“Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.” – Albus Dumbledore
I know he’s not a real guy (and raised a child to be killed at the proper time - yikes) but I definitely style elements of my teaching on the greatest wizard in (also not real) history.
In particular, the part that resonates with me is when he’s being incarcerated by the Ministry for Magic and loses all his official titles, honours and awards. Stuff the pomp and ceremony - all he cares about is maintaining his own chocolate frog card. An honour that connects him to the most important aspect of his job - the children.
Something else I remind myself of often is his insistence on the power of words and I’ve had a lot of examples over the past week that illustrate this.
Preach, brother.
Cuckoo in the nest
As has been the case every year of my (yes, I know, very short) career so far, I’ve moved classroom this year. For the first time,though, I’m inheriting a room from a colleague who’s still around at the school I work in - one who’s been working from that room for 6 years. Their very own home from home. Their sanctuary. Theirs and theirs alone.
Not anymore. We had to rip everything down last year for a repaint so it’s been almost totally redecorated and, now, yours truly has moved in. Sanctuary tarnished.
I’ve definitely felt like an unwelcome cuckoo flourishing in someone else’s nest. But, like the proverbial pigeonesque parasite, I’ve been welcomed in with open arms as if I belong there. My colleague has even congratulated on what I’ve done with the place.
Must be such an odd feeling, walking into YOUR damn classroom and seeing a chump like me kicking back behind the desk so I’ve got a lot of respect for this level of goodwill. They’re a top-notch colleague and this shows what a great person they are to work with.
Don’t teach to the test
If there’s one thing I’d like to change about the education system, it’s the reliance on tests - especially exams - to measure intelligence. For one thing, they measure such a narrow version of intelligence. Not only that, they provide only a snapshot measure of it under stressful, unnatural circumstances.
Worse still - we rely on testing to prove the effectiveness of teachers.
It just does so little to demonstrate to the world the work we do.
However, it’s the nature of the game so we play by the rules. Especially in Year 6.
And, sometimes, we win the game. Last year, a student who faced significant challenges in the academic world demonstrated real potential but couldn’t always overcome the difficulties they faced. My teaching assistant and I (mostly the TA) fought hard to support the student in the face of their challenges and give them the tools to continue their growth. Like it or not, maths and English ability form a large part of this.
Blissfully, they passed the reading, spelling and writing assessments - but fell just a single mark short on their maths.
The most frustrating part? Having requested a copy of their marked maths paper, we found a question which received 0/3 despite easily fulfilling the criteria for two marks.
Honestly - it made me so cross. ‘Who on earth marked it? What were they thinking?’ I thought to myself as I read through it.
Hey ho. We appealed and, as is almost never the case, we’re successful.
According to the government-mandated standards of academic proficiency, we took a child for whom the academic environment is not always a comfortable situation and showed them that they have it in them to succeed.
We never doubted it. Now, neither should the student.
Underestimate at your peril
I constantly think adults look at an endless list of skills or tasks and think there’s no way a child can fulfil them.
If there’s one thing we can all learn from children, it’s resilience.
Teaching is a perpetual front-row seat at the theatre of bouncebackability, an endless loop of knockbacks and comebacks.
One youngster in my class presented me with what I considered to be a below-par piece of writing and, considering their qualities, I explained that I believe they can do better. I expressed why I felt they didn’t do too well - because I felt they could have tried a little harder. It may seem harsh but it was true and I need this individual to understand their potential for them to reach it.
I’ll admit, though - I wasn’t expecting them to take it as hard as they did.
Ok, it wasn’t that bad.
Plus, one hour later, the same student is churning out the longest example of writing in a writing task of anyone in the class, even asking if they can continue writing into lunchtime.
Don’t worry, I insisted on the importance of taking a break and reassured him there will be ample opportunity to prove their qualities. An opportunity that was taken the very next day. Personification, metaphor, emotive language, humour - the kid threw it DOWN.
As adults, we so often take feedback aimed at something we do as ‘you have failed’ as opposed to ‘you can do better’. It still might not sound positive out that was but I think it’s such an encouraging thought - that there’s more to come. Even when I am doing something well, I think of this because that’s what children have shown me over the last couple of years - the power of ‘there’s more to come’. Incredible things can happen when we look at setbacks - and even successes - in this way.
Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?
I’ve stumbled on something that makes my job so much more fun. It’s honestly pure gold and, while I am a fledgling teacher compared to most, I couldn’t recommend this more.
The boring bit. Time and again, it’s important to catch the class’ attention. Teaching is an infinitely more efficient, effective job if you can do this quickly. However, it becomes infinitely more fun if you can make something enjoyable out of it.
For two years, I have done a simple countdown from 5 to 1 to get attention. It usually works, but never makes anyone smile or feel like the classroom is a fun place to be. Sometimes it doesn’t work because it becomes boring.
In another attempt to learn from my students, I have taken a suggestion onboard.
One that I will always do - from this day to my last in teaching.
Instead of counting down to one and waiting for silence, I now choose to call something. They then have to respond and be ready to show me the attention the next task requires.
What does this look like?
I call out ‘peeeeeppa pig’.
And the children respond in unison with ‘oink’.
Instantly, they’re listening and smiling. What more could you want when trying to teach children?
We’ve been adding more.
For example:
‘Hi Barbie!’ ‘Hi Ken!’
‘Bob the builder!’ ‘Can he fix it?’
And their favourite:
‘Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?’ ‘SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS!’
It’s absolutely brought so much life and ridiculousness to the classroom while creating an environment where they want to listen and I am able to speak to them. I have been insistent that we’ll only do it if it works and they’re listening when it happens.
It works every single damn time.
Good morning… Belfy?
This shows the children’s quirkier side.
In our classroom, we have this piece of furniture designed to hold our exercise books. It’s not really a bookshelf. It’s full of pigeonholes. I don’t know what to call it. I told the children this and we decided it needed a new name.
They gave it a name.
Bookshelf. Belf, for short. Belfy, for familiar.
Now that they’ve named it, it’s practically become a person to them. They’ve given it a face and a hand so they can give it high-fives.
They even chant good morning and goodbye to Belfy at the start and end of the day. They come into the classroom excited to arrive and leave with a giggle.
All because there’s space for them to be their own silly selves.
Why the heck not?
What’s in a name?
We’re learning about world war 2.
One child tried to say my name the other day but made a small mistake.
Instead of my actual name, they accidentally said ‘Mr Hitler’.
At least, they said it was an accident.
Magic
Sometimes, words make us feel as though we’re doing the right thing even when we’re totally unsure of ourselves. Used carelessly, they can knock us down when we feel we’re doing enough; used cleverly, they can provide a much-needed boost. Occasionally, they can transform the mundane into the brightest spark of the day, making the monotonous and necessary a moment to cherish.
Sometimes, though, the way we say things is more important. Even being accidentally called Hitler at work can bring the biggest laugh of the day.
If you’ve read this, see if you can find a way to weave this magic. Send someone a message now telling them you’re grateful for them and that you admire them for something. Do it. See what happens.
Don’t thank me. Thank Professor Dumbledore.