I began my teaching career in 1963, joining Elvet Thomas, the former Latin teacher from Humphry Davy Grammar School, when he became Headmaster of Trinity Fields Secondary School in Stone, Staffs. Well, teaching is perhaps too grand a word. It would be more
honest to say that I began to be paid for standing daily in front of loads of bored
adolescents, opening a well-thumbed science text book, and reading aloud. Then,
scribbling science words on the blackboard to be copied into science notebooks.
The early days didn't go well.
It took a student, a switched-off, aggravated student, to show me what I could and should be doing to engage my students.
The early days didn't go well.
It took a student, a switched-off, aggravated student, to show me what I could and should be doing to engage my students.
13- year-old Tiger always sat alone
at the back of my science lab. He did not sit politely through each lesson. Tiger
was always looking for trouble. 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 Tiger shouted, “S’boring, boring…….science is pissin’ scabby.”
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.
My science lessons on Mosquitos and other insects didn’t
interest Tiger. School didn’t interest him and science didn’t engage him.
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. 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?
In the first
week of October, 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 at the
Coop for the weekend food, I spotted the most beautiful spider sitting in her
intricate silky web in the black currant bush outside the steps leading up to
my flat. Surprised to see one so late in the year, I fetched a jar, popped the
spider inside, and took her upstairs.
I took the spider to school the
following Monday, put her in a large bell jar with a little soil, some greenery
and a forked tree branch, I set the new home on a small table, away from direct
light, at the back of my science lab.
The following day, I noticed a silk
egg sac dangling from near the center of the spider’s orb web. Sensing the
spider was hungry, I caught a small silverfish darting around the base of my
desk, unscrewed the top of the spider home, and dropped the small creature on
the web. Immediately, the spider came running towards her prey. I sat and
watched, fascinated by the spider’s eating habit, 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). Before I even started, the kids looked bored. I got
up quickly, pushing the spider home to one side.
As I walked towards the blackboard, Tiger
came through the door. He looked upset. He stared at the floor, mumbling he’d
been sent to Mr. Thomas’ office because, he said, “I was caught looking
through a dirty book, sir. ‘Fore school started.” “T’ain’t fair.”
“Who caught you?’ I asked. I wanted to
know more about what had happened. Tiger’s tone changed, and he glared across
the room at me, and shouted belligerently:
“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. Naked girls and stuff. Weren’t
my book, though, Mr. Paull. It’s Fatty’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 held his shoulders and calmed him down as best I could. Red faced, Tiger turned and went to his usual spot at the back of the lab. He looked sulky and angry.
Trying hard to ease the tense atmosphere, I read a few lines to the class about gases from
the science book, closed it, and picked up the chalk. As I was writing on the
blackboard, asking the kids to open up their journals and copy my notes, there
was a loud shout of “CHRIST!” from
the back of the room. Startled, every head turned 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 ‘elp
it. I can’t f*ing believe it. Look at THAT! The spider, f*+** great!!” “Fz+**
GREAT!!
I told Tiger emphatically to sit down, leave the
spider alone, and get out his science journal. I turned to the class, some
snow tanding near their seats, wanting to know what was going on. “Wassup wiv Tiger, Mr.Paull?” asked
Michael. “’e sick or summat?” “’E swore.
Used the F word, sir. Wot you goin’ to do?”
I tried to settle everyone down. “C’mon.
Everybody. Thank you, Michael. 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. “Let’s see. I wanna see,”
shouted David.
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. He pointed at the spider
in the jar. “Look at that,” he
shouted. “Bloody great!” The kids
stared at the jar and started 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’?” someone asked. One of the
girls, Diane, said the spider was so beautiful. “Can I look at it, sir? Please?” “Can I get a maggy glass from the drawer?” she asked.
I thought for a moment. Why not? “‘Course. Go on. Get the tray of maggies.”
Diane fetched the tray and chose a magnifying glass and held it close to the
jar, peering at the spider. “It’s great,
Can I draw it, sir? Please?” “Can I?” she asked.
“Of course.” I answered, “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. Sorry.” I replied, kicking myself. “Do
it, drawing, oh, go on, put it in your science journal.”
The idea caught on and a few more
girls 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 the jar, mesmerized.
Tiger stayed behind after class,
and, with a warm grin and an impish twinkle in his eye, 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!!” “Don wanna draw, Mr. Paull. Can’t
draw, you know. Scabby drawer.”
“Well,” I said,
“I think you can draw, but your pictures are a bit rude, you know.” “Really
rude.”
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 book back to your friend.”
The next day, there was Tiger
waiting for me, before school started, with that impish smile on his face. “Found
‘em, Mr. Paull, found ‘em.” Tiger had a jar in his satchel. “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?” 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.”
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?” “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 by the blackboard, looking sheepishly
at the front of the room, and 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 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.” “Some spiders chase after
stuff they want to eat.”
He’d really done his homework. I was
taken aback by how much Tiger knew, thinking: “Where did he learn that from,
then? All from his dad?” “Well, I know for sure it weren’t from me in science
lessons.” 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, and the eggs will ‘atch, next year, spring,
right, Mr. Paull?”
When he’d finished, everyone
clapped. This was Tiger’s finest hour. “Any
questions for Tiger?” I asked. The hands went up, and Tiger was asked a
million questions, some of which he could answer. What a wonderful lesson about
teaching and learning, I thought.
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. I made the
room look like, well, a science lab. Oh, and rearranged the stools so that the
kids could sit in groups.
When Tiger’s class came through the
door, the boys and girls 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, this stuff looks great. Can we touch it?”
Tiger showed me a picture he’d drawn
at home of the beautiful orb-web spider. “Look,
sir, Mr. Paull, see what I did. Can I glue it on the cover of my science
journal, Mr. Paull?”
“Hey,
Tiger, Tiger,” I said, “you did it. You drew your spider. You can
draw, see?” “And you can pretty good.”
Seeing Tiger operating like a
young scientist, was a first-time experience in my classroom.
I had learned, by sheer luck, what
motivated and engaged my most challenging pupil: observing and studying a small
spider.
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, Tiger. Thank you.
You helped shape my teaching.
From that day on, I thought as much,
if not more, about how to bring my pupils into my lessons, how to capture their
curiosity, how to engage and motivate them.
Sometimes it worked and sometimes it
didn’t. But it certainly made me more interested in my teaching.
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