|
Blogger
Frank quits ‘scum and drugs’
“The
Kids are thick, the parents are scum, there are drugs everywhere and half the
girls are giving birth. Who wouldn’t want to be a teacher?”
Frank
Chalk does not mince his words describing life as a supply teacher working in an
inner-city comprehensive in England.
His witty
warts-and-all descriptions have won him hundreds of teacher fans visiting a
weblog he started last summer, and are now to be published in a book.
But just
as his persona is gaining more fame and notoriety, the anonymous maths teacher
has decided to quit the profession, worn down by poor behaviour and management
incompetence.
“There
was no dramatic tipping-point,” he said. “It was more like the coastal
erosion the kids don’t learn about in geography anymore.
“Someone
else can have my job as crowd-controller.”
Mr Chalk,
who is in his early 40s, was approached by a publisher less than four weeks
after beginning his website. He insists on anonymity, however, because his wife
and many of their close friends continue to teach.
His book,
It’s Your Time You’re Wasting: A teacher’s tales of classroom hell will be
published next month. It is scathing in its description of some of his former
colleagues and pupils whose names have been changed.
Characters
include Wayne, a Year 10 student, who had been expelled from a previous school
for stealing a teacher’s handbag then selling her house keys to a burglar.
“Wayne
is well known as a local drug dealer, so is one of the few with a grasp of
fractions,” Mr Chalk writes. “Lovely lad.”
Then there
is Mr Morris, the ineffectual Headteacher who staff nickname “the ostrich”
for his ability to ignore problems; Mr Duncan, the alcoholic geography teacher,
and Miss Wade, the timorous science teacher who goes off on long term stress
leave, citing bullying.
Mr Chalk
insists that all the incidents he describes in the book are true and not
exaggerated.
Several
chapters give blow-by-blow accounts of difficult supply lessons, including the
verbal abuse from teenagers and pupils’ tricks, such as bringing vodka into
class in water bottles.
Mr Chalk
began teaching as an idealistic 20-something. He said it had taken him so long
to quit the profession because some of the teachers had worked with were
inspirational.
He had
also become attached to the profession “in the same way kidnap victims develop
an attachment to their kidnappers”.
His tone
is decidedly un-PC. In the book’s
glossary of educational terms, he defines pupils with learning difficulties as
“thick”, the learning impaired as “really thick” and special needs as
“yet another way to avoid using the word ‘thick’’.
Mr
Chalk’s book is the latest in a growing line of classroom-misery lit. Previous
examples include Francis Gilbert’s I’m
a Teacher - Get Me Out of Here, which has attracted praise for its accuracy
from some teachers and accusations from others that it disparages the
profession.
Look,
learn and know your enemy
Frank
Chalk’s rules for supply teaching include:
Do
judge by appearances
Just as an
airport penny-dreadful book announces itself by its appearance, so will problem
kids.
Use
sarcasm
A
favourite weapon of mine ever since my PGCE (teacher training) days when,
naturally, we were expressly forbidden to use it.
Use
mystery and unpredictability to your advantage
Practise a
slightly lopsided, serial killer’s smile for when your first meet the pupils
at your new school.
Do not
be gullible
Ben Dover,
Phil McCavity and Roger Rubshaft are not real pupils.
Know
your enemy
Get the
troublemakers’ names from your colleagues, along with descriptions.
The
prison hint
“Accidentally”
drop into the conversation a hint that you may have served time in prison and
then quickly change the subject.
Remember
that you are God
And
repeat this to yourself regularly.
‘No,
he can’t read books, let alone minds’
In his
book, Frank Chalk describes getting pupils to enter one of his supply classes,
after he has lined them up outside:
I stand,
arms folded, by the door. Speaking calmly, I say: “We are on nine minutes now.
You know you have to be quiet before you go into my lessons. If it gets to 10
minutes, I will fetch your head of year and you will all do a half-hour
detention.”
(No they
won’t, I think to myself).
“No we
won’t!” yells one boy, near the back of the line. “You can f*ck off!”
Is that
kid telepathic?
No, he
can’t read books, let alone minds.
However,
just in case, I form a mental image of me strangling him.
It seems
to work: there’s a moment of quiet.
Right,
that’ll do. Seize the moment, like a drowning man grasping at a passing
branch.
“OK, in
we go. Remember coats on hooks.” They like to keep their coats on at every
opportunity, regardless of the ambient temperature, as they provide useful
places to conceal things like crisps, phones and spliffs.
I remain
in the doorway so that they can only go in one by one.
They push
and shove each other, or pull on each other’s bags and coats, completely
oblivious to my presence.
I
glare at my watch. We’ve wasted 10 minutes already. There is nothing unusual
about this. It’s a scene that’s being repeated all over the school, although
usually inside a classroom.
TES (18
August 2006)
|