-paper-cut-pretenders.
Some of the staff were nice to me, and helped. Others ignored me, and didn't care much about what I said, or how I interpreted 'appropriate for the situation'.
What I did realise was that I couldn't do it long-term. I wasn't selfless enough. I didn't have a commanding presence. I had a few, blindingly brilliant break-through moments with children, scattered amongst God-awful ones.
Do all teachers have to scale such towering heights on a daily basis? No, maybe not. But I admire them all nonetheless. Trust me - It's harder than it looks.
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