Taken from Teacher Fella

March 2016

A bell pierces the air, and kids jostle for positions in rows across the bitumen. Arrivals from now on are late. Close to the front, Lachlan stands with his head down. The back of his hand is crusty with dried blood, some of which has been smeared across his face. His arms are folded to hide more blood splattered onto his torn, sky-blue shirt. 

   The deputy principal begins to speak, sharp words to the late comers who push their way into gaps between students on the black bitumen. Morning messages are read and there’s a round of applause for the school’s dancers who have qualified for the regional finals.

   A young, female teacher approaches Lachlan, leans forward and speaks softly. He begins to say something but falters, looks down and shakes his head. Together they walk from the morning gathering, towards the school office block.

    It is hot and I squint into the low morning sun as the microphone is passed to a girl from the student leadership team. ‘Today at recess and lunchtime we are holding a cake-stall fundraiser for the local LGBTQ community, who are in mourning following the American bomb attack last week’. Her voice falters but she pushes through. ‘Money raised, will be put towards an awareness campaign for a more tolerant society.’

   I watch with some amusement as the students acknowledge the announcement with generous applause. Joey King at the front of the crowd claps and cheers. Loud and homophobic Joey, the best Rugby League player in Year 10, cheers again, a Pavlov’s dog response to “cake-stall”.

   Morning muster is nearly over, and I reflect for a moment. Today marks thirty years since my first day of teaching. I think about the girl’s announcement and imagine how it would have been received back then. In my mind’s eye I see pieces of fruit being thrown, and burley boys booing and yelling for her to get off.

   I stay in the past and another scenario takes its place, one of an eerie and awkward silence, followed by the social isolation of the girl speaker. Perhaps an article about it in a tabloid publication if word got out, pointing the finger at the misdirection of educational policy and the waste of taxpayers’ money. 

   Pointless speculation on my part. Such an announcement wouldn’t have been made in those days anyway. It was a time when boys in a school-yard fight would be belted with a piece of bamboo to mend their violent ways, a time when parents and teachers presented a united front when parameters were challenged by a kid acting out.

The roles of teachers, parents and students were clearly defined, and for those in their comfort zone, there was little need to question things. However, outside the core was a significant proportion of kids who didn’t fit the mould, and for many of these, school life was a battle. 

   I remember setting out for my first day in June of 1986, sitting on cold vinyl as the rhythm of the red rattler trundled along. Under a dark, pre-dawn winter sky, the train rocked me back to sleep as we moved ahead of a low, rising sun at our tail. When I woke a second time that morning, the bright daylight made my eyes squint as I looked around the carriage, hoping that no one saw me wipe the drool from my chin. 

   I remember the anticipation building as the train slowed on the outskirts of St Marys in the far western suburbs of Sydney.  Soon it would be show-time with me as the master of ceremonies. A few one-liners, a couple of amazing facts, and the audience would be eating out of my hand. After all, I’d just gained a credit in the mandatory teacher training course, “Principles of Classroom Management,” and the three weeks I’d spent practise-teaching a few specially selected classes was all the background I needed for this day. Just point me towards the classroom and I’d take it from there! 

~

The first “goo-ball” to hit the back of my head was the second-best of the day. A solid wad of paper thoroughly soaked in saliva and bang on target. When I turned to shout and isolate the offender, the next one that splattered on my forehead was even better. 

   Mayhem would be an understatement in that Year 8 room full of yelling and raucous laughter, with four boys in particular ruling the roost. The biggest of them, a boy with facial hair on a head only a mother could love, caught my eye.  

   The anarchy continued until the door behind me opened to the appearance of my immediate superior in the educational hierarchy, the head teacher. As if being dimmed by a remote-control device, students returned to their seats and the room hushed. Kids feigned interest in the books on their desks, or hurriedly rummaged through their bags to obtain one.

   It was obvious that the fresh state of order had nothing to do with my skills as a classroom practitioner, and so with embarrassment I turned to face Mr Bryson. To dig a bigger hole for myself, I pointed to the ringleader. ‘It was mainly Ralph.’ I nodded towards the chubby boy behind him who was squinting to read the few words written on the blackboard. ‘I think he’s taken Piggy’s glasses too!’ 

   Mr Bryson screwed up the corner of his mouth and shook his head. ‘Not everyone has read that book, Mr Radley.’ He shifted his focus to the large boy who was doing his best to avoid eye contact.  ‘Scott, I think it might be best if you come with me.’

   The boy gathered a pen and book and shoved them into his bag. He stood and walked out through the door. My desperate act of sarcasm got what it deserved, and I felt myself plunging deeper into the hole. As the door shut behind Mr Bryson, I tried to establish some credibility.

   ‘This topic is all about atoms and elements. I am about to draw something on the board that I hope will make some sense to you. Copy it into your books please.’

   I peeked at my wristwatch… just fifteen minutes into my first lesson. I tried not to think about the remaining five to follow. A succession of planned activities, delivered with a miniscule degree of success, took me through to the blissful sound of a bell that signalled the end of the lesson. 

Blissful, then terrifying, as I had no clue about the next group lining up outside the room for round two. And so, the day continued apart from a brief recess, until lunchtime, and an opportunity to sit down and compose myself in the staffroom. 

   Just as I plonked a few things on a desk, Mr Bryson tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Playground duty, Kev. You’re at the canteen. Make sure it’s one at a time and make them say thank you when they’re served.’

   ‘Sure, Mr Bryson.’ I stood up and headed for the door.

   ‘It’s Ron.’ He wore a smirk as he spoke; he knew how flustered I was feeling, ‘We might have a chat if there’s time when you get back, either then or after school.’

   When the final bell for the day was sounded, I was spent. Teachers gathered and flopped into chairs scattered about the staffroom. Ron and I sat on an old lounge and debriefed. I struggled to keep focus. My mind was elsewhere, flashes of the day’s events thrown about the loose plans I had for the following day.  

   Ron rose to open a window for a cloud of cigarette smoke to escape. ‘Filthy habit… but whatever gets you through the day.’ Pauline Crisp, the target of his words, leant back in her chair, with eyes shut, savouring every smoky particle, as her day floated away. 

   Ron returned to the shabby lounge chair, and I managed my first question. ‘Can I ask what happened to Scott?’

   ‘We’ve had a talk.’

   ‘No cane?’ First mistake.

   ‘Is that what you would want?’ There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘I think a good talk is what Scott needed. He’s a good kid; gets a terrible time from some of the others that pick on him. And he’s the first to stick up for anyone else being bullied… We’ve had a good talk.’

   ‘Sorry, you’re the boss.’ Second mistake.

   ‘Not a boss. I’m just someone who’s been around for a while and has come to realise that it’s pointless to scream and shout at kids, and then belt them. Isn’t that what kids do when they lose control of themselves?’ 

   Another moment of quiet as the words floated down to settle on my shoulders.

‘Er… yeah… I guess you’re right.’ 

   ‘I have a bigger task for you, Kev. Don’t worry about Scott… I assume you’ll be planning lessons for tomorrow.’

   ‘Of course.’ 

   ‘I want you to run them by me in the morning. We might do a little tinkering.’

   ‘That would be great.’ I appreciated the offer of help, but what was the bigger task?  

   Ron nodded, locking in the arrangement. ‘One thing though… when you are putting your lessons together tonight, ask yourself a question - what you can do at the start, that will make them want to listen and find out more?’ 

   ‘Yeah… okay… any suggestions?’ 

   ‘Yes.’ He gave me an ominous grin; he wasn’t going to give much away. ‘Make it good.’ 

‘Er… I mean… any actual tips?’

He looked me in the eye, and I could almost see his brain ticking over. ‘Make them want to hear the next thing you have to say. You’ll pick up lots of tips from other teachers as you go too.  You’ll also see plenty of what not to do. Work out your own style; it takes a long time. Work out how to make the kids want to be there and let them know you value them. Too much to take in?’

None of that was in my teacher training. I wished I had a pen and paper ready to go… at least six or seven major dot points that could push a pass up to a credit! But what the hell did any of it mean? I felt myself squirm in the lounge.

   He wasn’t quite finished with me. ‘Today, as a teacher, you start learning.’

   If my mind wasn’t already scrambled after the day’s events, Ron’s talk pretty much finished me off. My plan up until that moment, was to scratch down some loose lesson plans on the train using my bag as a desk, so that by the time I connected with a bus for the final leg of the trip home, I’d be free to leave the day behind, done and dusted, on the other side of Sydney.

   Despite my intentions, my resilience was no match for the rhythm of wheels upon tracks, and I was soon drifting into deep slumber, not long after pulling out from St Marys. When the drool on my chest woke me, I was six stations past my intended stop of Central, and way out of my comfort zone on the lower north shore of Sydney.   

   I swapped trains to make the link for a bus to get me closer to home, with Ron’s words playing over in my mind. How do I make them wonder what I’m going to say next, make them want to be there?

   That evening, following a quick run along the sands of Maroubra, and devouring a couple of sandwiches, I settled into some schoolwork. By nine o’clock I’d finished the preparation for an entire lesson. With four more to do, I thought of Ron’s advice, and wondered if any part of what I had planned would be any good. It promised to be a long night. 

~

The start of my second day as a teacher felt as though I hadn’t been home. My Year 8 class completed a little work, and at one point in time, I noticed from my peripheral vision, a boy sitting near the back of the room wadding up what promised to be a sizable goo-ball.

    Scott who had agreed to sit nearer the front, caught my eye. With a nod of my head towards the potential perpetrator, he made sure he had the boy’s attention. Scott used his pointer finger and drew it across his neck, at the same time mouthing an effective expletive. 

   The crisis had been averted, and I acknowledged Scott’s assistance with a sly wink and nod. He suppressed a smile and continued to put a big effort into his handwriting. Connection.  

   By the end of the lesson, I had survived intact, and wondered what had transpired between Scott and Mr Bryson. In honest reflection I knew there was nothing I said or did, that would make students want to be there and know more.  

   For the next couple of lessons, I pondered the same point. In the morning before the teaching day had started, Ron spoke to me about my lesson plans, and made some suggestions to improve them. When I asked him what I could do to engage the kids, his response was a predictable smile and the same message - it was my job to work that part out.

   After lunch it was time for what some of teachers referred to as the graveyard shift. Teachers were tired and looking forward to some peace and quiet at the end of the day, before connecting with other parts of their lives. Kids would be contemplating their football and netball training, what chores they had to do when they got home, or watching some cartoons if they were lucky. 

   I walked along a corridor towards the laboratory where I would be teaching geology to a mixed-ability Year 9 class. Restless teenagers gathered at the door. What lifted my spirits, was passing Ron walking in the opposite direction. He was having a joke and sharing a light-hearted moment with about four teenagers who chose to walk with him. 

   As we passed each other, he gave me a knowing grin, as if to remind me of our previous conversation. Such a small gesture, yet one that provided me with a jolt of inspiration. This would be the lesson, against all odds, when the kids want to hear what I have to say and wonder what was coming next. I would make them want to know more.  

   I would do all these things, and there was about one minute to work out how. Gradually the ragged line of students at the door of the laboratory grew longer. A girl at the front of the group looked at me with disdain. ‘Ah, not him again.’ 

   Her friend joined in. ‘I thought he was just a sub.’

   There were more groans and squabbles.

   ‘Yes, me again.’ I spoke loudly so they would all hear me. ‘And I’ll be here again tomorrow and the day after that.’ 

   I breathed deeply, grasping for the illusive idea that would elevate my ordinary lesson into something magnificent. ‘Okay folks.’ My masquerade was one of confidence. ‘We need to get inside before it happens. We don’t want to miss out!’

   ‘Before what happens?’ asked a few students.

   ‘You’ll find out soon, but we need to get moving on this. It won’t wait.’

   My bluff was working to some extent. Students entered the room, giving each other quizzical looks and screwed up faces…  what was this weird teacher talking about?

   ‘And books out as quickly as you can please.’ I furthered the sense of urgency, fuelling a panic in my own mind. The carefully structured lesson I had planned had been derailed, and I secretly cursed Ron’s advice, already looking for someone to blame for the imminent disaster.

   My heart was thumping as I sought to think my way out of the predicament. Then I saw it. In the locked glass cabinet adjacent to the blackboard, sat a container of sodium metal with bright red letters across it - DANGER. TEACHER USE ONLY.

   Then I saw the ceramic coated model volcano sitting proudly on the teacher demonstration desk. It looked expensive, about half a metre in height and colour coded to mark the various parts. Beneath the ceramic façade was a layer of plaster and as I picked it up carefully, I saw that it was hollow with an escape vent at the top, as per the classic volcano. Everything was coming together as if carefully planned! ‘Today we are talking about basalt and granite.’ I almost roared with the confidence that comes with an exciting idea. ‘Two classic volcanic rocks.’

   A collective groan came from the class as the promise of something exciting was abating into some dribble about rocks.

   ‘Let’s make a volcano! It’s the place where these rocks are born. You boys and girls in the front desks… move back! Let’s have everyone behind the third row of desks.’

   With the possibility of something about to break the afternoon monotony, and with an inkling of fear, the students pushed towards the back part of the room. 

   ‘Everyone ready?’ I looked at three boys who had crept closer to the front to get a better view. ‘Back a bit further, fellas! A bit more… okay, let’s put the magma inside this beaker… we’ll make our own magma.’ 

   I filled a large beaker with water. ‘To do this I’m going to put a piece of very reactive metal into the bowl, and then put this model volcano over the top. The next time we see anything will be the lava coming out through the top and that will be what makes the rocks. Are you ready?’

   ‘Yes Sir!’ said one boy.

   ‘Yeah, blow the shit out of it!’

   As carefully as I could, I filled the beaker with water and then unlocked the glass cabinet to collect the container of sodium. I’d seen a spectacular demonstration of this during my teacher training and remembered that it came with a long spiel about safety precautions. It was too late to back out of this now. How much to use? 

   I opened the screw top container to see several different sized pieces of the shining metal bathing in oil. Too small a piece and it would be a major disappointment, and students wouldn’t trust me again. With some trepidation, I reached inside the container, and with a pair of long handle tweezers, secured the largest chunk of glistening metal. I extracted it with my trembling hands, quickly dropped it into the beaker of water, and the placed the glorious model volcano over the top.

   ‘What now?’ chorused a group of kids.

   ‘Just wait for a moment.’ My heart thumped heavily, as for the first time since throwing this ill-planned lesson together, I felt that I was making a big mistake. I pushed through my apprehension and stepped towards the back of the room where the students were. ‘This is just like a real…’

   BANG! Clouds of smoke, chunks of plaster and shards of glass exploded through the air. There were screams from girls and a few boys as well, as bits and pieces hit them. ‘Shit, yeah!’ yelled some boys as a panicked girl pointed to the numerous spot fires on desks and the floor. Panic became mayhem as the more diligent students poured water on the flames, only to create secondary explosions.

   ‘It’s all okay, kids!’ I lied loudly.  ‘All done now, we can all get back to our seats.’

   I surveyed the damage and tried to establish some form of normality. There were burn marks on desks and on the floor. Bits of plaster and glass fragments were scattered all over the room… a room with the absence of one expensive model volcano. 

   With a sickening thud in the pit of my belly, I heard the creak of an opening door behind me. It was Mr Bryson. No smile.

   ‘We’re learning about volcanic rocks!’ shouted a slightly built boy wearing thick glasses.

   Mr Bryson looked around the room with eyes wide open. ‘I see… Mr Radley… I think we might need to have another chat after school.’

   ‘Yes… of course, Mr Bryson.’

  I had created trouble for myself, unaware yet of the repercussions. Yet something had stirred in me, and upon finishing the lesson with some stories about earthquakes and volcanoes that have ravaged the planet over time, I focussed upon my next class. 

   While the last lesson of the day was more sedate, I did manage to have some Year 10 students drop an egg from two metres in a paper parachute they made without breaking it. To my delight, they were able to relate it to Isaac Newton’s laws of motion. Albeit they were a very good class, and the task was well within their range of abilities.

   Throughout the final lesson of the day, my mind went back to the exploding volcano. I wondered what behaviour changing force Ron had applied to Scott the day before, and if I was about to receive a similar dose. Had I broken basic rules of safety? Was I responsible for a major breach? What would be my fate?

   After the final bell, I waited for Ron, thinking the delay was all part of my punishment. After thirty minutes he walked into the staffroom and dumped a collection of books on his desk. ‘Get through the rest of the day alright, Kev?’ He plonked onto on to the old lounge chair. Expressionless face.

   ‘Yes, Ron. I think I made a little progress.’

   The conversation danced around the issues of the day with one glaring omission. Finally, Ron stood and sorted through a bunch of papers to take home.

   ‘Er, Ron…’ I spoke tentatively, wanting to be put out of my misery. ‘Do you want to know what happened in my Year 9 class.’

   ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea. When we talk about your lesson plans tomorrow morning, we might go into a bit more detail.’

   ‘Sure… no surprises.’

   ‘Yep. No surprises. That could have ended very badly.’

   ‘I’m really sorry.’ 

   ‘Not as sorry as you might be soon.’ He looked towards Pauline Crisp’s empty chair. ‘That model volcano… her pride and joy. She brought it back from a holiday in Indonesia about five years ago.’

   My heart sank. How could I replace it? What would I say to her.

   ‘Well, I’m off then.’ Ron stacked a wad of papers under his arm and made for the door. ‘We’ll touch base early in the morning.’

   ‘Er… yeah, okay.’

   He stopped momentarily and looked over his shoulder. ‘By the way Kev, did they like it? Did they want to know more?’

   ‘Um… I think so… maybe.’

   ‘Mm, good.’ With that, the door shut behind him.

~

On the Saturday after my first week teaching at St Marys High School, I spent hours traipsing around Sydney’s suburbs in search of something very special. By the early afternoon, I happened upon a stall in a marketplace at The Rocks, displaying an eclectic range of merchandise. 

   It was there I found a ceramic model volcano and to secure it, I was happy to part with a huge chunk of my first week’s pay. My mind flicked back to the expression on Pauline Crisp’s face when I confessed to her my misdemeanour, and how I survived the minutes of her tirade that felt interminable. 

I handed over a fist full of money to the stallholder, my eyes fixed on the glossy volcano. He raised his eyebrow as he accepted the cash. ‘Ten dollars more, mate.’

‘But on the tag it says…’

‘Over there… tall fella, frizzy hair; he wants it too.’  

   I reached into my pocket to secure my last bit of money… bargain!