Earlier this evening I was sat on the sofa, gin in hand,
watching Abi Branning return to Albert Square. Next Monday will almost
certainly be a similar affair, but by then I will have completed the first day
of my Home Area School Experience, and my journey into education will have
officially begun. To suggest that I am stupendously excited to take my place in
the profession of teaching would arguably be the understatement of the year, my
personalised teacher’s planner is testament to that...but murmuring underneath
all this excitement, all the laminating and all the post-its, is an uneasy
sense that I have in fact regressed into the mind of a seven year-old, and that
I’m actually just playing ‘Teachers’ with myself, rather than being a bona fide
guardian of our children’s education. Perhaps I am merely window dressing the
profession, rather than setting up shop.
During the last academic year, I spent two days of every
week working in the incredibly successful English department of a local
secondary school. During that time I created displays that Neil Buchanan
(remember him?) would be proud of, I laminated paper in every size imaginable
and created the most beautiful filing system for the Y8 SoW you could imagine.
I also taught lessons in years 8,9 and 10, as well as designing resources for
A-Level, all of which was part of a normal teacher’s life and I am hugely
grateful for the experience I gained there, but there was so much going on that
I didn’t see or do. I didn’t have three hours of marking to do when I got home,
I didn’t have irate parents on the phone because Eden was getting too much
homework, I didn’t have to give up just about every lunch time for meetings
like the rest of the department did. I had the gold-leaf experience, and
delightful though it was, I am worried that it has cast me somewhat adrift from
what really happens this side of the desk.
'
A good teacher is like a candle - it consumes itself to light the way for others. ' -Mustafa Kemal Atatürk |
I couldn’t be more prepared, I have a planner, a diary,
three huge files full of potentially useful bits and bobs, and enough
stationary with my name on it to see all of year eleven through their
examinations. I don’t know what else I can do to make me feel ready for this,
all I know for certain is that I’m not ready. At all. Maybe all those months of
display-making and compartmentalising will come in useful this year, although
that may be wishful thinking in the extreme.
Searching for the prince-like positives in this quagmire of
negativity-frogs (an actual species, I believe), the proof of the pudding is in
the eating, and the table is to be laid in exactly seven days time. Don’t worry, I’ll
let you know how it goes...
Mr James
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