I want to correct something from my last post… It has been on my mind.
I have started my new job this week. And – whilst I may have suggested I am “supremely overqualified” for it (how pompous!) I am by no means an expert in this field of learning support. It is a minefield of potential hazards and mistakes, dotted with fun, frustration, despair and hilarity.
I have met challenging kids before. They don’t scare me. (But perhaps they should – I’ve already been warned not to be complacent this week!) I feel for their teachers and thank Woody Allen Jesus that I don’t have to be one at the moment. To have to be responsible for a lary class of massive Year 9s; their assessment, planning for them, their behaviour, their grades… it would just mess with my head these days. Helping individuals in class is a job I can do – I think. But easy it is not. And I have a lot to learn.
So far this week, I’ve been treated relatively kindly by the kids. Yes, they’ve questioned where their usual helpers are, asked me if I am training to be a learning mentor and why would I want to, ignored me and thrown my pens about. But – ever the harridan – I have pushed on with the tasks in hand (“Do you make your kids do all their homework, Miss?” Er, yeah.) , re-learned about probability and Sunni versus Shi’a muslims (“You’re so determined, Miss!” Er, yeah. I love learning, I do!) and realised that sometimes, the best thing you can do with disaffected students is to discuss random stuff like whether there is a God, and if any of us would have shot Hitler in 1918 if we’d had the chance.
I find it hard to deflect from the conventional idea that all children need to pass their GCSEs: ideally they should get a true representation of their abilities through assessment, and if I can help with that, great. But if a philosophical discussion keeps a bum in a seat, that’s no mean feat (ooh,poetry!). And as long as I am taking my lead from the classroom teacher, who is paid to worry about lesson content, then I guess it’s all fine…
The Little Seymours are intrigued by my presence in their school. I think they may be slightly nervous. They know the day is coming when I don my purple tights, and, like my mother before me, will get a reputation as an eccentric dresser amongst the harshest fashion critics of all -youths. They suspect I will embarrass them, I am sure. But they do seem to be quietly happy that I’m there, experiencing what they experience day in, day out. There’s nothing like a secondary school! And only the brave return.
Hitler aside, I do have a feeling that I may have metaphorically shot myself this week though, in the foot, with a nickname I fear may stick. When helping with a Science practical (my forte!), and with acids and alkalis being decanted, I told the student not to worry. We had goggles on, and the strengths were low. But he was concerned my fingers would fizzle up and die. Bless him.
“Dont worry!” I reassured him, “I have asbestos hands.”
“My mum says that”, he said, clearly bemused.
“It’s a phrase old people use,” I stupidly replied.
There followed a sweet discussion about age over the pipettes, and the student, who is cleverer than he wants to admit (and humorous), then repeated my new nickname back to me later in the lesson. Yes, I am now Asbestos Hands, the Learning Support Mentor.
Classy.
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