Frank McCourt 19th July 2009

I read Angela's Ashes but didn't warm to it. Not really. Too grim. Sure, go ahead. Read it: it will do you good but I don't really want to read it again.

I love the warmer bits in Frank's life. Like in 'Tis how he soaked for hours and hours in a hot bath as the only way of keeping warm. And where he goes back to have lunch and a laugh with Horace, "offering me another chunk of sandwich telling me I could use a few pounds on my bones....the power of this sadness that tells me this won't come again, this sandwich, this beer on the pier with Horace that makes me feel so happy all I can do is weep with the sadness in it..."

A sandwich figures in Teacher Man, too. "This bread was dark and thick, baked by an Italian mother in Brooklyn, bread firm enough to hold slices of a rich baloney, layered with slices of tomato, onions and peppers, drizzled with olive oil and charged with a tongue-dazzling relish". A youngster threw the sandwich. Frank ate it. It was classroom management and it worked.

Well done, Frank.

Thanks.

A Good Childhood Report?

On the BBC this morning: "The aggressive pursuit of personal success by adults is now the greatest threat to British children, a major independent report on childhood says".

This major independent report will be published this week by The Children' Society.

The full title of The Children's Society is The Church of England Children's Society.

Full details here.

Also interesting that "The Good Childhood" is a registered trademark of The Children's Society - sorry, The Church of England's Children's Society.

It will be interesting to see what is in the above report.

today's hero

Mark Haddon
The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-Time
and
he is pretty good on god.

I learn; You know; We teach; They educate

those who can
do
those who can't should learn
or do something else
those who can should teach
if they can

you can tell
you are a teacher
if someone else
learns how to from you

sometimes teaching is
easy peasy
sometimes it
is boring hurts or can't do

go on
give it a little go
you have probably
taught someone
something
already

I told you so

Saying "I told you so"
Is not good;
It does not help intelligent
debate.
You may as well start
"Now. Are you stupid? Or
is it just that you don't listen..."

Homework

I chose the cardboard box
the one a christmas pudding
and sauternes came in.
Snipped it with scissors,
stuck it with glue,
into a cube.
This was to become a liquorice
all-sort,
a model,
for school - you do understand?

Then a coating of lining paper,
a painting of lines - white,
orangey brown and black.
My sense of colour isn't strong, but I
do remember the taste and texture
layer
by
layer.

For some reason "packaging" was required,
nothing to do with the all-sorts,
but still for technology -
tomorrow being Monday...

Just as well we have a recycle bin -
the pizza box, butter paper, tomato
wrapping, and other assorted clutter,
will really be recycled into education

and I hope all the driving to rehearsals
will be put to good use for the Hugh
Masekela performance at the Roundhouse.

Things That Go Bump

A converted roll-on roll-off ferry.
Just a few kids scattered around
the food was flabby chips and cheap
baked beans. I sat and thought of
water flowing in through the car
doors, swilling side to side, rocking
the boat - but also the gnawing
feeling no one knows what this is
costing.

We sat round in the grim, windowless
room. An ill-fitting rectangle of
formica tables. A short fat woman
in a fur coat and too-shiney made
up face marched out - a strange
form of power dressing? The circle
of people talked in circles: to
support the schools, to support the
strikes - a no no of course, nods of
assent. I looked at the agenda. It
made no sense. Should I say something?
How will that fit with the schools and
the strike and ofsted and every child
matters and performance management
and bugets and appraisal and if I say
anything or not I'll not have a job
and my mouth is dry as dry.

Then I woke and remembered I don't
do that any more, any more, any more.

Pathological Assessment

Sue would have made a model Nazi.
I said so at the time and more than once.
Small, slight and mousey, but with a
glint in her eye when it came to
targets, assessment, performance,
excellence in cities, performing
people, rationalizing, downsizing
upsiding, capsizing..

She liked to refer to DOG - division
officers group - for budgets, she knew
PUD: predictable unpredictable
discretionary.

She had two cats. She ought to have
had a large dog, but she did have a
large bloke who padded around after
her.

Now she is dead - done, dusted -
and I hope when she died she felt
she had met all her targets -
no scrub that last line - I hope she
had found a little fun and recognition
and love - even from the large bloke
who padded around after her.

And it is not just young people who
are turned off education by too much
emphasis on targets and assessment -

and Sue did occasionally smile - the
half-real one not the fixed one - and when
I left she gave me a little smiley
face - not on the official reference
you understand - just on a hand
written compliment slip.

And it is not just young people who
are turned off education by too much
emphasis on targets and assessment.

People need names not numbers
People need names not numbers
People need names not numbers

Valerie

Don't remember this
- the handwriting is mine
- and I remember Valerie.


I'm Valerie
An' they pick on me
They ban me from school
For acting the fool.
Is it brains that I lack?
Is it jus' that I'm Black?

Two's me, two's me
Cho man, talk t' me
Don' mek me feel bad
D' ye think dat I'm mad?

Well I plan day by day
Try to get my own way
I don' have to behave
I can joke - I can rave
Push the teachers aroun'
Rub their nose in the groun'
Well tha's bad, but it's me
An' I'm called - Valerie.

Version

Early on in London, Colin taught
Religious Education in the next room.
I got a kick out of comparing notes
with him and we had many a laugh.

One day he came into my room in middle
of a lesson - later he said how I was
just talking and they were all listening.
By the end of that little chat, I had

offered to do a re-write of The Parable
of the Talents. There is a lot of merit
to the parable - at least it is about
talents, not special needs or targets.


Version

Leh me tell yu 'bout a guy name Lloyd
Dat come from up Wood Green.
He must've been de coolist cyat
Dat I mahn ever seen.

Shoulda seen de clothes he wear,
He was a real smart dresser;
'is clothes an' ting come from Take Six
An' 'is suit- all made-to-measure.

Cho, de time Lloyd tek fe comb 'is locks
- I never see no one so fussy,
But he reckon it was wort' it
If it help him capture.

Didn' tink much of school, yu nah,
He always actin' clown,
De only ting Lloyd want real bad'
Was fe own a real big Sound.

Pretty soon de guy get rich.
He start a club - Four Aces -
It was a real cool place back den,
One of dose Soul an' Reggae places.

Den Lloyd decide it time fe res' up.
Sit back an' mek de breads.
He clean forget 'bout Babylon,
An' Ras - de God of Dreads.

God clap him down dead one day,
Poor Lloyd's head full wid Thunder -
Dat sure one set o' speaker, he thought,
How many watts? I wonder.

"Dyam wutliss fool", roared God,
"Look: Clubs, Money, Fancy Clothes -
I gave yu all a Life Time,
An' yu spend it all on those?"

Balloons [2]

Hilary introduced me to Seymour
Papert's Mindstorms soon after it came out.
"So given time, with these computers
everywhere, new ways of thinking and
learning will inevitably be developed."

As I remember it, Mindstorms went a
bit further - it could be that faster and
better access to each other and to inform
ation will have to inform our political

process.

Papert's friend's balloons?
- that was just a send up....

Balloons [1]

Miss West was Head of Lower School
Queen of all she surveyed, almost.
Pushing on a bit by then, radiant,
well she was deeply in love with Bill.

Welsh and with a beautiful singing voice,
yet her voice of authority was shrill,
a strangled constricted sort of sound.

That Thursday morning, she came to my room.
Excuse me, Mr Flavin, I need to speak
with 3FV:

"Yesterday, on the way back from games,
the coach had to stop at a garage,
the one just outside Gorsefield.
While the coach, with this school's pupils,

was there, a contraceptive machine
was broken into and the contents stolen.
As pupils of this school, you should be
ashamed of yourselves." And at this point
her voiced hitched up a notch or two:

"That was a very stupid thing to do -
You - you - can choke on those things!
Thank you, Mr Flavin."

Thank you, Miss West.

Tamale Pie

Dorothy was Canadian; frizzy
red hair, pale flushed skin,
piercing eyes behind round
learned spectacles.

She insisted on serving fresh tea
- as opposed to diluted stewed essence -
and stunned me, at least, one day by
making a superb Tamale Pie.

She was manic about global learning
networks/learning - even tried to set
up a Learning Exchange in Dalston
with lots and lots of index cards.

When she became too manic she
stopped talking altogether and then
allowed herself to be booked into
the German Hospital.

Ken and I visited her after a shift.
We talked, Dorothy smiled and wrote
quick little notes to us. On the way
back I said she looked well; Ken looked
at me very doubtfully.

Dorothy was heavily influenced by
Ivan Illich - we don't hear much
of him these days, but I remember
Dorothy and her Tamale Pie.

Fingers And Thumbs

The Head of Year seemed a nice enough man,
youngish friendly not too tidy office.
Girls and boys knocked at the half open door,
"forgot my tie, sir" and that sort of stuff.

"Ah, yes, Jeffrey. No problems most of the time,
but then things blow up out of nowhere.
If there is a rumpus in the corridor,
that will be Jeffrey. Not the brightest but
pleasant enough. Nothing I can
put my finger on."

He went to get Jeffrey, couldn't find him.

The Head of Year phoned again the next week.
"Things have taken a bit of a turn here,
Jeffrey would like to visit you."
"What's happened?"
"He'd better talk to you himself - and
his father is in full agreement."

Jeffrey came to see us, relaxed, friendly,
happy to chat away but not about himself.
"Yeh, I like it here - relaxed and friendly
and I like the girls." And they liked him
going by the odd squeal.

Jeffrey popped his head round the office door,
"Can I leave this here? - I have to go out".
Well it was lunchtime.
"But you mustn't look," with a grin,
putting his carrier bag over by the wall.

So of course someone looked: a long shiny
silvery dress, a pair of silver high
heels and a Diana Ross LP.

Jeffrey's father was smallish, nice,
friendly, more Irish than his son. A bit
beaten down looking. "Oh Jeffrey's all right.
We get on better now. We talk about
this and that. He'll be all right."

I tried chatting with Jeffrey as we walked
near his house by Stamford Hill. He said
he had a good friend, Connor, a dustbin
man. I pictured Eddie Yeates. Sometimes
they went to the pictures. "Sometimes we just
talk." He looked directly back at me, "It's all
OK - I'm all right, really."

A Poem For 1ML [1975]

I compared notes at the time with Hilary who taught Maths. She was one of the first teachers to introduce computers into the classroom in London. She told me how children - and many adults - on being introduced to a computer for the first time, tended to ask of it, "What's my name?"
I guess the same is often true of creative writing: "Where is my name?" - or at least "Where am I in this?" Or "How does this relate to my world?"


Please sir, can I go out?
I'm sorry that I'm late.
Amanda's hitting Tracy.
No sir, I can't wait.

Give me back my ruler,
I wanna draw a line.
Tony's throwing bubble-gum.
Please sir, what's the time?

I haven't got a pencil
- can I use a marker then?
Joyce won't leave me alone, sir.
Can anyone lend me a pen?

Oh sir, I want a drink,
I think I'm gonna be sick.
How many marks did you get?
Julie Foster's really thick!

Sir, can I've a bit of paper,
like that one that Coral's got?
Can I take off my coat, sir,
it's getting very hot.

Sir, Morris won't stop hitting me.
I've finished question two.
Sharon's kicking Alicos!
Please sir, what can I do?

Fidel's making faces.
Donald's fallen off his chair.
Sir, you didn't put my name in
- that's not really very fair.

Sir?
Sir?
Sir!!!!
Where's sir gone?????

At The Bottom Of The Pond

I'm not going in.

Everyone else had gone back after break.
Chris was balanced on the far side of the pond.
An ordinary good looking lad - brown hair
in a fringe, pale slightly freckled face,
high cheekbones and calm hazel eyes.

He threw the first big stone in the pond,
arms stretched straight up,
deliberately holding it for seconds.
A big delayed splash 'n thud
like a depth charge.
He waited until all was well settled down.
Another splash 'n thud.

I tried walking slowly round the pond.
So did he.

When it looked like I had cut off his supply
from the garden rockery,
He started heaving at the end of a garden seat.
I walked back around to the seat.
He walked back to the rockery.

All he said was
I'm not going in
and
I don't care
Apart from that he was calm;
Even his pale blue anorak looked
peaceful

Another splash 'n thud

and another

and another

So I said
If you can't come inside, like everyone else,
I'm going to have to phone your dad

I don't care

Another splash 'n thud

Inside and upstairs, on the phone,
the blue jacket was still outside
but then appeared at the office door.

I spoke with dad
said there was a bit of a problem
yes, he would be round shortly
waved Chris towards an easy chair

I sat at my desk, trying to look like there
were more important things to do.

Chris was like a young man in a waiting room
slightly stretched out
looking at the ceiling
occasionally drumming his finger on the
side of the green pvc armchair
scratched the nylon loop carpet

When dad arrived, fit young and friendly,
we three took up our roles
well I have to say he's good at home
aren't you? - little shrug 'n smile
yes he's helpful, just the two of us,
he even cooks sometimes
his mother walked out on us
he doesn't really remember

yes, this is how it goes.
Fine at home, but every so often
I get called up to school
Isn't that right? - little shrug 'n smile

there was a bolster on the bed
I was always on her side
and her side was near the door

the eiderdown was lighter
but warmer
and I would feel a curl and
run it round my finger

morning he had gone
she was back from the bathroom
slapping herself behind with
a little wry laugh

there were two corsets one
for ordinary days a newer one for
Sundays and there was a medal with
a large safety pin
and she must have showed me how the
suspenders worked because I knew

the big wardrobe had an oval
mirror like a clear pool of water
i could see myself in the
bottom bit but when i looked there
was nothing behind

OK Chris, you obviously get on with your dad. You are a fine young man with lots and lots of potential. Your dad and I know you can do well. So how about it - are you going to try?

yeh yeh I suppose

So I'll see you later home for tea...
Little shrug 'n smile - and sits
up a little straighter in his chair.

End Of An Umpire

Joe was taking cricket after school. I
went to look 'n he asked if I could give
a hand - "me? I know nothing about cricket."
"That's OK I'll do most of it, if you
do square leg?" And anyway it was
just a casual knock on the asphalt.

The boys arrived laden with gear -
Ansell, Julien, Derek, Bovell 'n a
little troupe all Black 'n happy outside.
Joe asked "Who's for bat or bowl?" And every
one knew. Neil - who was forever in trouble-
bounced up 'n down "Sir! Bat AND Bowl, Sir!!"
"Do we have a wicket keeper?" Yes, Neil
was that as well.

So I stayed quiet and left it all to Joe,
concentrated on not looking too dumb.
They played with joy 'n easy grace, a laugh
whenever a hit landed on the roof.
Neil went in to bat, hit two 'n then
missed 'n the ball hit his pad 'n even
I knew LBW so I pointed at the sky.

Neil slumped his shoulders, unbuckled the pads.
On they played until 5 o'clock, put away
the stuff and off home still in the sunshine.
As Joe and I went up Kingsland Road we
chatted away 'n then he mentioned a by
the way, casually, quietly, gently, from
the corner of his mouth, "when the batsman
attempts a stroke he can't be LBW".

I was horrified - Neil should have had
a screaming fit! "But no one said anything!"
"The boys know their cricket - they know
in cricket the umpire is ALWAYS right."

Transferable Skills

It was a struggle to lift it
onto the dining room table. I
could hardly believe it was called
an OLIVER typewriter: something be
tween a printing press and a mech
anical piano.

When the exercises got a bit
boring I learned to type "Once
upon a time" and "In the beginning
there were" thinking they may be
useful in the future.

So when Michelle threw the big office
typewriter in my direction I managed
to sort of catch it and shuffle it onto
a desk. She seemed even more angered by
that and shouted "I hate this fucking
place" - well the children's home
did have to get her up early and there
was a meeting with her alcoholic
mother that day. I shouted back "Well
tough luck because we fucking like you".

As I shouted it - but not as loud as
she had - it sounded a bit contrived to
me, but she gave me an odd look and
calmed down quite a bit.

Valerie

Even when away from her school
Valerie looked immaculate
pleated navy skirt, light blue shirt
different tops but always matching
just like her smile and trainers

she never stopped smiling and her
feet twitched in those trainers

I worked with the older boys upstairs
and Valerie was there
in the middle of a game of tabletennis
there was a bang from the back windows
Valerie was outside standing on the window
ledge with the sash shut and those
trainers were dancing about

I gave a cheery wave now and then
after what seemed a very long time
Valerie rejoined us
I asked Tony to put some stronger
blocks on the sash windows

when we had our little parents day
Valerie came with her dad
he was smaller than her and a
bit tired and old looking and
you could see that she loved her dad
and she was smiling, a little more quietly,
and her feet were still twitching, quietly.

Hairs On The Back Of The Neck

David arrived for his first day
when I was out

His head leant on his arm writing
One of the others had given him a form
to fill in - something safe - and he
did look vulnerable with his head down
fair skinned sort of Black mixed-race

The little school was quiet and I was
relaxed, glad to be back, confident
Hello you must be David
He lifted his head looked at me and
said Fuck Off
Unusual but no big deal and I gave
a little shrug and walked on like
no matter

The strange thing was when he looked
up at me the hair on the back of my
neck stood up
I had read the cliche of course
it's never happened since

When he stabbed a little asian man
to death in front of his even more little
wife
"to see if he would bleed"
a newspaper said how after he was
sentenced to twenty-eight years
he shouted to the judge to
Fuck Off

So I was right not to take it
personally
but the hairs on the back of the neck
bit still makes me wonder