Pace: A Discussion 

Right, let’s sort this word ‘pace’ out shall we? It’s a word that’s chucked about more frequently than swimming pool vending machines chuck out Lion bars, particularly during Lesson Observation Feedback.

At the risk of sounding condescending, before I talk about what I think people mean when they say ‘pace’, I’d like to explain, to those who don’t know what it means, what it means: ‘Pace’ refers to a rate of movement. That is, when teachers are told ‘You need more pace’, they are being told ‘You need more rate of movement.’ It’s meaningless. It literally means nothing that can ever plausibly be held to be meaningful in any context. Telling a teacher that their lesson ‘needs more pace’ is no more helpful than telling them their lesson needs more oxygen. It’s rubbish.

Here’s what I think people mean when they say “You need more pace.” Either: 

  1. You need to be quicker
  2. Your lesson needs to be broken down into small chunks

Allow me to expose both of these, in turn, for the utter testicular matter that they are.

Firstly, let’s address feedback that is given as “You need more pace”, but actually means, “You need to be quicker.” If that’s the case, why not just say: “You need to be quicker. Your explanation of the intricacies and complexities  of the abolition act needs to be delivered more quickly.” 

“As for you, you’re spending too much time explaining how to multiply fractions. Next week, I want to see if you can get your explanation down to just 5 seconds per pupil. At the moment you’re at 10. Or, actually, you’re spending too long saying ‘seven’. I know it’s two syllables and all, but do you think you could get that down to a quarter of a second. Look, try with me now. Seven. Seven. Better…seven.”

Why don’t people just say, “You need to be quicker?” I expect it’s because, deep down, they know there’s something inherently wrong about it. It’s wrong because:

  •  assessing speed of delivery inherently implies that learning can be divided into units completely distinct from one another. 
  • It implies that learning is a modular process. Which, it ain’t. Learning latches onto prior learning.
  • It puts classroom teachers in this ridiculous position of being required to literally achieve the impossible: that is, to bend all laws of physics to ensure that full understanding of a task can be completed at a given speed. This completely ignores everything we know about learning. That is, that different people learn things at different speeds.

So what’s the solution?

The solution is, if you’re giving someone feedback and you want an element of their practice to ‘be quicker’, you need to say that, and not ‘pace.’ Also, given the efficacy of SMART targets, it may be useful to stipulate exactly how fast you want them to get. 

Now, onto the second meaning of ‘Use more pace’: “Your lesson needs to be broken down into small chunks.” 

Generally, people impart this advice after viewing lessons in which some students display distracted behaviours, or behaviour that can’t be categorised as ‘engaged’.

Kids become disengaged if they a) find something difficult or b) are bored. Neither of these two things can be remedied by breaking things down into smaller chunks. Actually, the issue here is quality of explanation or task rather than the ‘length’ of tasks within a lesson. 

If kids find things hard, that’s okay. It generally means they’re learning.

And if a task is boring- SO WHAT? Sometimes things that are vital to our wellbeing- tax returns, signing autographs, brushing our teeth- are just boring. And long too. Turning lessons into an educational pic n’ mix ain’t doing anyone any favours. 

We need to develop kids’ ability to persevere at stuff-like life- that’s ‘ard work. Their exams aren’t going to be five minutes long and made up of video clips, play-doh, and interpretative dance. It’s gonna be 2 or 3 hours of writing stuff which one may find boring. We need to prepare them for this. Breaking lessons into ‘smaller chunks’ isn’t always the way to achieve this.

So what’s the answer? Well, if you want to tell someone to break their lessons into smaller chunks, tell them that- don’t say they need more pace. And may I suggest you explain your advice with some bloody good research evidence with which to support your request.

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How I Teach…Iambic Pentameter

I want to let you know how I teach Iambic Pentameter, in the hope that:

  1. You can tell me how to improve my teaching of Iambic Pentameter
  2. It provides you with some ideas as to how you might want to teach Iambic Pentameter

 

Before I explain how I teach Iambic Pentameter, it’s first useful to explain what iambic pentameter is, and why I teach it.

What?

Iambic Pentameter is a line of poetry made up of 5 iambs. An iamb is a metrical foot made up of two syllables of which the first is unstressed and the second is stressed. Therefore, a line of iambic pentameter is a line of poetry consisting of 10 syllables following the pattern:

Unstressed (u) Stressed (/) Unstressed Stressed Unstressed Stressed Unstressed Stressed Unstressed Stressed

As in:

 U       \      U        \      U    \    U     \        U   \

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Why do I teach it?

I teach iambic pentameter for two reasons. Primarily, I think an understanding of iambic pentameter enables students to better analyse Shakespeare. Secondly, I think an understanding of iambic pentameter can lead to a greater appreciation of the poetry or verse as a construct- something thought about and built, rather than something that magically appears.

How do I teach it

I begin by explaining to students that what we’re about to learn is difficult. And that, finding this difficult is not only natural, but an indicator that they’re learning something. I also tell them that it is my responsibility, as much as theirs, to revisit this throughout the weeks that follow, so as to ensure full understanding.

I begin by explaining the concept of syllables. I will use phrases such as , ‘The English Language is syllabic. This means that its words are made up of syllables.’ The definition of ‘syllable’ is a tricky one and I don’t get too hung up on this. I go for a student-friendly definition which is a little abstract, but works with examples: ‘A syllable is  a beat in a word. “Matthew” for example, has two beats: “Math” and “Hew”. At this point I’ll ask students to work out how many syllables are in their full names. I’ll also ask them to work out the number of syllables in words such as ‘Universal’, ‘Swimming’, and ‘Antidisestablishmentarianism’.

Once students know what syllables are, I write the following word on the board:

Rebel.

I’ll ask students to pronounce it, and they’ll generally all pronounce the noun version of the word (REB-el). Then, I’ll ask students what rebels do, and point at the word on the board as I do so. They’ll then give me the verb version of the word (re-BEL). I’ll repeat this process for the word ‘Present’ (gift) and ‘Present’ (show, provide). Once I’ve done this, I’ll explain that although the words are the same, the thing that changes the meaning, is the stress we put on syllables: ‘In the noun version of the word “Rebel”, we put greater stress on the first syllable. “Reb”-“El”.’ As I do this, I’ll raise my hand for the stressed first syllable, and lower it as I pronounce the second. I’ll reverse the process for the verb version, and do the same again for ‘Present’.

I’ll then pick a student with a two-syllable first name in the class and I’ll ask the whole class where the stress falls. Generally, in western names, the stressed syllable is always the initial one. I’ll explain that if it wasn’t, we’d start to sound like French. I’d do a mock French accent as I explain the differences between ‘Amy’ and ‘Ai-MEE’.

At this stage, the kids should know a) that the English language is syllabic and b) that syllables are either stressed or unstressed.

Next, I tell kids what an iamb is. I’ll explain that an iamb is what’s known as a foot. I’ll explain that  an iamb has two points (like the pad and heel of a foot). Normally, I stand on a table at this point and watch everybody see my the soft tread of my heel hitting the table’s surface, followed by the rest of my weight following through as my pad (?) hits the table. I’m careful to make the second hit more forceful than the first. I then tell kids that an iamb is:

  • A unit of two syllables…
  • Of which the first syllable is unstressed and the second is stressed.

I’ll provide examples of iambic words such as:

BeWARE

ComPARE

DeSERVE

Then, I’ll say these words with the reversed stress pattern. It helps the kids get it, I find.

Then, I’ll write the beginnings of a famous line of Shakespeare and explain that it is iambic:

To be or not to be? That is the question.

I’ll say this aloud, emphasising the unstressed and stressed beats as I do so, by adjusting the volume of my voice: louder for stressed beats; quieter for unstressed. I will then explain that many actors, because they don’t have a grasp of iambic pentameter. They’ll deliver the line thusly:

To be or not to be? That is the question.

I’ll explain that actually iambic pentameter means that it should be pronounced like this:

To be or not to be? That is the question?

I’ll also show them this clip to help further explain the importance of stressed and unstressed beats:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kEs8rK5Cqt8

I’ll ask students to tell me who they think has it pronounced most correctly, according to the ‘rules’ of iambic pentameter (I think it’s Prince Charles).

Right, now, I’ll ask students to look at the phrase IAMBIC PENTAMETER. We’ll analyse it and I’ll break it down into:

  • IAMBIC (containing iambs)
  • PENT (5)
  • METER (Rhythm)

That is, a rhythm containing 5 iambs. I’ll ask them how many syllables there are then, in one line of iambic pentameter. This is the stage at which you realise who has got it and who hasn’t. Most won’t have it. So repeat some stuff.

I’ll explain that iambic pentameter is a type of poetry. It’s poetry, even if it doesn’t rhyme, because it follows a metrical structure.

Now, it’s the time to explain why Shakespeare uses iambic pentameter. I discuss a number of theories:

  • It mimics ordinary human speech
  • It resonates with us because it mimics the beat of life – our heartbeats

I explain that I think these explanations are rubbish, even though I might be wrong. I explain that lines of iambic pentameter are just nice to listen to. The fact that they begin with a nice soft, unstressed beat, is soothing and less aggressive than if someone spoke to us (or the audience, or a loved one) beginning always with stressed beats.

Then I explain the most important thing about iambic pentameter:

Iambic Pentameter isn’t interesting when it’s there. It’s more interesting when it’s not there.

Allow me to explain: generally, it’s characters of high status or power who speak in iambic pentameter. Lady Macbeth, for example, speaks in iambic pentameter. Characters of low status or power, such as servants, nurses and porters, speak in prose.

At this point I’ll illustrate the differences between prose and verse by asking students to look at the differences themselves. I’ll normally direct them to the Porter’s speech in Macbeth, and ask them to compare it with verse spoken by the Macbeths in the previous scene.

Once students know what prose is, I’ll direct them to the sleepwalking scene. Lady Macbeth, now insane with guilt over her part in Duncan’s’ death, now speaks in prose. I’ll ask students why they think that is: it’s because Lady Macbeth has fallen from grace. Shakespeare now deprives her of the eloquence her power used to grant her. It’s his way of showing us that Lady Macbeth is now powerless. She can no longer boast of ‘the valour of [her] tongue’; instead she must be content with monosyllabic splutterings of ‘O! O! O!’

Finally, one more thing. I like this from Macbeth:

Stars hide your fires. Let not light see my black and deep desires.

I like the emphasis. I like the fact that black is stressed and light isn’t. I’ll encourage students to see the same.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

 

 

 

The Verbal Feedback Question

If you champion Verbal Feedback, as opposed to written feedback, people will get you over a barrel. People who get paid more than you will ask you the question, “If I asked one of your students what they needed to do to improve, would they be able to tell me?” The truthful answer is, of course, no. Not all students would be able to articulate how to improve, and they wouldn’t be able to for a number of reasons:

1. Firstly, learning a concept means that you are a novice in it. Novices do not have the same capacity-or vocabulary- as experts to reflect or articulate what they need to do to improve. I’m currently learning Italian. I’m improving, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly what I need to do next. I just keep doing the tasks I’m given and I keep on improving.
2. Not all learners are aware they are learning.
3. Not all learners realise that a learning experience is a learning experience.
4. Learning involves being in a state of liminality; that is, a strange state of confusion, doubt, struggle, and generally being unsure. This state of liminality is rarely conducive to explaining clearly and effectively, to someone in a suit jacket, what you need to do to improve.

Of course, attempting to explain could make you seem ridiculous, pompous, patronising, or even rambling. 
So, just write shit down. 

World Mental Health Day: Romeo’s Strength

I accept that Romeo Montague has his faults. Two huge faults in fact. Firstly, there is his habit of enacting murderous revenge on cousins-in-law who kill his best friend. Secondly, is his rather deplorable attitude to seduction:

From Love’s weak childish blow she lives uncharm’d.

 She will not stay the siege of loving terms,

 Nor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes.



His description of love as an attack betrays a patriarchal assumption that women are a ‘thing’ to be conquered and taken, with force if necessary. Alas, not much has changed in 400 years since this play was written. 

And yet, in my experience as an English teacher, the thing that invokes the most ire from people, regarding Romeo’s character, is his tendency to mope and talk about his feelings. The adjective ‘wet’ (showing a lack of forcefulness or strength of character; feeble) is one I often hear to describe him, and it is surely an adjective more inspired by the metrosexual effeminacy of Di Caprio’s portrayal of Shakespeare’s eponymous star-crossed teen, than by the actual acts (murderous revenge, for example) that Romeo commits in the play. 

On World Mental Health Day, I think it’s important to note that Romeo’s tendency to discuss his feelings-however ‘wet’, mopey, or superficial we may perceive them to be- is a strength of his, rather than a weakness. 

Let’s not forget, Romeo is in a bad way. His own father notes his tendency to ‘…draw/ The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed’ and ‘Away from light…private in his chamber pen himself.’ The argument regarding whether Romeo is in love with Rosaline or not is a futile one: the fact is, he feels as though he is in love, and that’s enough justification for the behaviours that we might now ascribe to the clinically depressed. 

This thing with Rosaline: it’s affecting him. Therefore, when Benvolio entreats him in Act 1 Scene 1 to explain what ‘sadness lengthens [his] hours’, and Romeo replies as he does-with hyperbolic and poetical lamentations on the pains of unrequited love- we must celebrate this fact. 

Consider the masculine world of Verona. This is a place of violent sexual bravado and aggression. This is a place where men boast about rape and peace is a word to be hated. In a world where masculine toughness is so valued, Romeo’s frank and open honesty about his own feelings, however ridiculous they may seem to us, is a real strength. And kudos to Benvolio too: it’s bloody lovely to see a man who cares so much about his friend. 

English teachers: this year, if you’re teaching Romeo and Juliet, please do the boys in your class a favour: slag Romeo off for the murder off Tybalt and be sure to berate him for his sexism.  But please. Please, please, please commend him for the fact that he talks about how he feels.  

Social Media as Catharsis

I’ve been going through some stuff.

For me, as for many men and women all over the world, every day is a battle, of varying degrees of violence (sometimes depending on the weather, but usually depending on the quantity of ‘goodness’ that I can recognise in the world), with the tag-team of anxiety and insecurity who sit, quite comfortably, alongside the devil on my shoulders.

But it’s okay, because I have Twitter and I have my blog.

Twitter is catharsis for me; it’s a safe space where I can air my personal grievances with the profession I adore, and so long as I don’t mention people or individuals by name, and I’m not spiteful, nobody gets hurt. 

For me, that’s what wins the preferred debate of choice for English Writing exams everywhere:

‘Should social media be banned?’

 I recognise all the problems with social media: it exposes kids to violence and sex and bullying, and, it’s a minefield as far as personal safety is concerned. If I had my way it’d be banned, were it not for one thing: the one thing that makes social media an absolute necessity for me, is the thought of all those quiet kids I grew up with, when I was at school, who, although never uttering a word throughout the five years of secondary school, would surprise me every night with their MSN messenger (look it up) status updates in which they lay bare their emotions: there were proclamations of love for people they never had a chance with; there were dark hints at suicide; there were verbal jabs thrown with defiance at bullies, and there were joyful explosions of emotional insight into lives which, were it not for social media, I’d assumed were devoid of any feeling whatsoever. Simply because these kids never actually spoke. 

Social media allows people to speak where otherwise they may feel unable to do so. Thanks to social media, people don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves anymore; they’re wearing them on their screens. And that’s a good thing. Because, when we talk about the things that hurt us or make us angry and when we talk about the things that make us feel good or make us tingle with excitement, we are expressing our humanity. Our human-ness. People stand up and listen to that. And we all want to be listened to.

For a number of personal reasons, I refuse to take anti-depressants. But, as an insight into some of the stuff I’m dealing with, here’s a few extracts from the endless amount of blog posts I write, which never get published, mainly because the act of writing about how I feel acts as catharsis. That is, I write down how I feel, and I feel better: 

Yesterday, a series of unfortunate events conspired to ensure that Twitter is no longer a safe space to vent about my problems. And that scares the shit out of me. Because, in a complete subversion of what is deemed noble and worthy in today’s Reality TV world, I’m not the kind of person who enjoys ‘telling it to their face’ or just ‘saying how I really feel.’ In fact, a childhood of more than ordinary amounts of violence means that even a raised voice makes my skin prickle, my hands sweat, and my heart beat faster than an angry wasp inside a jar.

This blog post, which I will publish, is a confession of my own weakness, but also a reminder: a reminder that even dickheads struggle and that the tendency for some to whine and moan on social media, whilst annoying, may be necessary. Please think about that. 

Masculinity and Violence in Schools. 

There has been violence in my life.

Whilst there have been moments of violence of which I am undoubtedly ashamed, there have been a few moments of violence of which I am most certainly proud. The pride that I feel when recalling these moments, or when relating them to others, hinges on the fact that these moments of violence mirrored the social narrative of masculine violence imposed upon all men from birth: the narrative where the bad guy loses and the good guy wins. 

However, the moment of violence which I think about every single day, is the moment of violence where there was no violence. 

When she was three months old, I took my daughter for a walk. Holding her in my arms (‘real men’ eschew slings) I was caught off guard when I turned a corner and saw two men, in their early twenties, threatening an old man who had accidentally bumped into them as he posted a letter. Naturally, I intervened and told the blokes to leave the man alone. What I hadn’t counted on, was that the baby held in my arms, rendered any advantage I had over the blokes-in terms of sizeand general scariness- null and void. 

“Whatcha gonna do about it big ears?”

Turns out, I was going to do absolutely nothing about it. The feeling that stands out most vividly in the memory of the event is a prickliness. Literally, I felt my skin prickle. I went very warm, and then my armpits started to sweat. And I felt scared. Absolutely terrified. So, holding my baby in my arms, I turned, and walked away. Granted, I checked (when I was some distance away) to see if they’d left the man alone (and they had), but the simple fact was this: I walked away. I’d seen two twats threaten an old man and I just let it happen. I walked away.

This knowledge- the knowledge that I walked away- plagues me every day with a feeling of shame that hasn’t relented, despite the 9 months that have passed since the occurrence of the event. Because, despite my conscious attempts to repeatedly challenge and question outdated stereotypes of masculinity, the whole alpha male thing is a big part of who I am. And yet now, when I’m in the pub, or at the football, or talking with the lads, there’s always a part of my mind saying, “This ain’t you. You ain’t real. You walked away.”

However, though I think about this day, every day, there’s a reason the shame doesn’t eat me up and that is, I can rationalise it. The whole thing. Because, I am aware of the biological and social conditions imposed upon me from birth that lead me to feel this shame. 

Because of this knowledge, I know, deep down, that walking away, although it may make me feel ashamed, is not a shameful act. 

Last year, in Britain, 76% of violent crimes were committed by men. In schools, boys are three times more likely than girls to receive permanent exclusions and 19% of these exclusions are down to violent behaviour’s. In special schools that number is closer to 50%. 

Violence is a largely male issue.

Society primes men for battle: whether it be the toy soldiers or the camouflage duvet sets or the gangster rap or the metaphors employed by the back pages of the newspapers, society primes men to be violent.

Earlier on, I admitted to feeling pride in some of the violence which I mentioned had occurred in my life. Some of you may have been repulsed by this revelation-or, let’s be blunt- this bragging. But the fact is, I was showing off, and I am proud of these moments of violence because, in some of the circles in which I associate, stories of violence are impressions. For some of the people I know,  stories of kebab shop fights and schoolyard scuffles reek of honour and power and loyalty in much the same way as Homer’s Iliad does for the generations who have studied it. 

I understand the reasons I walked away: preservation. Preservation of the one person I love more than anything- my baby daughter. I realise my shame may seem immature to you, but still, there is not a hope in hell that I could ever let the boys down the pub know about the time I walked away.

It strikes me that in most schools, violence is dealt with reactively. That is, violence occurs and then it is sanctioned. There may be a reintegration meeting, or a ‘restorative conversation’, but even then, the focus is on feelings and emotions prior to-and after- the violence, rather than the difficult topic of the violence itself: “So Sam, didn’t it feel great to actually just smack someone who bullies you?” Never going to happen. 

I believe that schools need to start taking a proactive response to male violence. I believe that a systematic programme of study, designed, facilitated and led from a pastoral position of responsibility, that aims to make boys aware of the biological (not so much) and social (bloody loads) conditions that prime them for violence may go some way to giving our boys the strength and power it takes to protect themselves not just from the force of the fist, but from the sucker-punch of society. 

I recently spoke on the phone to someone from Great Men, a charity that recently featured in The Times newspaper under the headline, ‘Can you teach teenage boys to be decent young men?’ The charity goes into schools and speaks to boys about violence, sex, and that other topic people are so reluctant to talk to boys about: emotions. To me, this sounds great. Unfortunately, what with the project being in its early stages, reliable data on the effectiveness of the intervention is as of yet unavailable. 

It should work though, right? If I know how an engine works, I am more able to adjust and repair a faulty one. If I know how I work- as a male- if I know how biology and society seems determined for me to work, I am more able to adjust myself to avoid my own faults, one of which seems to be (76% remember) a predisposition towards violence. 

I envisage a pastorally directed system of Explanation, Reflection, and Expression (ERE): boys have an important part of their masculinity explained to them (testosterone myth; social selection theory; gender socialisation theory). Then, during reflection time, questions are asked that encourage boys to reflect on this topic: What do you think about the belief that there’s a hormone in you that makes you more likely to be violent than girls? Are you stronger than your hormones? What do you think about the fact that teachers at primary school have lower expectations of boys than girls? Finally, during the Expression phase, boys are encouraged to comment on any aspect of the day’s session.

Before I finish, I want to talk about walking away. When a boy walks away from a fight in Schools it’s usually ignored. After all, of some one walks away from a fight there’s been no fight and so teachers don’t hear about it. In the rare instances when teachers do hear about someone having walked away from a fight, we commend the boy for having done so. What I am sure we are absolutely not doing, is preparing those boys who walk away for the feelings of humiliation and shame that may arise out of having done so. 

Failure to live up to social expectations of masculinity- this expectation that men should be fighters, fighters who win- is having a devastating impact. 76% of suicides in Europe are committed by men. Because of this, we need to find the boys who walk away and we need to encourage them to talk about the fact that they have done so and we need to be straight with them: walking away won’t always (in my experience, rarely) make you feel like ‘the better man.’ A concentrated pastoral effort needs to go into encouraging boys to confront these feelings and deal with them.

The shame and anger that I feel, as a result of walking away from those two guys attacking the old man, are wounds. They are wounds that bleed and the blood from these wounds covers a little part of my day, every day. 

But this is not my fault, this shame. It is the fault of outdated social expectations. And, because of this, I walk on.

Bloody, but unbowed. 


The Greatest Teaching Moment of my Life

Sir. I know sometimes I mess around. This doesn’t mean I don’t want to learn. Please keep trying with me. 

So reads the scribbled note that was pushed under the door of my office, one week into starting my new job. The author of this note  wasn’t lying. His name is Aaron, he’s in Year 8,  and, when he wants to, he can mess around. Last term, he wasn’t having any of it. It was like he’d given up.

It was with some trepidation then, that for Aaron’s class, I began this half term by ditching my planned unit on Poetry from Other Cultures (Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!), opting instead for a Poetry by Heart unit I’ve just started designing in preparation for next September. The unit aims to develop students ability to memorise information and is focused wholly on William Ernest Henley’s Invictus. The plan is that the whole class will know the whole poem off by heart within 4 weeks.

Aaron was fascinated by the story behind the poem- the poet’s impoverished childhood and struggle with tuberculosis; Mandela’s use of the poem to keep him sane and focused during his 27 year incarceration on Robben Island. After the first lesson, Aaron took the poem home so he could learn more. As did his best friend, Jacob. 

And then this happened…

Yesterday, during form time, I found Aaron and Jacob in the library. They normally come to me to read during this time but I told them the Head teacher had just had a pop about the slovenly state of my classroom (fully justified- I care little for classroom displays and my room is reflective of that) and asked if they’d come and help me tidy it up. They obliged, but asked if they could recite Invictus to me and an amazing TA who was also in the library, first. And so, I watched as both Aaron and Jacob, the ‘cheeky chappies’ with endless codes after their names on endless excel spread sheets, recited, word perfectly, the first three stanzas of Invictus. The TA and I were stunned but so was Lucas. Lucas? 

Lucas, it’s fair to say, is a bit like Aaron and Jacob. A nice boy for whom education and being quiet and focused in class, isn’t always the number one priority. I don’t teach Lucas, but I knew his name within a day of starting at my new school. He’s one of those kids.

“Sir, can you teach me that poem too?”

Of course I could, I told him, and so Aaron, Jacob, and now Lucas, trudged over to my classroom to tidy up and recite Victorian poetry. 

As we tidied up my classroom, Aaron, Jacob and I played a game. We’d recite alternate words of the poem. Like so:

Aaron: “Out”

Me: “Of”

Jacob: “The”

Aaron: “Night”

Me: “That”

And so on. Anyway, Lucas is sitting there, watching all this, utterly impressed. I’d go as far to say enchanted. Then, he rushes out of the room. Within a few seconds, he’s back, sheepishly pushing his English book under my nose. 

“I wrote a poem sir. Can you read it?”

And this is the where the best moment of my teaching career happens. It’s etched on my brain now; I can’t forget it. Before I go on, you should know that Lucas struggles big time with English. He really struggles. But, thanks to the amazing work of the TA I mentioned earlier, and an amazing English teacher who is far more patient than I could ever hope to be, he can get stuff done.

Anyway, here’s the moment. I’ll write it in italics and if you could just play some inspirational music, preferably of the classical variety, in your mind as you read it, that’d be great:

I look down at the page and Lucas’ poem runs thus: 

People enjoying the evening,

Just wanting to enjoy the beautiful bridge.

Then, a squeal of rubber tyres on Tarmac destroys everything,

Men get out and stab people in the back,

Why can’t people just enjoy their lives?’

I’m welling up, but I almost begin to cry as I look up from my reading and see this:

Jacob painstakingly trying to align my tables so that they’re straight, his lips murmuring the words of Invictus as he does so.

Aaron, now sat down, pouring over the fourth and final stanza of the poem, closing his eyes as he attempts to memorise it.

Lucas’ face, looking up at me in earnest, desperate to know what I think of his poem. 

That was the greatest moment of my teaching career. That snapshot just there: Lucas’ poem, Jacob’s efforts to both help me and impress me, and Aaron’s absolute determination to crack that poem.

Later that day, as I was calling the parents of these kids, to tell them how impressed I was, an email popped up on my screen, from the head:

‘Dear Mr Pinkett.

I just thought I’d let you know that after school today, as I was having a meeting with the CEO of the academy chain, Aaron in Year 8 barged into my office and recited the whole of Invictus to us both. It was word perfect and it was beautiful. It’s made my week.’

For me, the most impressive thing, and the thing that makes me proud, isn’t that Aaron remembers the poem. It’s the fact that he’s proud of remembering the poem.

On paper, Aaron isn’t the first kid you’d think of when asked to name a kid who is passionate about learning poetry off by heart. Which, I guess, is fitting. Because, as Aaron showed me this week, what does paper mean, when you have heart?