Story Twelve - Tiger Reynolds

In 1963 I started teaching

at Trinity Fields Secondary Modern School.

A student called Tiger Reynolds quickly gave me an important lesson on how to teach.

         Tiger

13-year-old Tiger always sat alone at the back of the science lab. Sometimes he smiled benignly at the thirty-two other boys and girls, six of whom had recently emigrated from India and could speak but two words of English (‘lav, sir?’). Sometimes he looked for trouble. Sometimes, to prevent himself from falling asleep, he’d run his fingers through his greasy hair, scratch his head, and interfere with anyone sitting close to him working diligently through the science textbook. Occasionally, Tiger shouted that he was fed up with school and very fed up with boring science.

My science lessons on Mosquitos and other insects certainly didn’t interest Tiger. When I asked him why, he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm, ‘I ‘ate skeetos, sir. They’re stupid.”

His dad told him that he’d have a job with him as a bricklayer on the building sites when he was fifteen, so why should he ‘do his best’ in school? What was the point of it all? Nothing I did in my science lessons made any connection to Tiger’s life experience or appealed to his sense of curiosity. The science I read from the textbook was irrelevant to his world – especially the way I presented it

My science lessons didn’t involve my non-English speaking Indian pupils either. They did, though, sit politely. They spent their time scribbling and drawing in their science writing books, often whispering to each other. They always looked poorly dressed, out-of-sorts, tired and hungry.  I wondered what was going through their heads.

In the first week of October, my luck changed. The miracle of miracles happened - a big change for the better came over my teaching. Tiger, of all people, and a small garden spider, were my divine inspirations.

Walking back from shopping for the weekend food, I spotted the most beautiful orb-web spider sitting in her intricate silky web in the black currant bush outside the steps leading to my flat. Surprised to see one so late in the year, I fetched a small jar, popped her inside, and took her upstairs.

She reminded me of when my dad and I had found some garden spiders in the back of our house on Gwavas Estate. I kept them safe in a jar tucked under the bed – quickly learning that you don’t keep spiders together as they eat each other. Looking after the survivor was really fascinating. Keeping her safe and well fed with flies and moths made me feel good, especially when she deposited an egg sac on her silky web.

I took the spider to school the following Monday, put her in a large bell jar with a little soil, greenery and a branch, and set the new home on a small table at the back of the science laboratory.

I never showed the spider to any of my science classes. After all, why should I? We were studying the quirks of the 6-legged mosquito from the textbook, not an 8-legged garden spider. Well, to be precise, we were reading about the mosquito that spread malaria in some far-off country, and, then perfecting our handwriting and spelling skills.

The following day, I noticed a silk egg sac was dangling from near the center of the spider’s orb web. Sensing the spider was hungry, I found a small silverfish darting around the base of my desk, unscrewed the top of the spider home, and put the small creature on the web. Immediately, the spider came running towards her prey. I sat and watched, fascinated by the process, until Tiger’s class came through the door, breaking the atmosphere by noisily throwing their satchels under their stools.

They were ready for yet another particularly dull science lesson (all chalk and talk, then reading and writing, and no ‘hands-on’ science investigation). They looked bored before I even started. I got up quickly, pushing the spider home to one side. 

Then Tiger came through the door, late. He looked upset. When I asked him where he’d been, he stared at the floor and mumbled he’d been sent to Mr. Thomas’ office because:

“I was caught looking through a dirty book, sir. ‘fore school started.”

“Who caught you?’ I asked. I wanted to know more about what had happened. His tone changed, and he looked across the room at me, and shouted loudly: “Mr. Jelbert, you know, Mr. Paull, he looks at us lads through his telescope from the class upstairs. He saw me. Looking at pictures. You know. Dirty pictures. Weren’t my book, though, Mr. Paull. It’s Fatty White’s. Now Mr. Thomas has it. Fatty’ll murder me. I’ve got to go back to the boss’s office after school. And I’ll get caned. I’ll get six, I know I will.”

I calmed him down as best I could. Tiger turned and went to his usual spot at the back of the classroom. He looked sulky and angry. I knew I was in for a difficult time.

As I was writing on the blackboard, asking the boys and girls to open up their journals and copy my notes, there was a loud shout of “CHRIST!” from the back of the room. Startled, I looked up. Everyone in class turned their heads to see what was going on. Tiger was standing up and pointing his index finger and thumb at the bell jar. His eyes now were wide open. “F*#‘ell! Look! Mr. Paull, Mr.Paull, there’s a spider ‘ere! It’s killing a creepy-crawly! It’s f*^** killing it! Look!!!”

 I raised my hand. ”Tiger, watch your language!”

”Mr. Paull, Mr. Paull,can’t help it,” he shouted. “I can’t f*ing believe it. Look at THAT! The spider, f*+** great!!”

I told him firmly to sit down, leave the spider alone, and get out his science journal. I turned to the class, some standing near their seats, wanting to know what was going on.

“Wassup wiv Tiger, Mr.Paull?” asked Michael. “’e sick or summat?”

 I tried to settle everyone down. “C’mon. Everybody! Never mind Tiger. He’s just having a moment. Get on with your writing. C’mon everybody, no big deal.”

The spider eating her lunch, of course, was, for Tiger, far more interesting than my science-reading lesson. Tiger swearing loudly was much more captivating than my science-reading lesson for the class. I gave in. “Go on, then, everyone, take a look. Go and see what’s in the jar – then get back to your seats.”

The class didn’t need telling twice. Everyone rushed to join Tiger at the back of the room, chattering excitedly about the spider. Excited chatter was something I had never heard in one of my science lessons.

“Ain’t never seen a spider like that. What is it? Wos it doin’?” asked one pupil. Dianne said the spider was so beautiful. “Can I look closer at it, sir? Please? Can I get a maggy glass from the drawer?” she asked. I thought for a moment. Why not? Sounds like a dead good idea. I nodded. Dianne fetched a magnifying glass and peered through it. “It’s great, it’s such a beaut. Can I draw it, sir? Please?”

“Of course. Use your pencil, not your pen. Oh, don’t, though, draw it in your science book. That’s for science. Here, there’s a piece of scrap-paper on my desk you can use” Dianne looked at me, and asked, drily, “Aren’t spiders science, Mr. Paull?”

“’Course, Dianne.” I said.  “Sorry. Do it, drawing, oh, go on, it’s science so put it in your science journal.”

The idea caught on and a few more girls, then some of the boys, also wanted to draw the spider, sitting in her web, clasping the poor silverfish.

Tiger did not draw the spider in his journal. He sat very still, ignoring me and everyone else, watching what was happening in the jar, mesmerized.

Not all the pupils liked the spider. One or two said they killed spiders when they saw them at home, reminding me of the conflicting long-ago conversations about small creatures in Mr. Jones’s class. When I was a kid. Children, I remembered, generally liked and protected what they liked and ignored or killed what they didn’t like.

We spent the rest of the lesson drawing and talking about spiders.

Tiger stayed behind after class, and, with a warm grin and an impish twinkle in his eye, asked me where I’d found the spider. When I told him, he said, “The spider’s great, sir, ain’t it great? You like ‘em? Spiders? They’re brill!” He looked up at me. “Sorry I swore, sir, sorry. Won’t do it again. ‘Onest!! Can’t draw, you know. Scabby drawer.”

“Well,” I said, “I think you can draw. Think you can draw pretty good, really. But your pictures are rude, you know. No more of them, ok?” Tiger smiled and then said he was going to get some spiders of his own as soon as he got home. “Good, but now get off to your next class. Don’t be late,” I said. “Oh, and don’t forget to see Mr. Thomas. And be sure to give the dirty book back to your friend.”

The next day, there was Tiger waiting for me, before school started, with that impish smile on his face. “Din’t get whacked, sir, din’t. Gev back the book. Found spiders .Found ‘em, Mr. Paull, found ‘em.” Tiger took a jar from his satchel. “Look, sir, Mr. Paull. Look at these, then.There were stacks of ‘em. Tiny ‘uns. Babs, I think, ain’t they? I got free or four. Can I keep them in the lab, Mr. Paull? Go on! Can I? Next to yours? Can’t keep em home. Mum’ll kill ‘em.” Then, he added: “Found out about ‘em, too, Mr. Paull. My dad knows what they are – they’re Garden Spiders, and they eat flies and stuff. You know what? You’re ok, Mr. Paull! Sorry, sorry, I swore.”

 “Thank you, Tiger, thank you. I appreciate that.” I said. “I’m sorry you swore, too. No more swearing, promise?” Tiger looked at his spiders and said, “Sure, Mr. Paull. No more. Promise.” I gave him four jars, telling him that spiders can’t live together without paralyzing and eating each other. “Make a home for each one, ok? Hey. Right away. Quick, school’s starting soon. OH, and you can tell your class what you know about spiders, ok?”

When his class came for science, Tiger stood sheepishly at the front of the room, by the blackboard, in front of the four jars. Tiger told a very respectful, quiet, surprised, and very attentive audience what he had learned about spiders. I was fascinated to see how Tiger caught everyone’s attention with his excited, twitchy, body movements.

Tiger had, at last, discovered something in my science period that made him feel that wonderful, inside –your-head wishing rock glow when the brain is alive and alert. His classmates felt it, too.

“Spiders, “ he said, “ are dead good. Look at this one. It’s a beaut.” He held up one of the jars. “Guess what I found out………….spiders suck their food after they’ve crushed and made it watery…….ain’t only the gals that make silk……..the fella spiders make silk, too, but only when they’re young………..then they stop and go looking for a spider girl-friend. They mate on the web………….sometimes the gals kill and eat the fellas. They don’t spin silk, you know……………….some spiders chase after stuff they want to eat.”

I was taken aback by how much he knew, thinking: “Where did he learn that from, then? All from his dad? It weren’t from me in science lessons.”

He’d really done his homework.

As I listened and watched Tiger’s nervous twitches as he spoke to his classmates he reminded me of the long ago sharing time on Wednesday afternoons with Mr. Jones. This was Tiger’s amber moment.

It also reminded me of Mr. Kitson’s advice at college, “When you’re teaching, always plan for the unexpected. Why? ‘Cos it always happens. You mark my words.”

Tiger told his audience that, if anyone wanted to watch, he was going to release the spiders and their eggs in the school garden at lunchtime.

“They’re goin’ to die soon, y’know, but the eggs will ‘atch, next year, spring, right, Mr. Paull?”

“Right, Tiger, right on. Good for you.”

When he’d finished, everyone clapped. “Any questions for Tiger?” I asked. The hands went up, and Tiger was asked a million questions, some of which he could answer, some he couldn’t. Neither could I.

Almost everyone turned up at lunchtime to see Tiger release the spiders.

Seeing Tiger operating like a young scientist, was, for me, a first-time experience. I had learned, by sheer luck, what motivated and engaged my most challenging pupil: observing and studying a small spider.

That night, I checked my spider’s identity in a spider book, learning that it was Meta segmentata, a common garden species related to the garden spider. Its courtship routine was different, though. The male, I read, drives off other male suitors, but doesn’t advance towards the female until an insect is caught on the female’s web. Both spiders then move towards the struggling insect.

The male’s front legs are larger than the female and he uses them to push the female away from the insect. He then gift-wraps the prey. As the female tucks into her dinner, the male wraps silk around her legs and then mates with her.

The following day, I went to school early in the morning, an hour or so before the official start of the day, and went to the science storeroom. I gathered a box full of microscopes, racks of test tubes, flasks, and other scientific equipment.  I set them out in the science lab. And rearranged the stools.

When Tiger’s class came through the door, the boys and girls noticed what I had done and looked at my displays of science equipment.

“Hey,” said one, “look! look at all this science stuff……..and hey, look, we ain’t sitting alone. He’s put us in groups.”

“Mornin’, sir,” said Dianne, “this stuff looks great. Can we touch it?”

Tiger showed me a picture he’d drawn at home of the beautiful orb-web spider. “Hey, you did it. You drew your spider. You can draw, see?” I said.  “Can I glue it on the cover of my science journal, Mr. Paull?”

 “OK,” I said, “ but first let me rip out those inappropriate doodles, ok?”

I started off the session by sharing my spider snippets with everyone. They were enthralled.

“Tomorrow, “ I said,  “we’ll do that again, ok? See if you have anything that links to our lesson topic. You don’t have to stand at the front and share. You can share your artifacts with me privately, if that’s what you’d rather do.” “Great,” said Diane, “Like bein’ a proper scientist. S’dead good! Wos a artif…..wotch you call it?” Smiling, I wrote the word, artifacts, on the board, explaining what the word meant.

I was very struck with the ensuing class conversations and how everyone listened when Tiger had something to say. When talking and learning about the spider, my pupils were very animated, commenting and asking Tiger really good questions.

Noticing the time quickly disappearing, I told the class it was time to open their books and begin the science lesson. Immediately the atmosphere changed. When I opened the science textbook and read aloud everything one needed to know about insects, the class went quiet and withdrawn, and didn’t ask me a single question.

I could almost feel the disconnect between the two. Without the class’s engagement, my science lesson was going nowhere beyond formal handwriting exercises, similar to the ones I experienced as a pupil when in Mr. Miller’s and Mr. Hitchens’ classrooms. Sensing I was heading for class trouble, I took the bull by the horns. I clapped my hands and said, “Close your books. Put ‘em away. OK. Spiders. What do you want to know – what do you already know – about spiders? Who wants to start?”

The hands flew up. The atmosphere changed.

I knew now what I had to do at the start of each lesson.

I knew now that, with the class’s engagement, I could, in part, reproduce those learnable moments that happened on those special far-off Wednesdays in Mr. Jones’s classroom when the kids shared what was in their pockets. 

It was, in fact, an incredible teachable moment. 

It was THE first ‘Come on, John Paull, be a REAL teacher. Be professional. Earn your pension.’ wake-up call.              Thank you,