The Unnerving Unknown: a day in a teacher's life
a 2018 story written for Macquarie Primary School with collaborators Wendy Cave, Angela Donaldson, Patrick Kien and Andrea Rowley.
11.25am
Tanya watches her 10-year-old pupil Brad struggle. He's trying to explain a complicated thought to a group of boys who share his interest in all things scientific. Something to do with how we know the size of the sun. Brad is saying we cannot know, for sure. His friends disagree.
One has googled it and says the sun has a radius of 695 700 km. There's some debate about what a radius is, and if knowing the radius is the same as knowing the size. Another boy is explaining how scientists come up with a number like that. But Brad is on a different wavelength.
He's talking, in a roundabout and rather confused way, about whether we know anything for certain. The others don't get it. One tells Brad he's weird. Brad smiles.
Six months ago, Tanya muses, Brad wouldn't have smiled. Six months ago, new and having been bullied at his previous school, Brad would have lashed out and then hidden under a desk.
They'd arrived at the same time, Tanya and Brad, and Tanya remembers vividly how flustered she'd been when Brad first exploded.
It was on her first day on class, and Simon, her team leader, was with her, introducing her to the students and to the school's way of doing things. Suddenly, in a corner of the room, she heard a scuffle, a shout and, when she looked up, a boy had been pushed over and Brad was scurrying under a desk. Tanya watched as Simon first consoled the victim of Brad's rage, then sat on the floor asking Brad if he was OK.
At first there was no response. Then some shouts of 'go away you fuckhead'. It's fine to stay under there Brad, until you feel ready to come out, she heard Simon saying soothingly. I really appreciate the wise decision you've made to separate yourself from trouble. It was all done so calmly. When, after some time, Brad sheepishly emerged, instead of admonishing him, Simon asked him if there was anything he needed, and explained what it was that he, Simon, needed from Brad now that he felt calmer.
It was a scene that Tanya saw repeated often over those first weeks. She could see the way Simon was teaching Brad, through the kind of language he used, the way he explained to Brad how he might manage his turbulent emotions and tendency to explode. It turned out that while Brad was a reluctant writer and reader, at least in class time, he came to love telling stories to Simon (and then to Tanya) about drawings that he spent painstaking hours creating. Occasionally he would show the drawings and tell the stories to his classmates. Over time, he became an admired, if eccentric, member of the class community, carried along (for the most part) by the natural rhythms and structures of the school day, confident in his relationship with Tanya and his peers, enjoying the opportunity to explore the world through the emphasis on inquiry projects, and relatively free of the mental demons that had dominated his thoughts and driven his feelings when he'd first arrived.
And here he is, being called weird and, instead of lashing out, he’s smiling!
She identifies with Brad. She's been called weird more than once in her life. And tempestuous. And irrational. Especially, she reflects ruefully, by her routine-and-procedure-obsessed father. And there are times when she senses that Simon is implying as much. She wishes she could be like Brad and just smile when it happened.
Tanya herself is feeling hot and tired today. It's the end of term, the end of the year. She hasn't been sleeping well, and she's behind with her report writing.
But it's nice to be watching Brad smile.
She decides this might be a good moment to encourage Brad to do some writing.
***
3:45pm
It's hot in the car, and the air conditioner is taking forever to kick in. Is it even working? As she waits at the traffic lights, Tanya drums her fingers impatiently on the wheel. There's a perceptible throb in her temples. Is that a blurring at the edges of her peripheral vision? The beginnings of a migraine? Perhaps she should stop and take some Panadol, just in case. But she needs to be at home, behind closed doors. It's been a shit of an afternoon.
Will these lights never change?
She has the window slightly open but the air from outside is dry and hot. She switches off the radio and only then realises now how grating she's been finding the announcer's voice. The silence in the car is some relief.
It's a relief, too, to be away from school.
It's been a long time since she's felt like this. She loves her work. Usually. Perhaps it was today's heat. Or the end of a busy year. Or the fact that she hadn't quite finished her reports, though they were due today. But all day - no, it was more all afternoon - she's been feeling out of sorts. Tetchy.
The failed attempt to get Brad to write had gone pear-shaped. That was the beginning of things spiralling out of control. And then there was the exchange with Simon, her team leader. That was the low point.
She admires Simon. A bit in awe of him, to tell the truth. They've worked in the same team for two years now. They've had their ups and downs, they're very different kinds of teachers, but generally they work well together.
Why, then, had she been so upset at lunchtime by what he'd said?
It seemed to her, at the time anyway, that he was questioning her teaching. That he was implying that she had no valid criteria for the grades she was wanting to give some of her students. Now, as she waits at the lights, she can't for the life of her recall precisely what it was that he had said. All she remembers was her response. 'For god's sake, Simon, you don't have to keep shoving your wisdom and experience down my throat!'
He'd looked shocked. She'd stormed off. All afternoon she'd felt a heaving emotion as she tried to teach. The end of school couldn't come quickly enough.
What's wrong with these bloody lights! They can't stay red forever. She looks round to see if the other drivers are equally puzzled, but they seem unaware.
Tanya takes some big breaths. Trying to calm herself. She wonders if Ali, her housemate, will be home, or whether she'll have the house to herself.
She hopes it's the latter.
***
4.07pm
Tanya shuts the front door behind her.
'Ali!' she calls. But she's pretty sure she has the house to herself. The migraine has come to nothing, thank goodness. But she still feels hot. Upset. Confused.
She should text Simon. Say she's sorry. No doubt she's over-reacted. That's what her father would say, anyway. She can hear his voice in her head. Bloody drama queen.
She'll text later, perhaps. When she feels a bit clearer. She's still not sure that she was in the wrong.
Instead she moves through the hallway and into the family room. Light from the afternoon sun is streaming in. She draws the thick curtains. Then she goes to her room. Her space.
As soon as Tanya shuts the door, she feels the tensions of the day beginning to loosen. Here are her things: the bedspread her mother quilted, her prints on the walls, the stone beads she's attached to the ceiling and which make such a comforting cascading clicking when she brushes past them. Clothes strewn around the floor; a familiar and comforting mess.
The curtains are still closed from last night. She lies on the bed and, though she's still hot and sweaty, she pulls the pillow over her face.
It's dark. It's silent. The fractious world is shut out now by pillow and walls. Tanya hears the muffled hum of traffic outside. The world out there. She's escaped.
She must finish the reports. Just a few to do. But she feels so crappy. She'll rest til Ali gets home, then try to force herself to tackle the reports after they've eaten.
***
6.30 pm
It is Ali's turn to cook. Tanya has, until a few moments ago, stayed in her room.
'Are you OK?' Ali is looking at her, concerned, as Tanya enters the kitchen.
"Not really?"
'Sick?'
'Crappy day at work.'
Ali has made chicken soup. Comfort food. It must be a co-incidence, but it's just what Tanya feels like.
‘Tell me.’
‘I don't know Ali. I felt drained this afternoon. Didn't want to be there. The weather made it worse. People getting on each other's nerves.’
‘The kids or the teachers?'
‘I don't know. Maybe it was just me. I'm not sure.'
‘Want to talk about it?'
‘This morning Brad got into some kind of...’
'Brad? In your class? The kid who won't write?'
‘Yeah him, Brad. He threw another tantrum today. Chucked a chair then hid under his desk. I think it was my fault.'
'How come?’
‘I'm not sure. I wanted him to finish the year on a high, I guess. He's come so far. So I started pressuring him about doing some writing. I'd just overheard him saying some interesting things to some of the other kids, some stuff about the size of the sun. I suggested he write down his thoughts, but he resisted. The more he resisted, the more I got pulled into a kind of power struggle. It was stupid. Pointless. Anyway, in the end he yelled at me and hid under his desk. Like he used to. He hasn't done that in ages. It was a shitty morning all round actually. It was so hot and the kids were fractious, and then Simon ...’
'Simon?'
"Simon, the team leader.'
'Right.'
"Then Simon was asking me at lunchtime if I'd finished my reports, which I haven't, not quite, and he didn't mention it but we both know they were due today so I thought he was probably being a bit judgemental or something…’
‘You worked all weekend on your reports!'
‘Yeah, but they're not finished yet. They were due in today.'
‘And Simon was putting pressure on you?'
"Well, he didn't say anything directly. It's the way he looked I guess. The way he made me feel. I just snapped.'
‘What did he say?'
‘He said something about how we have to be clear about our criteria when we're giving out grades.'
'And that's what made you mad? But that's true, isn't it? You have to be clear about your criteria?'
'It was like he was accusing me of not being clear. Of giving grades without any real evidence or justification.'
'But he didn't say that?'
'Not in so many words.'
‘He just made you feel guilty. Uneasy. Judged.'
There's a silence.
‘Maybe I was imagining it,' says Tanya.
"Imagining it?'
"Imagining that he was being critical. Maybe he was just wanting to know how I was going.'
'And how he could help.'
'Maybe.' Tanya pauses with soup spoon hovering.
'Don't let the soup get cold,' says Ali.
'Do you think I should ... I think I should maybe have a chat with him in the morning.'
'Sounds like a good idea.'
'Thanks Ali.'
'For?'
'I don't know. Letting me blather.'
'Feel better?'
‘I do. A bit. No, a lot actually. Thanks.'
"Don't let the soup get cold!'
***
8.37pm
The cursor blinks. The screen is white, wordless. Three reports still to finish.
Brad's is next.
Tanya likes writing reports, though she sometimes resents the weekend hours spent on them. She'd rather be out on the lake rowing, or watching a film or reading a book. But report time is a good time. She likes taking stock, spending time thinking about each of her students.
She especially likes the way writing a report makes her realise how much progress has been made. Or opens up a useful conversation with a family. It takes up a lot of her time, this report writing, always more than she imagines, which is why she is late with hers ... again. But she likes the discipline, the quiet reflection time, the insights.
She's left Brad's til now, though, because she's still not sure what she wants to say.
The cursor keeps blinking, It's kind of hypnotic. And distracting. She'll never get the report written if she doesn't just jump in and start.
Brad's had a really good semester.
It's true. He's made so much progress. Despite today's tantrum, which was probably her fault anyway, Tanya thinks back to when he arrived in her class from interstate. Daily tantrums. Long periods where he'd hide under his desk, responding to any attempt to communicate by murmuring or grunting. Regular refusals to do any work. It was like there was this impenetrable shell that he'd erected around himself.
His earlier tendency to withdraw has all but disappeared, and he's now a popular and engaged member of our class community.
Was that overstating it? It's true that he now rarely withdraws, in a physical sense anyway. He still won't write though, and maybe that's a form of withdrawal. There's now no more social withdrawal and the other kids obviously enjoy him and his quirkiness. We love to hear his thoughts, his unusual and provocative thoughts. He's a real character.
Tanya smiles. She likes thinking about Brad. Just last week the class was sharing thoughts about time - time zones, different age group's use of time, timelines and so on - and Brad kept saying that there was no such thing. 'It's not like an apple,’ he said. 'Time isn't an object. It's an idea. It doesn't exist in the real world.' Some thought he was just being provocative, others seemed to agree. It was a great discussion.
Brad makes unique and interesting contributions in class, which we all enjoy and from which we all benefit.
That's three sentences. What more does she need to say?
Tanya re-reads her three sentences. It's all a bit vague. His mother and grandparents, who have been so involved and supportive, already know that he's had a good semester, that he withdraws less, that he's become a bit of a favourite in the class. Perhaps they want some evidence that he's actually making some significant academic progress. They know he's a bright button and they're ambitious for him. Perhaps they're needing to know whether these social successes are transferring into his literacy and numeracy skills.
For the first time since arriving at the school, Brad has received a B for his literacy skills.
Tanya feels a sudden sharp panic. We've got to be clear about our agreed criteria when giving grades, Simon had said at lunchtime, and she'd felt this sudden panic then. She instantly assumed that Simon was making some cloaked criticism of her decision to give Brad a B when everyone knew he refused to write and would grumble and stumble over the graded readers, no matter what their level. And he refused to take the Naplan test seriously, often sitting there with a smirk on his face and the pages left blank.
She'd given him a B because ... because ... he reminded her of her. Which she couldn't possibly say in a report. Or justify in a discussion with her colleagues.
Tanya, at primary school, could read and write, but only when she felt ike it. Too proud and independent for your own good, her father often told her. Brad could read and write. He read wikipedia often, for goodness sake, on all kinds of esoteric topics. She'd find him, sometimes, at a computer, typing up some perfectly formed sentence, such as the one last week: Time exists only as a concept imented to help humans dominate a day.
You couldn't give a C or a D to someone like that.
Brad was like her. That's why she gave him a B.
Bugger the criteria.
But she couldn't say this to Simon, or justify it in a report.
***
9.16pm
Tanya has made no further progress with Brad's report. The four sentences sit lifeless on the screen.
Brad's had a really good semester. His earlier tendency to withdraw has all but disappeared, and he's now a popular and engaged member of our class community. Brad makes unique and interesting contributions in class, which we all enjoy and from which we all benefit. For the first time since arriving at the school, Brad has received a B for his literacy skills.
She's stared at the screen. She's walked round the block. She can hear her father's impatient voice in her head: Just get on with it. You think too much.
She's remembered more about the conversation with Simon at lunchtime. You can't give grades according to feelings, he said. What was so confusing and infuriating was that there was no answer to this. It was obviously true. We've got to agree on the criteria and stick to them, he said. It seemed like common sense. But as he was speaking. Tanya felt a growing sense of claustrophobia, like she was being pushed into a place where there was no play, no imagination, no refreshing unpredictability.
She tried, before her outburst, to say something like this to Simon. That's just nonsense, he replied. We're an inquiry school. We're all about wondering and imagining. Creativity and curiosity is what we build the learning on. It's everywhere.
She'd tried to say something about how having rigid criteria made her feel, but it had sounded so unconvincing, so weak. Simon's conclusions sounded much more grounded, much more connected to the real world. The students need to see that we're all on the same page, he'd said to her, that we're covering what we need to cover, that we're aiming to get them all to achieve to the absolute best they can do. That means striving to be clear and focused on the educational outcomes. We have to agree on the outcomes and the criteria for success. How each teacher gets to the destination with their students is up to the teacher -that's where the flexibility and the play and the spontaneity come in - but we've got to be on the same page as a staff.
Which is when she said that stupid thing about shoving his wisdom and experience down her throat. She'd sounded so petulant, so illogical.
Perhaps she should change Brad's literacy grade to a C? Or even a D? Or was there another way round this?
She started typing again.
.. Brad received a B for his literacy skills. These are skills that Brad rarely uses in day-to-day school work, but we know - his parents, his teachers and his classmates - that he possesses them. Perhaps the next step for Brad is to see that playing the game of being the good school student wouldn't be a bad idea if he's wanting, eventually, to be an intellectual leader in our society, for which he clearly has more than enough intelligence and aptitude.
Tanya reads through what she's written. It feels like an acceptable compromise. What will Simon think, she wonders. She'll show him in the morning. And apologise. She's been reactive and unreasonable and unfair.
***
10.07pm
Done. The last of them - lovely Jamila - is done. An easy one to write.
Jamila lights up our class with her beaming smile, and inspires us all with the story of her learning. It is hard to grasp the fact that three years ago, when her family arrived from Lebanon, she spoke no English. Last week she gave a speech to staff and visitors about setling into her new country, learning the language, and about how much she loves the school. The story of her work last year with Mr. Simon Lattimer was so beautifully and movingly told by Jamila. The fact that she has an A for every subject is a credit to Jamila, her family and Mr Lattimer, who was her teacher for her first two years here.
Mr. Lattimer. Simon. What a model teacher he had been with Jamila, teaching himself about Lebanese culture and informing himself about the kind of education that Jamila would have experienced there, helping her to adjust, spending time with her and her family out of school hours, introducing an inquiry topic about Lebanon which was so carefully structured and which helped Jamila feel so thoroughly welcomed!
Tanya had learnt so much just from watching the way Simon had worked with the child, the family and the class.
And Tanya remembers now a conversation she had with Simon at the start of the year, when she'd asked him if he had any general advice on what worked best for Jamila.
She likes structure, Simon had said. If the inquiry projects get too loose, too open-ended, too unstructured, she gets panicky. She likes to know what the task is, what the requirements are, how to go about being successful. Structure the learning well and she'll flourish.
Tanya had tried to be more structured, though in some ways it had gone against the grain. Tanya herself has rebelled against structure for most of her life. She is a go-with-the-flow kind of person, always had been. She revels in the unpredictable, the complex, even the chaotic. That, after all, is what real life is like, isn't it?
But she has reined herself in, for the sake of students like Jamila, and it seems to have worked. Jamila has continued to flourish. Unambiguous tasks. Clear timelines. Explicit criteria. Meat and drink for this lovely young person.
Oh how different everyone is! Ordered Simon; chaotic Tanya. Irrepressible and unpredictable Brad; everything-in-its-fixed-place Jamila.
Tanya turns off the computer. But she can't turn off her buzzing mind.
Is there such a thing as a perfect blend of structure and freedom, of order and chaos? Simon clearly thinks that the balance has tipped too much towards spontaneity and difference, and has said recently in staff meetings that he thinks things need to tighten up somewhat, that as staff we all need to be on the same page.
The same page. Are Jamila and Brad on the same page? Clearly not.
Should they be? Probably not, given the huge difference in their backgrounds and personalities. Should they be aiming for the same outcomes? Again, Tanya doubts it.
What Simon says about having common outcomes but individual paths to the outcomes sounds so sensible, so self-evident. Could a school ever thrive if the staff weren't all working towards the same outcomes? Again, that seems highly doubtful.
It's just so confusing. Tanya wishes she could stop thinking.
***
11.42 pm
Can't sleep. Spent last hour tossing and turning, worrying about how tired I'm going to be tomorrow. Maybe writing in my journal will still my agitated mind. I hope.
Have been thinking about how people learn. How I learn. It's always messy. Is that just me?
Like when I arrived at this school. Didn't know procedures, expectations. Being in the 'unnerving unknown'. I remember using that phrase when Simon asked me how / was going. He smiled. Seemed he understood the feeling.
He helped, in lots of ways. Guided me. Learners need guides? He explained procedures. What to do when upset student stormed out of the room. Kept telling me I was doing OK. Guidance and reassurance. Is that all a learner needs?
Am thinking about how I learned to teach maths. That was my biggest challenge when I started here. Remember being petrified that I would turn the kids off maths. That I would scar these children for the rest of their lives. I hate it that people hate maths. Wanted the kids to enjoy it. But how? Simon allowed me to experiment. We played games for a while. Kids relaxed. But then I started to worry. Four weeks in and I thought maybe I'd taught them nothing. Panicked a bit when I realised there was nothing in their workbooks. Had a couple of weeks when I gave out lots of worksheets, but soon saw that they were getting anxious again. What to do? Simon seemed to have confidence in me, as if he knew I'd work it out in the end. I thought more about my own love of maths, and how it helped me to understand things in the bigger world. Started to relate the maths we were doing with bigger world stuff. Kids responded. I was never told exactly how to teach maths. Was allowed to experiment, try different things. Kept a reflective journal around my maths teaching, did some reading. Watched the way the kids got more involved, the way that they came to feel more positive about maths. I think I discovered my maths teacher identity, the kind of maths teacher I was, what worked for me. Maybe not for others, but for me. Being allowed to experiment was one of the best things about coming to this school.
It was hard. Messy. Sometimes I panicked.
Guidance: a bit. Reassurance: lots. Freedom to experiment and make mistakes: heaps.
But ... and it's a big 'but' ...
But when I'm trying things out, I feel vulnerable. Feel inexperienced. Feel I'm being judged. Even then, with the maths, there were times when I felt Simon was judging me, like my dad always judges me. And when I feel judged, I can sometimes get very defensive. Like yesterday.
Do my students feel the same? Do they think I am judging them? Seeing through to their vulnerabilities and weaknesses? I hope not. But maybe. Sometimes I can be impatient. Ali tells me that sometimes I'm quite a handful!
More to think about. But I need to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be hell if I can't get some sleep.
***
2.46am
Tanya keeps her eyes shut. If she opens them, she'll forget the nightmare. It seems important to remember it.
In her dream, Simon is showing her an assessment task that all the kids must complete. Tanya is appalled. She knows that her class will not be able to complete the task. They've been working on the inquiry about time, and the assessment has nothing to do with what her class has been doing. It's been exciting, seeing the kids so engaged with the inquiry, but the assessment task is a comprehension task, a vocabulary task and a written recount. Brad will fail the assessment task, Brad who has been so excited and so animated with his own zany explorations of the concept of time. In the dream, Tanya is at first panicked and then furious. She shouts at Simon. Tells him she refuses to give the task to her class. That it's all wrong. fucked up, undermining. Then Tanya sees that Jamila's parents are there, and are shouting angrily at her, demanding that their daughter be allowed to do the test. Tanya feels defeated. Weak. Impotent. Full of rage which is now wordless.
With her eyes shut, Tanya recalls the details of the dream. The associated feelings.
She has a sick feeling in her stomach. Is it true, she wonders, that her teaching isn't preparing her students to jump the hurdles, to pass the assessments.
***
5.08am
Tanya is awake now. Dawn chorus beginning outside. New day.
Despite the broken sleep, she's fully awake. Thinking, of course. But her thoughts feels less convoluted.
She's thinking about order and chaos. Solid structures and fluid complexities. The paradox that both seem simultaneously necessary.
Could it be, she wonders, that order - outcomes, curricula, moderation meetings, agreed criteria, grades - are necessary for systems? Without them, how would a school function?
But maybe complexity, uncertainty, agitation and the unnerving unknown are at the heart of learning. Without them, how would something new be born?
***
8.27am
'Simon, I'm sorry about yesterday.'
"Not a problem.'
No, it was stupid to say that about shoving your wisdom and experience down my throat. You never do that. I've relied on your wisdom and experience.'
‘You seemed pretty steamed up. Just tired?'
'Partly. But it's partly worry too. It's just that I would have handled the worry better if I wasn't so tired.'
‘What's the worry?’
‘I'm not sure. A mixture of things I think. Worry that I'm not preparing my students properly. Worrying that you wanting things to tighten up a bit, for us all to be on the same page, will stifle my teaching.’
‘You think that being on the same page will stifle your teaching?"
‘I think it might suit you and students like Jamila more than it will suit me and students like Brad.’
‘ I don't think you're right. We can tighten up a bit, get on the same page, without you being stifled.'
"Do you think so?'
‘I'm sure so.'
'You've been right before. I hope you're right about this. I just find common outcomes and shared criteria rather boring and very claustrophobic.'
‘I suspect you'd actually find them reassuring. If we're all on the same page about these things, then we've all got each other's backs. There's a stronger sense of the team, of teamwork.'
‘I hope you're right.'
‘We'll see, I guess.'
THE END
To the reader: Are you a teacher? If so, it would be interesting for me (and other teacher/readers of this story) if you responded to one or more of the questions below in the COMMENTS section.
As you read, did you find yourself thinking ‘I remember moments like that!’?
Tanya’s father says ‘You think too much.’ Do you agree?
In the final section (8:27am), is Simon right?