Thank you, Tiger!
My teacher wake-up call!
Long
ago, in September, 1963, I started my first teaching job. I was appointed as a
science teacher at Trinity Fields. The school, like all secondary modern
schools of the time, was for students aged between 11 and 15, all of whom had
failed the national 11+ examination, and thus seen to be undeserving of an
academic education.
The
day before school started, I was given my teaching responsibilities. I was Form
Teacher for 1C, which meant I took the register for attendance, school lunch and
dismissal at the end of the day. After taking my class to morning school
assembly, I was to teach the bottom classes in each of the four years (1C, 2C,
3C and 4C). The Head of the Science Department gave me the textbook, pointing
out the science topics I was to cover. “Not to worry,” he said. “When they take
the Leaving Test at 15, only mathematics, reading and writing are tested.”
The
following day I began my teaching career. 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.
My
science teaching pattern was straightforward. The kids came in, I welcomed
them, they took their seats, opened their science journals, and I read from the
science textbook. I then wrote the key science information on the board and the
pupils, using their best handwriting, copied my notes into their science
journals. Nothing to it, really.
What
follows is the description of one significant thing that happened during my
first, very challenging month with Class 3C.
Thirteen year-old Tiger always sat
alone at the back of the science lab. As he was always looking for trouble (and
he was really good at finding it), he was, to put it mildly, a pain in the ***. Tiger made my science lessons a joke. School
didn’t interest him and science didn’t engage him. His dad had told him that
he’d have a job with him as a bricklayer on the building sites when he was 15,
so why should he ‘do his best’ in school? What was the point of it all?
My science topic of the month, Mosquitos and Other Insects, certainly didn’t
interest Tiger. When I read from the science textbook, Tiger would roll his
eyes, run his fingers through his greasy hair, scratch his head, and interfere
with anyone sitting close to him. His science notebook was filled with dirty
pictures and rude scribbles.
Occasionally, on his really bad
days, Tiger shouted that he was fed up with school and very fed up with boring
science.
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, I suppose, the way I presented it. To be honest, the science didn’t
interest anyone in the class.
Most of the boys and girls did,
though, sit politely through each lesson. They spent their time scribbling and
drawing in their science writing books, often whispering to each other. The
boys, though, waited for Tiger to stir
the pot.
In the first week of October, thank
goodness, 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 jar, popped her
inside, and took her upstairs.
The spider reminded me of when I was
a kid when my dad and I found some garden spiders in the back of our house. I
kept two or three of them 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, though. Keeping her safe and well fed with flies
and moths made me feel good, especially when she deposited an egg sac for me on
her silky web.
I took the spider to school the
following Monday, put her in a large bell jar with a little soil, some
greenery, a branch, and a couple of insects. I set the new home on a small
table at the back of the science laboratory, out of direct sunshine.
The following day, I was thrilled
when I saw a silk egg sac dangling from near the center of the spider’s orb
web. Smiling, and thinking back to when I was a kid, I knew it was going to be
a dead good day. 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.
Here we go, I thought. The kids 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 had a real mean look on his face. When I asked him where he’d been,
Tiger stared at the floor, kicked a piece of scrap paper, and mumbled he’d been
sent to the Headmaster’s office because, he said: “I was caught looking
through a dirty book, sir. ‘fore school started.”
“Who caught you?’ I asked,
thinking ‘serve you right!’ I felt
nosey – I wanted to know more about what had happened. Tiger’s tone changed,
and he looked across the room at me, and shouted loudly:
“Mr. Jelbert, you know, Mr.
Paull, P.E. teacher, he looks at us lads in the yard through his ‘scope 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.’E shows me every day. It’s them pictures I try to draw in me science
book. 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.”
Looking sulky and angry, Tiger
turned and went to his usual spot at the back of the classroom.
The class was more restless than
usual. And now, I thought, I have to teach science.
Thank you, Tiger.
As I was writing on the blackboard,
asking the pupils to open up their journals and copy my notes, there was a loud
shout of “CHRIST! Friggin’ ‘ell!”
from the back of the room. Startled, I looked up. Everyone in class turned
their heads to see what was going on. There was Tiger, standing up and pointing
his index finger and thumb at the bell jar. The sulky look had gone. His eyes 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, that’s enough! Watch your
language!”
” Mr. Paull, Mr. Paull, I can’t
f*ing believe it. Look at THAT! The spider, f*+** great!!”
Tight-lipped, I told him to sit
down, leave the spider alone, and get out his science journal. He totally
ignored me. The spider eating her lunch, of course, was, for Tiger, far more
interesting than my science -reading lesson. I turned to the class, and 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, it’s no big deal.”
Tiger swearing loudly was much more captivating than my science-reading lesson
for the class. “Wassup wiv Tiger,
Mr.Paull?” asked Michael, suppressing
a giggle. “’e sick or summat?” The class was restless. I gave in. “Go on,
then, everyone, take a look. Go and see what’s in the jar – then get back to
your seats.”
They didn’t need telling twice.
Everyone rushed to join Tiger at the back of the room He pointed to the jar
which got everyone 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.
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? I nodded. Diane fetched a magnifying glass and
peered through it. “It’s great. Can I
draw it, sir? Please?”
“Of course.” I said. “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.
Do it, drawing, oh, go on, put it in your science journal.”
The idea caught on and a few more of
the class also wanted to draw the spider, sitting in her web, clasping the poor
silverfish. Defeated, I told everyone to close the science textbooks. “Draw the spider, go on, everyone! In your
journals.”
Tiger did not draw the spider in his
journal, though. He sat very still, ignoring me and everyone else, watching the
jar, mesmerized.
The science hour went by quickly,
every minute focused on looking at the spider and swapping stories 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, ain’t they?” He looked up at me. “Sorry
I swore, sir, sorry. Won’t do it again. ‘Onest!! Sorry I din’t do anyfing in me
science book. Can’t draw, anyway, you know. Scabby drawer.”
“Well,” I said, using a quiet voice, “I think you can draw, Tiger,
but the pictures you draw in your science book are rude, you know.” 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.”
That night, I couldn’t put the
spider episode out of my head.
The next day, Tiger was waiting for
me, outside the staff room, before school started. He had that impish smile on his face again. “Boss
let me off. Didn’t get whacked.” He took a jar out of his satchel. “Got some spidos. Found ‘em, Mr. Paull, found ‘em. There
were stacks of ‘em. Tiny ‘uns. Babs, I think, ain’t they? I got free or four. Like
yours. 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!” He looked up at me. You know what? You’re ok, Mr. Paull! Sorry,
sorry, I swore. Won’t bovver you agen, ‘onest.”
“Thank you, Tiger, thank you. I appreciate
that.” I said. “I’m sorry you swore, too.
Come with me. Let’s get some jars for those spiders.”
We went to the science lab and 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, now, school’s starting soon. Go to your form
room. Oh, and you can tell your class what you know about spiders, ok?”
When his class came later in the
morning for science, Tiger stood sheepishly at the front of the room, by the
blackboard, the four jars in front of him. He then told a very respectful,
quiet, surprised, and very attentive audience what he had learned about
spiders. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. 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 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 fella………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, for sure, from me in science lessons.” He’d really done his
homework. This was Tiger’s golden moment.
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. “Any questions for Tiger?” I
asked. The hands went up, and Tiger was asked a million questions, some of
which he could answer.
Almost everyone turned up at
lunchtime to see Tiger release the spiders.
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 bones and mounted
spiders and insects, microscopes, racks of test tubes, flasks, and other
scientific equipment. I set them out in
the science lab and then 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.” He turned to me. “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. “Hey,
you did it. You drew your spider. You can draw, see?” I said. Tiger smiled. “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 lesson by pointing to the specimens I’d found in the cupboard and then sharing
the spider snippet with everyone. They were enthralled.
I was very struck with the ensuing
class conversations and how the class listened when Tiger had something to say.
When talking and learning about spiders, the pupils were very animated,
commenting and asking good questions. “Tomorrow,
“ I said, at the end of the lesson (which flew by), “we’ll
do that again, ok? See if you have anything that links to our lesson topic, you
know, insects and stuff. You don’t have to stand at the front and share. You
can share your stuff with me privately, if that’s what you’d rather do. You can
draw and write about them in your science journals.”
“Great,”
said Diane, “Like bein’ a proper scientist. S’dead good!”
“Oh,” I said, “leave your journals .
Let me have a look at them tonight. You’ll get ‘em back in the morning.”
That night, I opened up their
journals, the page of the day filled with spider and insect pictures, facts and
questions. Even Tiger’s………….Hey, it dawned on me. Why was I such a twerp? I had learned, by
sheer luck, what motivated and engaged my most challenging, disruptive pupil:
observing and studying a small spider. It was, in fact, an incredible teachable
moment. I had learned the importance of arousing curiosity, of engagement…………I
had seen HOW students learn best.
It was THE first ‘Come on, John
Paull, be a REAL teacher. Be professional. Earn your pension.’ wake-up
call. Now I KNEW how to teach science!!
From Tiger, of all people.
Thank you, Tiger. Bless your cotton socks. The next day, and
for days after, kids brought in all sorts to show me and each other……………..and I
felt like a teacher.
Extract from:
Through
My Eyes – on becoming a teacher. John Paull 2012
