I left school crying recently after parents’ evening. But it wasn’t a student who reduced me to tears – it was her mother.
I had just finished giving my speech about becoming who you want to be, leading by example and using lunchtime sessions to focus on learning, when I looked to her mum for support. All I got was: “She can’t work because your room is too noisy.”
She told me I couldn’t expect her daughter to work hard for her GCSEs unless I improved my behaviour management. “You should be able to control your class,” she said. “How can you expect good grades if the class is naughty?”
Oh, so it’s not because she ignores my instructions? Or because she laughs in my face when I hand out worksheets? And it’s got nothing to do with all the lessons she’s missed? Once she spat on the floor as she walked into the classroom. After establishing she wasn’t unwell, I asked her to mop up the saliva about to be trodden into my carpet by the 20 kids behind her. Far from obliging, she just screamed, “Why are you always so dramatic?”
I assured her mother that the classroom atmosphere is my priority and I always follow the school’s behaviour policy. “It’s not about behaviour policies. It’s about controlling behaviour,” she retorted. Well, dear parent, that’s an oxymoron if ever I heard one; I’m bound by that policy.
“You need presence,” she continued. Oh, you went there. “Do come and see my lessons, Ms Parent,” I responded. “I’m sure that will relieve your worries. You and anyone else is welcome at absolutely any time.”
“It’s not my job to check on you,” she said. “Besides you’ve clearly got a problem with my daughter and I’m not sure you should be teaching her.” At this point my options are to weep, roll my eyes or put a plan for change in place. The latter won. I organised: a seating move; tuition with another teacher; for her to report to her form tutor with specific targets to meet; catch-up work to be sent home and so on. After one last dig about not understanding why it had to be her daughter doing all the extra work, we shook hands and I took my leave.
Though we parted on civil terms, I was anxious and distraught. I’m acutely aware of my responsibility to my students and, when you work so hard and you’re told you’re not good enough, unnecessary doubt can creep in. That’s not doing anything to develop my “presence” by the way.
The fact is that much of the power I have comes from parents, so to have them speak to me like that is completely undermining. I cannot make a child do anything without their parents’ blessing and, if mums and dads fight against something, school leaders will do almost anything to appease them (particularly when Ofsted’s arrival is imminent). I’m also relatively young and to a teenager one is either 21 or 60 so I fall I to the “shut-up-you’re-only-five-minutes-older-than-me” club to those looking for an excuse to misbehave.
My priority is to keep students learning. Sometimes this means I keep hold of students who have been incredibly disrespectful to me so I can speak to them later rather than disturb the whole lesson. I hope this shows how willing I am to forgive and that my goal is to simply aid learning; I’m not vain or spiteful and I don’t give up on my relationships with them easily. Perhaps to some parents (and students) this is a weakness. I wish you could see that it’s the opposite – and say it to your child.
Take an incident last year, as another example. I made a phone call to a parent whose daughter had verbally abused a teacher, damaged school property and destroyed another student’s exercise book. The student’s behaviour was already being monitored following a brief exclusion and it is our policy to refer any issues to parents and heads of year. I recounted the incidents and named the staff who witnessed them, but the parent responded: “That can’t have happened. I don’t want her head of year to deal with this.”
Despite numerous assurances, the student returned to school the following day and, after a simple instruction to remove her coat, launched into a blazing rant about how her dad said the school had it in for her. I was to understand she would not be allowed to attend any more detentions.
Lies to save face, I thought. Not so. I called home that afternoon to discuss this incident and her father assured me she would not attend future detentions. So that’s that. Unsurprisingly, her behaviour is not improving.
Parents, when you undermine us in front of your children, they walk around saying we’re rubbish teachers because they trust you. I become reluctant to contact you because I don’t want to be lambasted again – I will do it, because it’s my job, but I’ll dread it. I’ll be less effective that afternoon because I am human and I care. That’s what made me suitable for the job in the first place.
If you come and speak to me, I will ease your worries because I want to help. No teacher thinks they are perfect at their job and we are constantly trying to improve. I spend hours observing other teachers to learn from them. I read books to get new ideas, build websites of resources for students and find myself thinking about seating plans at bedtime.
However you feel about us and our work, nothing good can come from undermining us in front of your children. It gives them a get-out-of-jail-free card to shirk responsibility and means I have to work even harder to regain their respect (and that of the students around them) when I’m already working flat out. That time could be better spent on lesson planning, discussing my students’ learning, designing resources or working with you to help them.
Teachers actually like children. We want them to succeed, just as you do. Walking into that conversation with a shared goal is the only way to get results. We’re on the same side.
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