The year is 199something-or-other. I'm standing at the door of my English classroom ushering in my Year 10 'low ability' set; all boys. I'm slightly nervous; no, I'm very nervous. Sitting at the back of my classroom is a tiny but formidable lady dressed in pink. Barbara Cartland! No - an OFSTED inspector, and she is here to inspect me. As each boy comes in, he hands me the equivalent of an SSP - 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12... I need one more boy to complete the set. I turn to the class, wave a handful of SSPs, and quip, "Well, if Benny comes in on SSP, we'll have the full deck." At that moment Benny falls into class gasping, "Sorry, sir, detention, sir," and hands me his SSP.
The theme of the lesson is 'Crime and Punishment'. This turns out to be well-chosen since the inspector is not only an ex-headteacher but a local magistrate. Oddly enough, this is the only occasion in my brilliant career I've been inspected in class by OFSTED. In the end, I gave up preparing one-off, all singing-all dancing lessons and relied on the WYSIWYG approach. This has served me well; I haven't exhausted myself and no inspector has been disappointed since none has ever shown up.
My inspection went well, but that of the school did not. We avoided special measures but were held to have significant weaknesses. The bells of change went ding-a-ling-a-ling. Of course in education change is inevitable - except from vending machines - and all around us managers girded their loins and got on with it. Some managed by walking faster than the rest of the staff, some by staring at computer screens; some managed by conceptual thinking, some by delegation to their secretary; some managed by reorganisation, some by staying one step behind the boss; some managed by complete ignorance, and some by smiling and wearing nice suits.
As ever, I avoided management and anything that smacked of a career opportunity; I'd refused to wear a suit when getting married, and I certainly wasn't going to wear one now. I even hope to resist wearing a suit when I'm laid out for theta final rest. Who wants to spend eternity in a suit? As W.A. says: Eternity is a long long time, especially as you get near the end of it.
Up in the staff room goes a notice: SENCO required. I haven't much idea what a SENCO is or does, but frankly I'm bored with running the English department, possibly because my deputy seems as happy as a piglet in mud running it for me. I need a fresh challenge, even if it involves a stupid risk, for as the great man himself says, "Taking stupid risks is what makes life worth living," and even if it involves jumping off a cliff, I may have time to build wings on the way down.
I scribble off a few lines to the headteacher and am duly summoned to her office. "Are you serious?" she asks me. "I think I am," say I. And 15 minutes later, that is that. Out with the old, in with the new. I scamper down to my Deputy. I extend my hand. He shakes it, then warily asks, "What's this about?" I fix him with my glittering eye and quoth, "You, my lad, are, after Easter, Head of English, and I'm off to be SENCO."
"Are you serious?" he asks, as ever declining to take me as seriously as I take myself. "You - Special Educational Needs Co-ordinator?"
"I am! That I am!" I insist. "Now have you booked the lunches?" This being a Friday the English Department trots off together for a pub lunch over-looking Tankerton Slopes.
SENCO! Special Needs! And all mine. It's enough to make a cat laugh. Without pressing the analogy too far, I felt like Charlie Chaplin in 'The Great Dictator' spinning the globe on his middle finger. Not that I had that much to dictate to. Five or was it six staff in the Special Needs department? A big empty room in the then Art Block. But I had only three hours a week classroom teaching, and as far as I knew only a handful of kids on the Special Needs Register. Oh well, che sera sera, I trill, in perfect imitation of Doris Day, as I skip down Smokers' Alley. I've no idea where this decision will lead, but does anyone ever know where anything will lead? To that question, the answer is always No.
There follows five intensely happy years. My 'staff' know what has to be done; they've only been waiting to be given the chance to do it. I recall the departing SENCO saying, "Well, you're the last person I'd've given the job to, but now that you've got it 'Good luck'." I don't need luck; I need the team I've inherited. The procedure is simple - they tell me what needs to be done and that's what we go ahead and do. When you recognise talent, give it its head. Set the guidelines and let the folk get on with it. People love freedom, responsibility, autonomy together with a 'boss' whose hand is lightly on the tiller when required. Backs are straighter, heads held higher, footsteps lighter. Nothing crushes the spirit as much as micro-management.
Easy-peasy, then? No, not at all. GM status, or rather non-GM status, has opened the floodgates, and within two or so years our 17.5% has jumped to over 35% on the SEN register. We could well be over the Event Horizon, endlessly falling into a Black Hole from which there is no escape. We are also into the Age of Accountability, an Ice Age of the Soul, where everyone is terrified of 'getting it wrong', and exhaust themselves filling in endless forms to demonstrate it 'wasn't my fault'. And with the doubling of SEN kids comes an exponential increase in the paperwork required. An administrative Hell was upon me!
The question was, what was I going to do about it? Well, I'll tell you what I did about it. I found someone who could do it far better than I could. Serendipity. You see, there are always capable women at hand, and, though the devil's never far behind, I've always thrown myself on the kindness of women. It is no secret, except to the vast majority of men, that the way to a woman's heart is to look utterly helpless.
Within a few months, I'd augmented the team from six to twenty six, including two capable gentlemen as tokens of their gender. Amongst my ladies I found one in particular who could take on the administrative tasks I hated and do them with spectacular competency. But of course competency is never enough. My 'partner' - for that's what we were - had to put up with me and my mildly manic-depressive disposition. Ah, but these were the manic years, so much to do, so little time to do it, and so much support around us with which to do it.
No comments:
Post a Comment