A Land called Oz

I'm marking books on a Sunday afternoon, with The Wizard of Oz on Channel 5 in the background. It is almost a pleasure. My Year 7s have listened to my instructions and they've really tried hard. I'm so proud of them. How I wish they knew The Wizard of Oz. As I mark, I sing along without realising 'We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz...' I saw the film so many times as a child, I know it by heart.

'Oh, I beg your pardon,' says Dorothy, 'we haven't met yet.' She curtsies. 'How do you do?'

'How do you do?' replies the Scarecrow.

I jump to Wikipedia. When on earth was this film made?

1939.

Hmm... that's why. That's why Dorothy feels terrible at the thought of her Aunty Em worrying about her and immediately abandons her runaway quest, rushing home to look after her aunt. That's why 'drama' is a bunch of flying monkeys and a green wicked witch. 'I'll get you my Pretty...' 'How about a little fire scarecrow?'

No swearing. No extraordinary special effects. No guns with massive explosions and rap music talking about hos and bitches in the background. What kills the wicked witch? A little bit of water.

And what is their grand journey in search of? What do the main characters want? Do they want gold? A long lost treasure? Do they want to rule the world? No. They want the things that make life worthwhile: a heart, a brain, a home, and some courage.

As I mark this work, where the children refer constantly to Cheryl, Simon and Danni, I wish my children might know Dorothy instead, and I realise just how lucky I was to have grown up in a world that not only knew her, but still held dear the values which the film - or indeed the book - take for granted.

1939... It seems so very far away. I guess 1939 exists somewhere in a Land called Oz.

Do we really need to be told this?

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/devon/8348938.stm

Isn't this just bloody OBVIOUS??

Or maybe not.

Stars

When pupils do something I like, give a good answer, do some good work, I give them a star. I simply say 'star' in their direction and they draw a star in the backs of their books.

Today, I say 'star' to Loopy. Loopy is black with a short hair cut and a big smile.

Loopy's eyes light up and he turns round to stick his tongue out at Stutter. 'RRAAH!! Whaya say to THAT, eh Bruv??' Loopy grins. 'Miss gave me a star! Yeah Bruv... Whaya say?? Whaya say to THAT?? No star for YOU, Bruv!'

I look over at Loopy who is pushing his chest up, proud as can be, and I'm genuinely amazed at how some stupid hand-drawn star can make this boy react in such a way.

Stutter's response? He grunts and whacks Loopy in the back.

'HEY!' Loopy frowns, shouting.
I leap over to them. 'Ok, ok boys...' I put my hand out. 'We're not really going to have a fight over stars, now are we?' I smile.

'Nah, nah...' The boys laugh, shaking their heads. 'Sorry, Miss, sorry Miss...' They bat their eyes, suddenly embarrassed.

Not that we ever needed any proof, but...Men can't communicate. They can't when they are 15, and they can't when they are 35! Not sure they can at 65 either...

Mixed-race

I am prompted to write thanks to this article in the Telegraph on mixed-race children. So many of the children I teach are mixed, and not just black and white. You'll find a Thai mother with a white English dad, or a Chinese mother with a black English dad. Even the South Asians step outside the pot every now and then, although I have to admit, that is pretty rare. The most common of course is a white English mum with a black dad, or no dad, but the child is proof enough that once upon a time the dad was black! :) Often it is impossible to tell what they are exactly. And when you ask, the children present you with the most extraordinary of family trees. Little blonde Turkish girls and white English girls who are so desperate to look 'cool' that they fix their hair to make it look like they are mixed-race. There is the boy equivalent of course - the white boy who cuts his hair to look black, walks in that urban way and only has black girlfriends. Race is a minefield in the school yard. Or, as far as I'm concerned, it is a sociologist's dream playground and one that I get to play in everyday!

Read the article. It makes for interesting reading.

A question of luck

Some children can attend inner-city state schools and come out just fine. Others can have their lives ruined by the experience. Often, it is the little things, details one would never notice, that can make or break a child's experience at school.

Last week, I get a phone call from the office telling me that Brother is by the school gates being generally unpleasant. Brother is black. I am to go at once and get rid of him. Brother was permanently excluded a year ago. Had he managed to stay the course, he would now be in Year 10, 15-years-old, doing his GCSEs. Brother was excluded for a terrible track record of constant disruption, bullying, aggression towards teachers and students and an absolute lack of respect for everyone around him. As I arrive, Brother is walking away. I run after him.

'Brother! Brother!'

Brother stops, stepping back, throwing his hands out to the side, gangster style.

'WHAT? What you doing, MAN? I ain't done nothing!'

'Ok, ok, Brother, I just want to talk to you.'

'YEAH?' Brother is aggressive. He snarls like a fox cornered by dogs. 'What you doing coming up to me like you're some kind of policeman?' He shouts.

'Policeman?' I laugh. 'Am I carrying a trunceon? Am I in uniform?' I snigger. 'Maybe I should have become a policeman. The uniform would have probably suited me, don't you think?'

A smile nearly breaks across Brother's twisted and embittered face. Nearly. For a moment I think I see the boy I taught in year 7, cute and full of energy. I remember how he used to have his hand up all the time.... 'I know Miss! I know! I know! Pick ME, Miss!' I used to love teaching him.

I ask Brother what he's doing, and I remind him that he isn't meant to be around the school.

'So what, MAN! You all don't OWN the road you know! I can walk up and down here as much as I want! And my niece, she tells me that someone took her phone and stole her sim card, but she won't tell me who it is, so like... I come down to sort it out.'

As Brother totters from side to side as if he has ants in his pants, I do the usual speech about how violence isn't the solution, that he should leave his niece's business to her, that it is best not to be by the school gates. As I'm talking, I'm wondering how on earth a 15-year-old has a niece who is 13-years-old, but I'm quickly distracted when I remember that I finally have the opportunity to find out how Casanova and Silly are getting on.

I have written many times about Casanova and Silly. They were in year 11 last year and have now left the school. Both black boys, both in the bottom set, the first left without any GCSEs at all, and the second left with one: the one I taught him. Casanova is Brother's brother.

I smile. 'So how is Casanova? And Silly? Are they still friends?'

Brother grins. 'Yeah man, course they are. Those two will be friends forever.'

I beam. 'Yes, of course they will. You know, Silly got his C!'

Brother's eyes open wide. 'Oh yeah?'

'Yes!' I jump. 'He did! He did!' I clap my hands. 'You must tell him from me. Tell them both from me. I tell everyone about his C! Casanova didn't of course... He got a D... But that wasn't half bad, for him... He never did any work...' I smile.

Brother nods. It feels like we're almost friends again. I remember him, as a year 7, staring out the window of my classroom. 'Brother! On with your work!' 'Sorry, Miss, it's just that it's hard.' 'I know Brother, I didn't explain it properly, let's have a go at this together...'

I only taught Brother for a year. I taught Casanova and Silly for 5 years from start to finish of their secondary school careers. Casanova and Silly were small boys, never grew very big. Brother on the other hand, had a growth spurt overnight. Before me now, he is large and his face is no longer that of a boy's. He even has a bit of a moustache.

Casanova made friends with Silly in his first few weeks at secondary school. Silly was stupid and would never be 'cool' or 'street'. Silly's inability to inspire 'respect' from the other boys would be crucial in keeping Casanova grounded for those 5 years. Brother on the other hand had a brother who was 2 years older. Casanova had other friends who were bad news, some who were also eventually permanently excluded. So at a very young age, Brother was introduced to the world of miscreants, a world which given his fast-developing physical appearance, and his lack of academic sophistication, was the only world in which he would find success.

'So what are Casanova and Silly doing now?' I ask, eagerly.

'They're at college. They're doing construction. They like it a lot.'

I smile. How wonderful. They're doing something they can actually do. This stupid school system forced those boys to do things their poor brains simply couldn't handle. Finally now, they're doing something at which they can excel.

'And you, Brother? Where are you, now?' I ask, tentatively.

'Nowhere, man!' Brother spits on the side of the road.

'Nowhere? What do you mean? You must be somewhere?'

'Yeah, well, you know, I go centre.'

Brother means he is at the local pupil referral unit. And yes, I guess that kind of means he doesn't go anywhere at all. These places are basically a stepping stone to prison.

'It was nice to see you, Brother!' I wave, as I back away.

'Yeah, you too.'

No 'Miss' in that goodbye... Brother doesn't use such sissy words anymore. I guarantee you Casanova, 2 years older, wouldn't hesitate at calling me Miss. As Brother struts down the street, kicking the pavement with anger, I feel like running after him. I want to grab him by the hand, turn him around, and skip towards the school gates. Let's turn the clocks back 2 years Brother... let's do it all again... come back inside the gates with me, let's find that baby-face of yours... But as I daydream, Brother is moving further and further away.

I'm sorry we failed you Brother... I'm sorry I failed you... We tried. But in a system as precarious as the state education system, what people often don't understand, is that success or failure in that system, is all a question of luck...

Our of her mind

There is a row of shops near to school which is generally considered to be 'black'. They sell black hair products, black music like Hip Hop, Reggae, Caribbean and African food, clothes that might appeal to a younger black clientele and they tend to have lots of black staff. I shop in these places all of the time, if only because I live right next door. I also love plantains, use cocoa butter in abundance, and all black women need shops with black hair products near to where they live, if they don't want to employ a full-time driver.

The other day, I get the most bizarre of emails. It is from Public Enemy, a black woman in her forties, who has been teaching at the school for years. She is known for her love of Black History month and her outspoken nature. In this email she expresses her concern about 'my offensive comments' at the recent staff meeting. She wants to talk to me.

I rack my brain, trying to remember what I said to the staff. What could I possibly have said that would cause such offence? Not being stupid, I come up with only one option. But she couldn't possibly mean that.... is what I think. So we arrange to meet.

'Hi Public, good to see you. I'm concerned about your email, and I can't think what you might mean. So please tell me, what is it that I've said?'

Public smiles, looking a little embarrassed. 'I know you won't have meant it this way, or meant to offend, but it's what you said about the black shops nearby.'

'What did I say?'

'You said (off the cuff) that you were worried about this thing you bought there, that it might fall apart, implying that the shops are cheap.'

Ah. So I was right. I want to roll my eyes, but avoid giving into the temptation. I wince instead.

'Hmm, yes, Public, but those shops are cheap.'

Public looks horrified and I continue.

'I know because I buy stuff in them all the time, when I'm looking for something cheap, which won't last long, but will do the job that's required.'

Public shakes her head. 'Nah, nah, you can't say that. I mean, even white people were offended! They came up to me after the meeting saying so... they said that you were being offensive.'

Even white people? Who the hell are these white people who should get offended on behalf of black people because of what another black person has said?? Notice how Public isn't saying that I'm being racist. I mean, she can't, really. But that's the sentiment that is motivating her. I am certain that had I spoken about Primark being cheap, no one would have cared. But talk about shops (which quite frankly most of them would never dare enter precisely because they are so cheap), which are 'black' in a truthful manner, and suddenly you're a racist - even when you're black and shop there all the time.

'Really? How funny Public! But you know I live around the corner, right? One of the reasons I choose to live here is precisely because of those shops! I love them!'

Public smiles. 'Yes, yes, I'm sure you didn't mean to offend. Perhaps you could just apologise at briefing next week?'

'Hmm, yes.' I smile. 'We'll see.'

Apologise? Apologise for a silly comment which simply described the truth?

She has to be out of her mind.

Shave in one direction with strong deliberate strokes

Be thankful for your fathers...