1
Corey
My second parents’ evening as a newly qualified teacher isn’t exactly going great. According to at least three different parents, I’m grading their child’s artwork too harshly. They deserve top marks, of course.
When I was training, I watched other teachers doing parents’ evening and did my best to pick up tips. I saw them deal with difficult parents with ease and foolishly believed that with a little training, I could do that too. How wrong I was. Each scathing comment cuts into me, deflating me a little more as the evening drags on.
My table is next to my head of department, Rose Graham, so she can hear every word and also all my feeble attempts at smoothing things over. I have the mark scheme, but honestly, it’s so woolly and open to interpretation I’m no longer sure my marking is accurate.
Eventually, the last pupils and parents dwindle away until no one is left but staff.
“You look tired,” Rose points out.
‘Tired’ is my normal state of being right now. I’m like those memes that claim not to be an early bird or a night owl but a permanently exhausted pigeon. At least pigeons can fly away when the going gets tough.
“You had a few difficult parents to deal with.” She perches on the corner of one of the tables. “How do you think you handled them?”
Here we go. Self-evaluation. One of the many buzzwords of teaching. I swear teaching is made up of buzzwords, acronyms, paperwork, Ofsted, and difficult parents. Oh, and ten per cent teaching. It’s not what wide-eyed and bushy-tailed me signed up for at all.
“Okay, I think. I went through the mark scheme with them and explained the rationale behind the marks I’d given their children.”
“Did they accept that?”
I wince. “Some did. That last parent is probably going to call you to complain about me.”
Rose laughs. “I’ll handle them. Don’t you worry.”
I’m glad she’s got my back. We have regular department meetings—all three of us—when we check each other’s marking to make sure we’re all as accurate as possible. We also trade work with a couple of other schools in the area and standardise our marking with them too. I know the grades I handed out in this term’s reports were accurate, but I still let a handful of parents make me doubt myself.
“You’ll toughen up,” Rose promises. “Soon you’ll be rolling your eyes at parents like that along with the rest of us.”
Is toughening up the same as becoming jaded? I wanted to teach because I thought I could make a difference in pupils’ lives. I want to inspire. I want toteach. But most lessons are a battle, me versus the kids. Art is one of those subjects that pupils either love or hate, and many are counting down the days until they can ditch it in favour of something they actually enjoy. Exam classes are better. They’re much smaller, and the kids want to be there. But it hasn’t taken me long to realise that some kids take art because they think it’s easy. It’s not. Others think they’re amazing, but the truth is they’ll be lucky to pass. I see the hope in their eyes, and I don’t want to be the one to snuff out their dreams of being the next Anish Kapoor, Tracey Emim, or Banksy.
“A few of us are going out for a drink,” Rose says. “Do you want to join us?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got to get back to Lexi.”
She’ll be in bed by now, but that’s not the point. Apart from first thing this morning, I haven’t seen her all day. If I shoot home now, she might still be awake, so I can at least say goodnight.
“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Make sure you do something to relax for the rest of the night. No marking or planning.”
I smile, which is the most non-committal response I can give. I’m still at the stage in my career where I have to create lengthy lesson plans instead of just jotting down objectives and notes in my planner. I’m half-planned for tomorrow, but there are two more lessons I need to prepare for, and I don’t have a free period. Yes, I’ve got the department’s medium and long-term planning, but I’ve still got to transfer that onto my own lesson planning templates. I’ve just got to get through this year. Then planning will get less laborious. I hope.
I walk to the car park with Rose, Scott, the other art teacher, and some of the music teachers. I have to wait to get my car out. The problem with being one of the first to arrive is that I often get blocked in. I put my favourite music on full blast and let the dulcet tones of the singer wash over me, relaxing me a little. I plan on taking a hot bath when I get home, with lots of bubbles. Will my brothers have saved me any food? Come to think of it, Blake was doing a modelling gig this evening, so he probably didn’t eat with Archie and Lexi.
I wonder how Blake’s gig went. He was crazy excited about it last night, but I haven’t seen him at all today. He gets up after I leave the house. Long after, if the weekends are anything to go by. Yes, I’m jealous. There are months when he makes hardly anything and others where he brings home a princely amount for doing what I perceive to be very little.
Archie has a regular nine-to-five. I’m jealous of that too. He’s a PA. Right now, he’s working for an author he’s been a fan of since he was a teenager. It’s his dream job.
Once upon a time, teaching was my dream job too. I’m not supposed to be tired of it halfway through my qualifying year. Surely it should take at least five years for me to get bored of spending hours marking and planning? Or of dealing with kids who can’t or simply don’t want to behave? I’m having a bad week. That’s all. I’ll bounce back on Monday after a relaxing weekend.
I go straight upstairs when I get home, ignoring the sound of the TV and of Archie’s and Blake’s voices in the lounge. I knock on Lexi’s door and slip inside, leaving it open a fraction so enough light spills into the room for me to see by. My little girl is tucked up in bed, her long, dark blonde hair fanned out over her thin pillow. She’s got the quilt pulled up over her nose, but her blue eyes are open.
“Hello, Daddy.”
“Hey, pudding.”
She giggles. “I’m not a pudding.”
