What's Going On?

This is my third year working as a teacher in a small school in the North of Portugal. During this time I've been noticing a few things:

Working as a teacher is not the same as being a teacher.

Children – not only in this country - spend most of their childhood away from home. This is more than strange: it's sinister. And everyone seems happy about it, except perhaps the children who don't get a say.

And where do they go? To school. Here, they normally open a book and learn only what is in that book, page by page. If they raised their heads and looked out of the window, they'd see, at different times, leaves turning yellow, forest fires, rain, a family of magpies, a sleeping cat, a harvest of olives, a hawk hunting in the sky, cherry blossom. They're seldom close to these things in real life, and here only the rebels raise their heads from the book and catch a glimpse. When they do, most don't know what they're seeing.

The children are rarely asked to do something from scratch. Take drawing: instead of starting with an empty page, the book gives them a complete drawing and shows them where to colour and what colours to use.

Kids don't go along with it peacefully. They misbehave. Teachers catch the flak and are not being paid any risk or stress allowance, although they should.

Some teachers are wonderful, and some really DO try, but they struggle inside multiple straight jackets: the national curriculum, assessments, inspection, daily bureaucracy. There is little time left to make a difference, after ticking all the boxes.

Teachers: people with families and money worries and lots of other kinds of stress. Look at me

I teach English as an extra-curricular activity. In essence, I am Insignificant – and to quantify my own insignificance: each child sees me two or three times a week, for 45 minutes. I teach an optional discipline. Results don't matter, and there are no exams (I'm delighted to say) or pass requirements. I get paid about ten euros per class (before tax).

My first year was dizzy. The second, a nightmare. In the third year, this one, I'm surprised to discover that I love the kids and I love the teaching.

I've also been reading about education. I read that the modern education system is designed to churn out a pliant workforce and an army of consumers for the future. Creativity is actively discouraged and blind acceptance is injected daily in the subconscious. One ant will strive all its life to be identical to all the other ants and, once there, will be unquestioningly happy.

All deeply upsetting, especially here in the trenches.

Something needs done. I was watching the pre-schoolers shuffle back to class the other day. Some of them are still in nappies. They are here for nine hours daily. 'Look at them', another teacher told me. 'They can't even walk or talk properly and the parents send them here and forget about them.' 'How can they?' The teacher shrugs. 'Echhh. Always the same story: work, have a coffee, work some more. Find someone to babysit. The state stole their children and they're happy about it.'

The state stole our children (we stole one of ours back but that's another story). And for two hours a week I kidnap those held in this little school and take them to my classroom to learn English.

During my school breaks, I'm starting this blog, to talk about them . If, during their coffee break, any parents wanted to know what's going on, they could follow the link and read. It's not much, but it's more than the school report.

When I Grow Up

Cristiano is quiet , a rare moment. Earlier he was trying to punish his pal Dario, on my behalf, for fidgeting and distracting the whole left side of the room. He pushed Dario's head down onto the desk, to 'sleep'.

I say 'When you are a teacher, you can decide how to deal with noisy kids. Not now.' He nodded and frowned and frowned and frowned.
'Is this red or yellow' I ask the class pointing to my red pen. A red pen is to a teacher what a scalpel to a surgeon, or a ladle to a cook.
Cristiano's hand shoots up.
'Yees?' Chuffed he's finally paying attention to the lesson.

'I don't want to be a teacher' he says firmly.

Away with you, colours of the rainbow. This is too interesting.
'Why?'
'It's too hard, and too boring, and the kids never listen.' My life, summed up by a 5-year old. Not bad. He continues:
'I want to be a goalie.'
'But that's the same', I remark. 'Hard when they shoot at your goal, and boring when they don't.'
He doesn't believe me and doesn't dare contradict me, so he just sits frozen, trying to stare me down.
In the meantime, I'm still holding up my red pen, and there are 16 hands in the air.
'Yees?' Come what may.
'I want to be a cook.'
'Vet.'
'Hairdresser.'
'Person who tells the weather on TV.'
'Singer, singer, singer!'

I am spellbound. In this class of 17 we have: 2 bakers ('because bread is healthy'), 2 vets (one of whom is scared of large animals), 2 cooks, 2 hairdressers, 4 football players (the one with no teeth is the attacker), one goalie, then the surprises. A plump little girl is the singer. A quiet and minuscule boy is the weatherman. Both candidates to National Television are – truth be told – far from beauties. Ella wants to be a gynaecologist ('a doctor who takes out babies') – how I wish I were so sure and clear so early on.

Finally, little Tania peeps up:
'I want to be a teacher.'
Thank goodness for that. I can't keep doing this much longer. My hand still holds up the red pen, and it's beginning to hurt.