Why Me? Reflections on survival

Today, Valentine’s Day 2022, marks eight years since my cardiac arrest. I shan’t re-tell the story here as I’ve done that in previous posts (here and here). Four years go I wrote this:

But, and it’s pretty difficult to find the right words for this, I do still occasionally feel as if I’m piloting a cadaver. This sensation was the dominant one for about a year following the cardiac arrest; a sense of disconnect from the world that was unlike anything I’d previously felt. I was a zombie, rather like the version of Lazarus that Carol Ann Duffy portrays; a fraudulent ghost inhabiting a stolen body and a stolen life.

For the most part, I have moved on from those feelings of disconnect from my own self. But the question that remains is this: why me?

According to the British Heart Foundation (BHF), there are “over 30,000 out-of-hospital cardiac arrests (OHCA) a year where emergency medical services attempt to resuscitate the victim”. Of these, “just 1 in 10 people in the UK survive an OHCA”.

Just 1 in 10.

That’s difficult to comprehend. Of all the people that collapse through ventricular fibrillation, whose hearts stop, why was I one of the 1 in 10 fortunate enough to make it through?

I was at a job interview at the time, part-way through giving a presentation. Apparently, I said “I’m feeling a bit weird, do you mind if I sit down?”. They got me a chair and I slumped into it, making a guttural noise that I now know to be informally called a death snore. And I was gone. A first aider was called and arrived on the scene rapidly — a security guard named Steve who gave me CPR and saved my brain. Just about.

The next few days were, I’m told, something of a nightmare for my loved ones, and the following six months or so were incredibly difficult, but these are stories for another day. Maybe.

I don’t know the answer to the question of why me. All I know is that I am here. And I am grateful for every single day, seeing each day as a blessing.

My eldest daughter was just four years old at the time, and my youngest daughter only 6 months. Now they are 12 and 8 years respectively. I have been blessed with these days and years, seeing my daughters grow into such wonderful human beings full of warmth, humour and love. They are my best friends.

Sometimes I get low, tired or stressed. Sometimes I get cross about something at work, or stroppy with my own children. Often, I suspect I am entirely unhelpful as a husband. I worry about being too fat and too lazy and too selfish. I don’t worry enough about these things. I get stuff wrong. Of course I do.

My life journey has brought me to a point where I am now a chaplaincy lead in school and am engaged in the discernment process with the hope for eventual ordination. The conversations that this process involves are searching, introspective and vital. They have, no doubt, prompted me to reflect on my position in relation to others, to myself, and to God. These are things for another day. Maybe.

Right now I am here. And I am thankful for that.

Recovery Curriculum

As we approach the end of the academic year, and with schools opening their doors to more pupils, attention has turned to how we might respond to the Covid-19 crisis in what has been termed a ‘recovery curriculum’.

There are essentially two prevalent thoughts at play here:

  1. What gaps have developed in terms of student learning?
  2. What emotional and mental damage might have been caused?

In both of these perspectives, the problem with the term ‘recovery curriculum’ emerges – the assumption of damage.

Now, it’s important to acknowledge that being out of school for potentially six months (assuming we do return in September, which is a large assumption) might have significant ramifications both in terms of the academic and the emotional status of our students. The idea that such a period without schooling could have a dramatically detrimental effect upon the academic attainment of our students seems self-evidently obvious – it’s a huge length of time. And the emotional consequences of lockdown, the lack of social interaction, and potential bereavements could be severe.

In all cases, the impact upon the vulnerable and the impoverished could lead to a widening of the attainment gap and for some, being stuck at home all day might be genuinely dangerous.

So it is easy to see why the language of ‘recovery’ might hold an appeal. We need to recover from the crisis in the same way that patients need to recover from the virus itself.

However, I think there is a danger that in our attempt to heal we might inadvertently exacerbate the symptoms. If we tell ourselves that we have all experienced a traumatic event, then we might begin to perceive trauma where there is none, and to miss genuine need. And as we clamour to console ourselves, we might miss the great opportunities before us – opportunities to think more carefully about how we could embrace the unprecedented, historic times in which we live. Now is an ideal time to test our ideas about curriculum and pedagogy, to preserve what works, and to dismiss what does not.

This is not to dismiss the genuine concerns about what our students need from us. We need to have proper conversations about what that might be. But let’s conduct those conversations in an informed and considered way. It is the curriculum for teachers and other staff in schools that is perhaps in most urgent need of addressing – what do we need to know in order to prepare for the eventual return to school of all our students? What should our September inset days include?

The first and last answer to that is, of course, safeguarding. And it is through that lens that we must view any ideas about how we best help our students. But then, what else do we need to know? Perhaps we should familiarise ourselves with trauma informed practice. I know this idea is not held in universally high regard amongst the neo-research-enlightened edutwitterati.

There are two traps before us. The first is the trap of believing that everything is traumatic, and that all of our students are in a state of constant trauma. The second trap is that of believing that trauma informed practice has nothing to teach us. A similar set of traps lay before us with regard to attachment theory. This too might have something to tell us about how students – and adults – might react to the Covid-19 event. What is needed, of course, is the pragmatic position that exists beyond the inevitable dichotomies.

Some might argue that the ‘recovery curriculum’ should be academic in nature – that schools must immediately return to their core purpose of academic attainment. The academic damage done by this vast absence from school must be remedied by summer schools, weekend classes, and a hard focus on rapid rigour.

I would challenge the view that the purpose of schooling is academic. At least, I would suggest that the academic must serve the pastoral. But that’s a topic for another time.

Back to School?

A few days ago, Adam Boxer (@adamboxer1) wrote a moving and compelling blog post in which he presented his deep desire to return to school as a teacher, and the reasons why he feels we should not do so yet.

I’ve been hesitant, reluctant even, to air my views on this due to my personal circumstances — even if schools were to fully re-open to all year groups on 1st June, I would not be able to join my colleagues in the classroom, and so it would feel hypocritical to declare that pupils should be going back.

I am one of The Vulnerables, which makes me sound a bit like a Marvel character. I have been shielding since the government announcement on 16th March. Initially my entire immediate family went into lockdown – me, my wife, and our two children. For several weeks, none of us left the family home. Then, as a period of annual leave came to a close, my wife returned to work as a key worker. In order to maintain my strict shielding, and thus reduce the risk of my requiring a bed on intensive care, I left the family home and moved in with my parents, both of whom are in their seventies, so that we could all shield together. Other than via FaceTime, I have not seen my children for five weeks.

There are some advantages to this situation: my mother likes the same sort of TV shows that I do, and we often sit together to watch various iterations of Star Trek on the Horror channel; on Sunday we join in with Doctor Who watchalongs on Facebook. Each day during the week, my mother cooks lunch for us all. My father and I have been running model trains around one of my childhood layouts. I’ve learnt something about my first ever locomotive: it turns out that the prototype of 73142 ‘Broadlands’ is the locomotive that hauled the train taking the newly married Prince and Princess of Wales on their honeymoon in 1981.

Another advantage of living with my parents has been that I have been able to focus entirely upon school work during the week: making videos and producing resources to share with my students, running live lessons with students via Microsoft Teams, marking work via MS Teams, attending lots of meetings via MS Teams, learning how to use MS Teams. I’ve also been making pastoral phone calls to the parents of students, and doing live one-to-ones with students via … MS Teams.

But whilst MS Teams is pretty great, it does not make an entirely adequate replacement for being in school. The various myriad social interactions that take place within the school setting are — it turns out — incredibly important to me and I miss them dearly. But I know from the phone calls, the online interactions, and surveys that we’ve been conducting, that our students are missing these interactions too. And this is of great concern to me.

In addition to the obvious potential dents to academic learning, there are concerns that extended school closures will have a detrimental effect upon the mental health and wellbeing of our students.1 For many children, a September opening will mean having missed six months or more of schooling.

With various studies emerging that young children are at lower risk from COVID-19, experience milder symptoms, and are less likely to spread the virus, it is understandable that many now think schools should re-open, especially for younger children. But the suggestion that Year 6 students should return to school has caused some confusion — why would they be included?

I can see some argument in favour of Year 6 returning to school: the transition to ‘big school’ in Year 7 can be incredibly daunting at the best of times. To have been away from school for six months and then to find yourself standing at the gates of your secondary school in September — without any of the usual transition activities during June/July — would likely be incredibly intimidating. Furthermore, there is an important rite of passage associated with the end of Year 6, and for those children who are attending a different secondary school from their peers and friends this momentous period takes on an even stronger sentimental significance. All of this has been stolen from them.

However, the science here is hardly uncontested, and there are perfectly valid concerns about the safety of children and staff should schools re-open in June, even partially. Such concerns and anxieties are exacerbated by the continually changing advice and guidance coming from the DfE, and the conflicting views and instructions of LEAs and individual schools. The DfE has, of course, left it all in the hands of head teachers — an unenviable position.

The problem is made impossibly complex by the considerable layers of logistics involved in operating schools in such a way that enables social distancing to be maintained, children to wash their hands regularly, and staff to clean down rooms frequently. The confusing messages about whether schools are going to operate some kind of shift pattern only muddy the already murky waters. For secondaries, trying to decipher what ‘face to face’ actually means and what it’s going to look like is … tricky. And are Y10 and Y12 considered non-superspreaders?

But if we decide that, in fact, schools need to remain closed, for how long should this be the case? What will be different in September? If there is no effective treatment and no vaccine at that point, should schools stay closed beyond September? How sustainable would that be?

So the question arises of how to best balance the various needs of children, teachers, parents and, of course, the economy. Is the risk to physical health of opening schools greater than the risk to mental health, academic health, and potential physical health of children from extended school closure? Does the economy outweigh health? And the toughest question for me is this — what would I do?

It’s worth noting, I think, that the lockdown was never really about anyone’s individual health, but about the ability of the NHS to cope with peaks of infection. It was never to stop any of us from ever getting the virus. For my part, knowing that I’d probably be near the back of the queue for a ventilator was a sobering realisation. With the increased capacity in the NHS — and the Nightingale hospitals currently standing empty — it perhaps seems conceivable that the inevitable second peak, and inevitable third, fourth and fifth peaks, will be manageable. Of course, if we end the lockdown we will see a rise in A&E admissions as people go back to doing dangerous stuff like crossing the road, driving cars, getting drunk, and actually phoning for an ambulance if they are experiencing a heart attack.

Ultimately this whole thing is about managing risk. And we do this all the time. We go about our lives happily oblivious to the myriad dangers that we face every minute of the day. One of the things that we often hear mentioned in the discourses around what children need is resilience. I’m not sure how much resilience we are building in the messages that children are being bombarded with at the moment.

But the decision to re-open schools isn’t mine to make. The decision about whether I should return to school will probably be made by Dominic Cummings in a COBR meeting as he wipes his nose on the latest reports from SAGE. And when he does, I will don my bow tie and greet the kids at my classroom door — not with a handshake, but with a smile.

References

  1. https://www.independent.co.uk/news/education/education-news/children-mental-health-school-closure-coronavirus-childline-a9428966.html

Cosmos Made Conscious

I found myself today watching an episode of The Crown with my mother who has been enjoying my Netflix subscription whilst I am staying with my parents during Lockdown. The episode – S3, E6 ‘Moondust’ — gives what I take to be a mostly fictionalised account of Prince Philip’s crisis of faith coinciding with the moon landing of 1969.

I was reminded of a sermon given by our school chaplain, my friend Fr Tom Plant (@thosplant) during last year’s commemorations of the moon landing. Prior to this, I had been completely ignorant of the story he shared and the story I’m about to share with you – a situation which in itself helps to prove the point that I suppose I’m going to make about the erasing of the spiritual in modern westernised discourses.

The story is this: one of the first acts performed by human beings on the moon was that of holy communion. Indeed, the first things ever consumed on the moon were the wine and bread of this act. It was Buzz Aldrin who, during the hour-long wait between the Eagle landing and Neil Armstrong making his giant leap, asked the crew back on earth for a few moments of silence and invited everyone listening in to “contemplate for a moment the events of the past few hours and to give thanks in his own individual way”.1

Aldrin’s action was hushed up by NASA for fear that it might be too controversial, and Aldrin later expressed regret at choosing to celebrate a Christian sacrament when they “had come to space in the name of all mankind—be they Christians, Jews, Muslims, animists, agnostics, or atheists”. However, his feeling that “at the time I could think of no better way to acknowledge the Apollo 11 experience than by giving thanks to God” points to a significant spiritual encounter that has been erased from the story of the moon landings.

I find myself musing on how this reflects a more general trend in an increasingly secular culture to somehow feel embarrassed by spiritual feelings, particularly explicitly Christian ones. It often feels that religion is presented in various outlets as being outdated, irrelevant and even dangerous. In schools, the statutory requirement to provide daily acts of worship is either ignored or given lip service in assemblies that dole out meaningless platitudes. I’ve experienced assemblies that have been nothing more than weekly opportunities for the head teacher to remind students what percentage of them are expected to do well in their GCSEs. I’ve sat through assemblies that have communicated questionable messages intended to be motivational. Far too often, I’ve been in assemblies that amount to little more than administrative reminders of the school rules and uniform policy.

Our statutory obligation to spiritual, moral, social and cultural (SMSC) education can too easily been seen as yet another arduous tick box, or a dry bolt-on. But it doesn’t need to be this way. Enriching the school curriculum with opportunities to reflect on the spiritual is a more proactive and productive way to view it.

For a starting point, and as just one example, we could look to the words of everyone’s favourite pop keyboarder turned physicist, Professor Brian Cox. In the first episode of his BBC series Wonders of Universe, Cox contemplates the fleeting nature of individual existence but suggests this is no reason to despair, going on to give what I consider to be one of the most powerful and profoundly spiritual statements I have ever heard:

We are the cosmos made conscious and life is the means by which the universe understands itself” 2

References

  1. https://www.history.com/news/buzz-aldrin-communion-apollo-11-nasa
  2. https://www.britbox.co.uk/watch/Destiny_40103 at 0:57:52; transcript at https://subsaga.com/bbc/documentaries/science/wonders-of-the-universe/1-destiny.html

My book, Beyond Wiping Noses is published on 30th September by Crown House Publishing and can be purchased from their website

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How are you doing?

Seriously. How are you doing?

Amid all the noise about whether or not schools should re-open (having never actually been properly closed), and how easy it is to do a full day of remote teaching on top of being in school maintaining the social distancing of children or teenagers and coming to terms with being cast as selfish, lazy cowards and producing hours of content for free access only for a quiz you’ve made to be scrutinised and your entire motive called into question and having meeting after meeting by Teams or Zoom or Skip or whatever it is and worrying about whether you’re doing enough homeschooling for your own kids and PPE this and swabs that and STAY HOME or STAY ALERT or STAY AWAY or STAY AWAKE or just bloody well STAY ALIVE and can I see my parents yet and am I highly vulnerable or medium vulnerable or just a smidge vulnerable and do I want to buy an ice-cream from Mr Whippy right now and how long should I leave my mail on the mat for and will the Amazon guy sneeze on my package and shit my broadband has just gone down mid-live lesson AGAIN and no I know the nurses are heroes clap clap clap and pass the disinfectant

How are you doing?

Balancing HoY with classroom teaching

Recently, I was tagged into a reply to a question from @English_MrsD about the difficulty of balancing the role of Head of Year with classroom teaching. I gave several tweets in reply that I thought might be useful to collate here. So I have collated them here. This is not an exhaustive list of strategies, just some immediate thoughts I had in response. Please do feel free to add more suggestions in the comments.

It’s tough isn’t it, trying to get the balance right. I’d try to reduce as much of the routine burden from teaching as possible: marking, for example, which is a nightmare for Englishers. Do as much in-lesson assessment as you can and use whole class feedback.

Use form tutors as a resource for pastoral issues: all those little chats and things that need to be had. Promote form tutors as first port of call for students and parents

Invest time in regular meetings/briefings with pastoral staff. Perhaps just 15 mins per week in a before school slot for tutors etc to flag concerns

Don’t waste time typing up handwritten notes. Just scan them and attach to CPOMS or whatever system you use. If possible, ask admin staff to do this.

Be as pro-active as you can. Think about the kinds of issues you’re likely to face and deliver assemblies or/and PSHE that focus on those before they happen! Or in immediate response to when they happen. Good eg of this is bullying.

Have honest conversations with SLT about what you need to do the job and what systems need to be adopted or adapted to ease the workload for everyone

Do lots of drop ins into form time or lesson time with your year group. This is not to observe staff, but to let the kids know that you are constantly on them — for support but also for behaviour etc

Unhiding the Pastoral Curriculum

What are we really teaching our kids?

I’m sure it will come as no surprise to regular readers and Twitter correspondents that I am a keen advocate for both developing a research informed approach to teaching, and building a knowledge-rich curriculum. These two things have become dominant strands in the discourse of #EduTwitter and the Tweacher Society as it manifests online, through conferences, and in related publications. However, I have become increasingly aware of some gaps in this discourse around the pastoral work of schools and teachers. I have spoken about this at a few ResearchED events now, and have written about it in a previous blog post. I plan to write a series of blog posts in which I develop further my thinking about the pastoral aspects of our work. In this blog post, I’d like to think about the messages that we give children outside of the academic curriculum, and to encourage fellow teachers, Heads of Year, and pastoral leaders to think a little more deliberately about them.

Be Extraordinary

I’m sitting in a Year 10 assembly as a form tutor. The Head of Year (HoY) is leading the assembly. It’s something about doing extraordinary things. Or something. The HoY is showing a video that she has found on YouTube. It is a montage of people doing amazing things: there’s someone doing stunts on a bicycle; there’s someone doing Parkour; there’s someone conducting huge jumps over a ravine. And there’s someone jumping onto a moving car.

It’s difficult for me to conceptualise now, several years later, what message this particular HoY hoped her Year 10 students would get from this montage of clips. Beside from the utter stupidity of the content, I’d also problematise the essence of the message. The notion of being extraordinary is dangerous territory: most of us are not, and never will be, world record holders, top ranking sports stars, olympians or inventors of paradigm shifting machines. Most of us are not going to do things that are going to be recorded in history books. And presenting such characters as role models can be quite damaging for some students, harming their self-esteem.

I guess what this HoY wanted to do was something around aspiration, and of course, I’m not against aspiration. But I think we need to be very careful about what kinds of aspiration we suggest to students and the kinds of activities that we promote and celebrate.

The Hidden Curriculum

Children and young people learn far more in schools than what we have written on our lesson plan. There are infinitely complex social networks that they must learn to navigate, between each other and the adults. There are unwritten rules about which teacher has what expectations. There are myriad unwritten rules about which kids are at the top of the hierarchy and those who dwell in the mud at the bottom. And, ultimately, there are the unplanned learning episodes that we as teachers transmit to students. The social mores, the expected behaviours, the allowed digressions.

Many of the artefacts of the hidden curriculum are manifested in those moments where we could so easily ameliorate the problems. Assemblies are an obvious example. I wonder how many schools have a curriculum plan for their assemblies.

Towards a Knowledge Rich Pastoral Curriculum

In my school its easy: we have the Book of Common Prayer to guide us through! Of course, assemblies are but one element of a cohesive knowledge rich curriculum. Other elements are built around PSHE, SMSC, Character Education, Ethical Leadership and so on. Some schools are doing great work on these strands, with dedicated lessons for, say, PSHE. But I wonder how many schools have actually scoped out their offer in the same way that they might for academic subjects. I have seen roadmaps shared on Twitter – lovely graphical displays of a department’s very long-term plans from Y7 to Y11. I’ve yet to see one for the pastoral.

In fact, despite some Twitter accounts and hashtags devoted to the pastoral, I rarely see discussions about pastoral curriculum.

So I would urge you to think carefully about the pastoral knowledge you might want your students to acquire. Plan it out. Unhide it.

“Climb that tree” – Differentiating Differentiation

Back in 2016 I wrote a post called “Climb that Tree” – Differentiating Differentiation. I have now deleted that post as I decided I no longer wanted to give exposure to the tweeter mentioned in it. However, the thrust of the post is, I think, worth revisiting. So here follows a new version of the post with the same title. 

I’m sure you’ve all seen the cartoon which aims to lambast ‘Our Education System’ by showing a line of different animals being ordered to “climb that tree” as a standardised assessment tool.

Source unknown

The cartoon is often presented with a quotation falsely attributed to Einstein: “Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid”. At first glance, this quotation and cartoon might seem a startlingly, obviously true reflection of our education system. The cartoon implies that asking every child to take the same test is unfair because children are individual and some children can’t do academic tests as well as other children can. Adding the quotation from Einstein is intended to lend the message some authority, but the message carries enough truthiness to have people nodding sagely in agreement with it anyway. It’s a wonderfully Romantic notion to celebrate the individuality of each child and to present the school system as oppressively uniform; it’s an echo of Blake heard through the marshmallow comfort of ‘child-centred’ rhetoric. It seems wholesome and brain achingly obvious. But it is #EduLasagne: it tastes nice, it feels comforting, but it might be a load of horsemeat. 

In fact it isn’t #EduLasagne. It’s downright #EduBobbins.

One of the problems that I have with this cartoon is the notion that children are so very different that they are analogous with being entirely separate species with unrelated evolutionary paths. The idea is that two children are so utterly different that an education system is unable to find suitable models of assessment that can identify knowledge and understanding shared by them. This is patently nonsensical.

For those children with physical disabilities or severe learning difficulties, I can appreciate where the idea of a standard test becomes problematic. However, the cartoon is never presented to reflect such children. Rather, it is presented as a humorous example of why we need to differentiate assessment. The problem here is that in most classes across the country, children’s learning capabilities are really not so extremely different as to mean that they can never access the assessment criteria of a given test. The cartoon shows 5 out of 6 animals that could never climb that tree. Do we mean to suggest that perhaps 5 out of 6 children will never be able to access the assessment criteria of any given exam? How does this correlate with the high numbers of pupils who manage to attain GCSE grades in a range of subjects? The evidence of exam results clearly shows that the vast majority of children indeed can access the assessment criteria of GCSE. Indeed, the grading of GCSE has differentiation built into it. And where children have severe physical or learning needs, special dispensation can be given, offering equity within the system. Whether this works in practice is up for debate, and I would certainly not say that access arrangements are currently successful. However, I think this falls beyond the scope of this blog post.

Alternatively, the cartoon could be seen as a humorous reflection of the need to differentiate instruction. One example that has been used, and is often still promoted, is the use of must/should/could (henceforth MSC) strategies that expect teachers to differentiate learning objectives to three levels. 

I’ve often seen it suggested – expected – that teaching should take account of the learning needs of all. In principle I agree. In reality, how is this possible through a MSC style approach to differentiation? Is it really possible to plan a lesson that is going to cater for the individual needs of 30 children? How can we even know what those needs are actually going to be? In any given lesson the needs of individual children can be different from the previous lesson, the previous day, the previous week. What about the kid whose mother has just been diagnosed with cancer? What about the kid whose elder brother has been arrested? What about the kid whose been bullied and is harming themselves in secret? What about the kids for whom none of those things are happening?

The answer is, of course, that we can’t know those things. But we can know about their diagnosed learning needs, through their IEPs and so forth. So what happens then? We know that Billy has dyslexia and that Jenny has ADHD. On what grounds are we going to differentiate their learning on our plan? Do we assume that the autistic kid won’t get that George plays solitaire because he’s lonely? What assumptions is it acceptable for us to make about our pupils? Who are we to assume that any child would be working at the MUST level of our objectives?

This is a serious problem with this style of differentiation – it inevitably leads to low expectations. I have frequently heard teachers say things about bottom sets such as, “Well, what do you expect from these kids?”.

In a previous post,I wrote this:

Another version of this question, or at least the underlying thinking that forms it, was when I worked in a school which was pretty good at playing the results game. At the time, I was Head of English and was discussing the content requirements of the GCSE Literature course with one of the Deputy Headteachers. His view was that we only really needed to bother teaching the Literature content to the top set; we would enter all the others for Literature but only so that their English Language grades would count towards the league tables. I tried to offer a counter opinion of this, but his retort stopped me in my tracks: “We only need them to get a C in English, not to be able to discuss the finer points of Of Mice and Men“.

This is an extreme form of the unintended consequences that come from a MSC approach to differentiation. As it happens, that school insisted that lessons always have an MSC structure, employing a hinge-point question that would enable the teacher to divide the class into three groups, each doing a different thing. If a lesson were observed where children were doing the same task, it would be condemned. I got a GOOD in a lesson observation where I had a GCSE class marking sample exam answers and rewriting them. One group looked at a D grade answer, one group a C grade answer, and the other group a B grade answer. What’s the problem with this? Well, why shouldn’t the “D” group look at the B grade answer? Who am I to limit their experience of that?

[Of course, there is research to suggest that showing kids “Good answers” can do more harm than good in some instances. I think it is @lauramcinerney that I learnt this from.]

Back in the days of tiers in GCSE English, differentiation took the form of Foundation or Higher tier entries. But I know that some pupils were entered for the wrong tier. Some kids who could have attained a grade B or higher were entered for Foundation, limiting their potential attainment. This is something that I lament. 

So, the problem that I have with differentiation as it manifests in most schools that I have experienced is actually about having low expectations of some pupils – either because of a diagnosed “learning need”, or because of teachers’ low opinions of the pupils.

Instead of assuming that some kids can’t climb that tree, we should be finding ways of helping them to get up there.

Towards Pastorality – Developing a research informed approach to being a Head of Year.

I had the great pleasure of attending ResearchEDBrum as a speaker again this year. This time, the event’s amazing organiser, Claire Stoneman (@stoneman_claire) asked if I would be interested in presenting a session on an evidence-informed approach to my pastoral role; of course, I said yes. Within minutes, a nauseating realisation washed over me: I do not have one.

I have been banging the drum in favour of research and evidence informed practice in education for some years now, zealously encouraging my colleagues to engage with evidence through emails, INSET sessions, invites to rED events and so on. My English departmental colleagues and I have reworked our schemes of work to incorporate interleaving, spaced practice, and the testing effect. I have shared links to Rosenshine’s Principles of Instruction with just about everyone, and have adapted my own classroom practice in response to reading it. I have stripped back my classroom displays, employed retrieval practice in most lessons, and attempted some dual coding on my board. And yet, when it comes to my role as Head of Year, nothing is based on research.

By the very nature of pastoral work, much of what we do is reactive and often ad hoc. It is, perhaps, instinctive. We deal with issues in the moment, and try to pick up the pieces as we go. But this somehow didn’t feel good enough. I felt that there probably ought to be a more robust approach, and was certain that there must be a solid body of literature for Heads of Year and pastoral leaders to consult.

So I looked.

And looked.

I found a couple of How to … type handbooks, one of which claimed to be a “post-modern approach” to the practice of pastoral care. But nothing that struck me as being especially rigorous, academic, or robust. Nothing with an extensive reference list; nothing pointing to a literature review.

Screen Shot 2019-03-11 at 21.42.14But then I came across the journal Pastoral Care in Education, which led me to the National Association for Pastoral Care in Education (NAPCE). The journal is peer reviewed and, despite having a clear leaning towards a social constructivist approach to schooling, contains a range of papers covering a wide array of topics. Some of the papers are free to access. With a rising number of issues I face being due to children’s use of social media and messaging apps, of particular immediate interest to me was a piece titled ‘Cyberbullying bystanders and moral engagement: a psychosocial analysis for pastoral care‘. Searching the journal’s database for the key term ‘bullying’ returns over 1300 results.

Clearly, here is a resource of great potential for Heads of Year and pastoral leaders. Whilst not all articles are free access, the journal’s papers can be found through the Chartered College of Teaching journal access.

The role of Head of Year incorporates many strands, each of which could no doubt call upon a wealth of field specific research and, perhaps, even empirical evidence. Screen Shot 2019-03-11 at 21.50.23It is interesting to note that, in all our work as teachers, there is probably only one area with a specific, nationally mandated body of literature that all teachers must be familiar with: safeguarding. With statutory updates, safeguarding policy and practice rests upon specific cases, such as Victoria Climbié and Baby Peter, and responds to changing understanding of issues such as county lines. Whilst it is absolutely right that safeguarding commands such high priority for our attention and mandatory CPD, it is telling that it remains the only area of our work with an agreed body of knowledge, and established protocols for action. No other area in teaching, or in school work, carries such certainty. 

For those who might wish teaching to be considered a profession, or to be regarded with the esteem of, say medicine, the notion of taking an ad hoc approach to pastoral care must only seem foolish. Developing an empirical, evidence informed response must surely represent a necessary step forward. 

One area of research which seems like a good fit for pastoral care is that of character education. There are those who may see character education as yet another nebulous generic skill, and I’m incredibly disappointed in the list that Damian Hinds gives as his “five foundations for building character“. However, I would much rather look to the work of the Jubilee Centre at the University of Birmingham (@jubileecentre1) for a better idea of what might constitute character education. Furthermore, with the current focus on curriculum, I see the Jubilee Centre’s ideas as giving the potential grounding for character education as a more concrete curriculum artefact – a subject that can be taught. 

Jubilee Centre for Character and Virtues (2017) A Framework for Character Education in Schools[online]. Birmingham. Available from: https://uobschool.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2017/08/Framework-for-Character-Education-2017-Jubilee-Centre.pdf 

By way of example, my colleague Jo Owens (@joanneowens) and I recently did some work with our Year 9 students on how it might be argued that Atticus Finch is presented as an idealised virtuous character, finding examples from To Kill A Mockingbird of when Finch demonstrates the various virtues from the Jubilee Centre’s lists.

If it is the case that we can conceive of the pastoral as curriculum artefacts that can be taught, then perhaps we can make explicit use of things such as cognitive load theory and Rosenshine after all. Certainly, if we see PSHE, for example, as a timetabled lesson, then whatever we choose to incorporate can be handled just as any other subject discipline knowledge. It is easy to envisage the use of, say, knowledge organisers and quizzes to ensure that any pastoral knowledge that we deem relevant and important is moved into long-term memory.

As Head of Year, I am also responsible for weekly assemblies. In my setting, these are fairly easy to organise – the work is done for me by dint of the Book of Common Prayer! But here is another opportunity for me to make explicit those aspects of the pastoral that we might deem to be important. I can recall during my B.Ed being taught about the ‘hidden curriculum’ – all those aspects of pupil learning that we do not, or cannot, plan for. I wonder if we might, in fact, be able to unhide these aspects, to reveal them through a determined, conscious and deliberate process of identifying the specific pastoral knowledge we wish our students to learn, and explicitly teaching them.

And finally (for now), we must not ignore the symbiotic relationship between the pastoral and the academic. It is very tempting to suggest that, in order to succeed, students must be happy. But it is in fact the case that academic success can bring happiness.

It is interesting that Project Follow Through found such large positive effects for Direct Instruction, and other academic programmes, upon non-academic measures of problem-solving and wellbeing, whilst those programmes which were designed to specifically target problem-solving and wellbeing had zero, or at worst, negative impacts on those very measures.

So, in order to move towards a research informed approach to the pastoral, I suggest that we need to do the following:

  • Develop dynamic pastoral policies which make reference to peer-reviewed material and that can be adapted in response to new findings;
  • Consider the academic and the pastoral in symbiosis;
  • Consider the pastoral as curriculum, and teach it explicitly.

In a future post, I will consider how Foucault’s reflections on the Panopticon and Orwell’s dark prophecy of Big Brother, might be put to positive use in the act of (as Biesta puts it) socialisation and subjectification.

Creativity

In what has been described as the most watched TED talk of all time, Sir Ken Robinson famously suggests that we are “educated out” of creativity. This view has certainly not gone uncontested. Julian Astle does a nice job of commenting upon Robinson’s arguments, pointing to TEDx talk by Astle’s colleague Tim Leunig in which Leunig argues that “real creativity is based on knowledge”.

There is an on-going thread in the #EduTwitter discourse that positions ‘creativity’ as being of fundamental value, above even literacy and numeracy, perhaps, and certainly more important than merely memorising facts by rote. And ‘creativity’ is described as being vital in the 21st Century; it is essential for employment in the economy of the future. Of course, purveyors of this view seem not to have noticed that we are two decades into the 21stCentury, and they aren’t able to offer any kind of definitive explanation for why the future particularly needs ‘creativity’ any more than ‘creativity’ was needed at any time in the past. The soothsayers merely tell us that robots will take all our jobs, and that most kids in school today will end up in jobs that don’t exist yet.

There is an unpleasant undercurrent of utilitarianism to this discourse; I am deeply irritated by arguments which basically amount to nothing more than suggesting schools = job training. I’ve written before about some of my concerns with the utilitarian view of education, and it concerns me to see it so dominant in some quarters. Much of the drive for ‘creativity’ seems to be coming from the worlds of business and banking. And the last thing we should be doing is asking bank managers to help us design curriculums.

What baffles me most, though, is the notion that schools don’t currently teach ‘creativity’. I teach English – a subject whose very being pulses with creativity; creativity is the lifeblood of English, it is the essence of English. Without creativity, English would be nothing.

At GCSE, English Language is 50% composition, including narrative prose and discursive and transactional writing. In English Literature, students are assessed through the medium of the essay – the paragon of academic composition, an exercise in argumentation and rhetoric.

This term, across KS3, I have discussed the following texts, stories, and news reports with students:

  • Genesis ch.1-3;
  • Prometheus, and Pandora;
  • The Portraits of the Knight and The Miller (Chaucer);
  • Caxton’s Eggs;
  • The Monkey’s Paw;
  • The Signalman;
  • The Red Room;
  • To Kill a Mockingbird;
  • The Crucible;
  • McCarthyism and the House Un-American Activities Committee.

In addition, we’ve been using the weekly writing challenges from Rebecca Foster to help students to develop their writing craft. And best of all, some students have had a go at writing their own sonnets.

My subject absolutely oozes creativity, and so do many others. And that’s not to mention the music, the drama, and the artistic endeavours that permeate every school across the country, nor the creative approaches that students employ and develop in their charity raising, the Duke of Edinburgh Award, their sporting achievements, and in many other activities too numerous to mention.

To suggest that schools do not promote creativity is a lie.