“You want I should ‘it ‘im for yer?” A thick-necked, cropped father asks the Teacher about his son. Said infant trembles. He has a tic, probably consequent on being so often ‘it.
“Erm... no thank you.” There’s little evidence that random violence has so far done much for his son’s mental health or academic levels...
“She needs stretching. Why aren’t you stretching her?” A well-heeled, wracked mother asks the Teacher about her daughter. Said infant looks pale and wan, probably consequent on having a “helicopter” mother pushing her to destruction. There’s little evidence that the intellectual rack could do much for her troubled offspring...
“He says you always pick on him! He’s a delicate, disturbed child!” A large loud woman asks the Teacher about her large, delinquent son. Said infant can only concur.
“Yeah I’m delicate. I weren’t doing nothing!” Delicate? He’s a flagrant thug. Nothing? Except wrecking whole lessons...
“Why is Electra not in the Gifted and Talented?’ a New Age Crystal Therapist asks the Teacher. Electra is gently weeping, probably consequent on her bullying, barmy mother... “Because she’s neither. She’s just damaged. Damaged by you, you bonkers old bat!” the Teacher would like to reply...
So it goes. Parents’ Evenings are here again. They are essential, necessary and vital. Most parents are fine, patient and supportive. They’re doing a hard job against increasingly tough odds. They seem ever more anxious, struggling, guilty, exhausted, bewildered, desperate and stressed. Childhoods seem to have been stolen. Schools seem to be exam factories. Their offspring must keep passing tests – or else. The parents get frightened. Sometimes they scapegoat the Teacher. She tries to reassure them. It’s not easy. She’d like to apologise.
“I’m sorry for the way this system treats your children. I’m sorry about this plague of testing. I’m sorry that Nicky Morgan wants to bring back more ‘robust’ tests to test your tots at 7 and 4 and probably as embryos. I can’t stop these things. I am merely the Teacher. I’m so sorry for the pressure, underfunding, big classes, ludicrous targets and killing workloads with which your poor children are lumbered. I’m so sorry my school is an exam factory, that I can’t protect them from it.”
But the Teacher can’t. She’d also like to say: “Your children are fine, they should just be larking about much more – playing, dancing, laughing. Stop worrying about them all the time.”
She mustn’t. The Teacher is so knackered. Bone-tired. Still, only one parent remains, a shrill, righteous mother with a glum, sulking son. “He says you ‘it ‘im!”
- Ian Whitwham is a former inner city London teacher.