So, in a few weeks I'll be starting my new role as Deputy Headteacher. Currently this will involve some teaching, covering Years 5 and 6 for PPA, but I won't have my own class. I have been looking forward to the different challenges that my new role will bring, and the chance to have a more school-wide impact. It has made me, however, look back at what it means to be a class teacher and reflect on the things I will miss.
One of the things I love about teaching is getting to know children. I love the in jokes you can have with your own class by the end of the year. I love the fact, most of the time, that you can hear yourself in their conversations with each other. I love the fact that I know what each child is into, which subjects they enjoy, what they worry about, who their friends are and what life experiences they bring with them. Will I get that as a Deputy?
Coincidentally, my first class at my previous school left this year as well. I taught them in Year 2. I have spent some time chatting to them over the last half term as we were all preparing for a new chapter in our lives. One of the things they recalled about our time together in Key Stage 1 was that I used to tell them stories. Not from a book, but about myself. I think it's important for children to see another side of me, so I've always used those five minutes at the end of the day, wet play times etc to share things about my life. Their favourite story is as follows:
My first teaching post was in Zambia. I was a hostel parent, part time Year 1/2 teacher, Year 7 Form Tutor and horse trainer at a boarding school in a farming district, several miles from the nearest tar road. My flat was the corner of the Senior Boys hostel. One holiday my parents came to visit. We spent a wonderful few weeks exploring the country, and dropped them at the airport at lunchtime. The drive home involved four hours of driving over rough tar roads, negotiating potholes and diversions through the bush - we arrived home at dusk totally exhausted.
After a few minutes of sitting on the sofa staring into space, I heard a strange noise. It sounded like an animal snoring. A neighbours dog had made a habit of visiting regularly, so my first thought was that the sound must be Vonga the dog - trapped in the house for who knew how long. The sound came from a corridor off the living area which led to the empty hostel - our cat went to investigate first. Seeing his bristling reaction, I followed.
What I saw was a black mass in the corner of the corridor - it was too dark to make out a shape properly. The next moment I felt my arms getting wet - what was it? I noticed the mass begin to move, and realised that I was staring at a cobra in striking pose - the wet on my arms was poison!
I grabbed the cat and ran from the flat, with no clue what to do next. I was now standing outside my flat with no shoes on in the dark. I had no idea how to deal with a snake. I called for a guard and explained the situation to him. He asked for a broom to see if he could remove the snake. By this time it had made it's way into a storage cupboard and was hiding beneath a chair. As soon as the door was opened, the cobra made to strike - it was angry. The guard told me that the stick was too small, and proceeded to fetch a huge branch. He tried for several minutes to hook the snake so that it could be removed but unfortunately had to kill it. The snake was about four feet long.
To many of my colleagues in Zambia, this was a non-story. To children in an urban area of Manchester, however, this story seems straight out of the memoirs of Bear Grylls. They love it, and every class I have had have asked for repeat tellings. They feel like they know me - and in return I can get to know them. This story is part of our shared history. Now I just need to figure out how to make the rest of the curriculum as memorable!
