Youth Of Today
Entry by: Doug
19th February 2016
Youth of Today
The gates of the school are invisible from the road. They are of dingy metal, and sit back behind a curve in the street, so that students and teachers seem to disappear as they pass through. They must walk through a car park with a single shrubbery island to reach the doors of reception. It is half empty at this early hour, but filling up. The parking space nearest the entrance is reserved. Children must pass through a narrow wooden door in the brickwork to enter the building, and at peak times there is a dangerous crush. Adults may breeze through the bright glass reception area. All doors are beeped open by security cards so that children cannot leave until three and adults cannot enter unnoticed. Through these doors lies a small foyer from which sprawls a maze of corridors. The corridors of the school have parquet flooring, with deep brown pools of resin gathering between the too large gaps. Loose bricks sometimes rattle underfoot as the well trodden path is followed every morning. The walls are dingy white, but the darkness of the floor overwhelms them, and the yellow lights are needed even on the brightest days. Staircases run up from the end of some hallways and double back on themselves to the second floor. In one such staircase, the black handrail has become detached from the wall slightly. This leads to the English corridor. English B is second on the left.
* * *
The room is square with unloved displays on tattered boards and a single computer in the corner. There are two whiteboards on the wall. This is the half an hour of peace with which each day begins. Classrooms are large when empty, and empty chairs are more silent than empty space. The carpets are still clean, and at this time of day, the quiet is profound.
‘Gumawnin sir!’ A child bursts into the room, 8.05 sharp, the same time every day.
‘How are you today?’
‘U’m bad sir. Go’ science today. And Maf. Sir, I hate Maf, you know. Bad day today.’ The child has maths every day. His deep voice is a potent combination of London glottal stops and thick Polish grammar. His slang is effortless.
‘This stupid teacher, sir, ah actually think he crazy.’
‘Don’t talk about colleagues please.’
‘U’m bare stressed, sir.’ He has college applications to make. His father wants him to study maths or engineering, but the boy is a terrible mathematician. He cooks, this boy, very well I believe.
‘Did you speak to them about catering college?’
‘Ma mum say maybe. Can I do cookin an Maf both of dem, sir?’
‘I think that might be difficult. Besides, you hate maths.’
‘This teacher crazy, sir, U’m telling you. An if I do Maf I can get good jobs, sir.’
‘Don’t talk about colleagues.’
‘U’m cookin today, sir. Piza.’ He uses a long z, softer than the harsher correct sound. He will struggle through his subjects today, but his cookery lesson keeps him going. He has a smile in his eye as he promises to bring his food along later.
‘U’m goin’ now, sir’, he says, going.
* * *
Lessons begin, and the rest of the day is noisy. Younger children tend to be the more excitable. Often the best way to deal with poor behaviour is to ignore it, or at least to refuse to entertain it. Two children are seated right at the front, and are squabbling. They are clearly enjoying themselves, so much so that it cannot be the lesson. Hands fly, legs kick out. The table is shoved, slightly but audibly. There is no disobedience or mischief here. This is pure play. In the classroom, however, it is considered vile, and must be stopped. This is a challenge, after all. To authority, to learning, to the foundations of our civilisation! No need to panic, however. Experience will out. A quick ‘quiet now’ to them, and we continue. The silence that follows is a smug pat on the back, and the children are swept away on a tide of well-organised education under the severity of a well-practised stare. Nothing testifies to their engagement like their silence. Just listen to their learning.
‘SIR!’ The smaller of the two children, high pitched and shrieky. ‘Sir, my nose! He got me!’
‘Don’t be daft.’ It could not have happened unseen. We have eyes in the backs of our heads. ‘Enough now, you’re fine. To work, please’.
The silence follows once more. Ah, the peace of a purposeful classroom. Such a calm, controlled, disciplined environment – when handled correctly that is. In the right hands, the silence created is thick, can be inhaled, beating to the rhythm of the scratching of pen on paper. Observe! The force of personality communicated in a couple of quiet words! The triumph of one will over many!
‘SIR!’ Louder this time. There is no mischief in his expression. His cheeks are flushed, there is panic in his blue eyes, and he is pointing to his nose. It is bleeding. His face shrivels. He is a popped balloon. Tears are coming.
‘Oh no. Go, quick. The medical room, quickly.’ The child hustles out as tissues are thrown from all directions. Now it really is quiet.
‘Did you…’ A pause for breath. ‘Did you hit him?’ The companion nods sullenly, eyes wide with sorrow and face drawn.
‘On purpose?’
‘No, I just…’ The boy flails his arm wildly, in a fashion that could serve no possible purpose other than to strike the nose of another. He is clearly very, very sorry. For himself, mainly, but for the act, and the trouble that will follow also. The misery in his expression breaks the heart, such is the contrast to the joy it showed not five minutes ago. My word, but they know how to have fun, these children. Even in an English lesson. But his misery is not enough. For some reason, out of reach to anyone at the time, he must be punished.
‘Right. I think you’d better stay at the end, don’t you? Back to work everyone.’ This prompts an eruption of noise in the classroom as the boy’s chin sinks to his chest.
* * *
The young people are the topic of conversations with adults throughout the day. Stories and complaints are passed over coffee steam and the warm smell of a photocopier. Inevitably, the focus is on the lack of discipline and of respect, the spiteful and the irredeemably rude. They exist, these children, no doubt. Their nefarious deeds can dominate the mind, and it is deeply personal, always. The only tool of any use in this job is one’s personality, and it is painful when that tool is blunt and ineffective.
But comments about children are made without feeling. No-one can bring themselves to despise even one of the young. Their menaces are endearing. Their insults are sharp and insightful and, quite honestly, usually hilarious. They are so young that even the worst of them have not yet learned how to be bad people. Their innate goodness remains, and still dominates any corruption they are trying to cultivate. Try as they might, none can completely conceal that they were born good, and remain so. So the complaints that are passed around are just a valve, and more often than not are a private code of entertainment. And unspoken is the knowledge that sometimes those who simply cannot settle and learn, sometimes, very briefly, they settle and learn. And then. Well.
* * *
The day ends with the eldest. Older children have a greater sense of their responsibilities, a commitment to their learning. They have exams to prepare for, and are beginning to experience the maturity which equips them to work well in a classroom. They are engaged in revision for their examinations in the summer, and their serious approach reflects the importance of the work they are doing. Therefore, the room is as quiet as it has been all day. A purposeful hush descends.
‘Mr English Teacher!’
‘You know my name.’
‘Sir, Mr English Teacher sir, I have a question for you!’
‘Is it relevant to the work’.
‘Yes. Sir, I’m your best student, innit? This is A* work sir, from your best student. Innit that’s me, sir?’
This seems to be his question. The work, as we both know, is dreadful. He is beaming, so pleased to have produced his half a page of nonsense. He wants to share it with the world. Other students, however, are restless now. They are less naïve than our friend at the front, and do not appreciate the disruption. This they communicate eloquently.
‘Shut up, wasteman.’
‘This moist guy.’
‘You talk shit every lesson, you cuboid.’
This last one gives pause.
‘I’m sorry, did you just call him a cuboid?’
‘His head, sir, look at the shape.’
Swearing cannot be tolerated, of course, and these insults, physical ones especially, need to be stepped on early. The worst thing to do in this situation, therefore, is to look. The child in question looks very happy indeed. He is pointing at his chin, wearing an enormous gap-toothed grin, and is shaking, bobble-head like, an astonishingly cuboid head. It takes the minds of the young to notice things like this, but it is undeniable. The very worst thing to do now is to laugh.
‘My head is bare square though, innit sir.’
The gates of the school are invisible from the road. They are of dingy metal, and sit back behind a curve in the street, so that students and teachers seem to disappear as they pass through. They must walk through a car park with a single shrubbery island to reach the doors of reception. It is half empty at this early hour, but filling up. The parking space nearest the entrance is reserved. Children must pass through a narrow wooden door in the brickwork to enter the building, and at peak times there is a dangerous crush. Adults may breeze through the bright glass reception area. All doors are beeped open by security cards so that children cannot leave until three and adults cannot enter unnoticed. Through these doors lies a small foyer from which sprawls a maze of corridors. The corridors of the school have parquet flooring, with deep brown pools of resin gathering between the too large gaps. Loose bricks sometimes rattle underfoot as the well trodden path is followed every morning. The walls are dingy white, but the darkness of the floor overwhelms them, and the yellow lights are needed even on the brightest days. Staircases run up from the end of some hallways and double back on themselves to the second floor. In one such staircase, the black handrail has become detached from the wall slightly. This leads to the English corridor. English B is second on the left.
* * *
The room is square with unloved displays on tattered boards and a single computer in the corner. There are two whiteboards on the wall. This is the half an hour of peace with which each day begins. Classrooms are large when empty, and empty chairs are more silent than empty space. The carpets are still clean, and at this time of day, the quiet is profound.
‘Gumawnin sir!’ A child bursts into the room, 8.05 sharp, the same time every day.
‘How are you today?’
‘U’m bad sir. Go’ science today. And Maf. Sir, I hate Maf, you know. Bad day today.’ The child has maths every day. His deep voice is a potent combination of London glottal stops and thick Polish grammar. His slang is effortless.
‘This stupid teacher, sir, ah actually think he crazy.’
‘Don’t talk about colleagues please.’
‘U’m bare stressed, sir.’ He has college applications to make. His father wants him to study maths or engineering, but the boy is a terrible mathematician. He cooks, this boy, very well I believe.
‘Did you speak to them about catering college?’
‘Ma mum say maybe. Can I do cookin an Maf both of dem, sir?’
‘I think that might be difficult. Besides, you hate maths.’
‘This teacher crazy, sir, U’m telling you. An if I do Maf I can get good jobs, sir.’
‘Don’t talk about colleagues.’
‘U’m cookin today, sir. Piza.’ He uses a long z, softer than the harsher correct sound. He will struggle through his subjects today, but his cookery lesson keeps him going. He has a smile in his eye as he promises to bring his food along later.
‘U’m goin’ now, sir’, he says, going.
* * *
Lessons begin, and the rest of the day is noisy. Younger children tend to be the more excitable. Often the best way to deal with poor behaviour is to ignore it, or at least to refuse to entertain it. Two children are seated right at the front, and are squabbling. They are clearly enjoying themselves, so much so that it cannot be the lesson. Hands fly, legs kick out. The table is shoved, slightly but audibly. There is no disobedience or mischief here. This is pure play. In the classroom, however, it is considered vile, and must be stopped. This is a challenge, after all. To authority, to learning, to the foundations of our civilisation! No need to panic, however. Experience will out. A quick ‘quiet now’ to them, and we continue. The silence that follows is a smug pat on the back, and the children are swept away on a tide of well-organised education under the severity of a well-practised stare. Nothing testifies to their engagement like their silence. Just listen to their learning.
‘SIR!’ The smaller of the two children, high pitched and shrieky. ‘Sir, my nose! He got me!’
‘Don’t be daft.’ It could not have happened unseen. We have eyes in the backs of our heads. ‘Enough now, you’re fine. To work, please’.
The silence follows once more. Ah, the peace of a purposeful classroom. Such a calm, controlled, disciplined environment – when handled correctly that is. In the right hands, the silence created is thick, can be inhaled, beating to the rhythm of the scratching of pen on paper. Observe! The force of personality communicated in a couple of quiet words! The triumph of one will over many!
‘SIR!’ Louder this time. There is no mischief in his expression. His cheeks are flushed, there is panic in his blue eyes, and he is pointing to his nose. It is bleeding. His face shrivels. He is a popped balloon. Tears are coming.
‘Oh no. Go, quick. The medical room, quickly.’ The child hustles out as tissues are thrown from all directions. Now it really is quiet.
‘Did you…’ A pause for breath. ‘Did you hit him?’ The companion nods sullenly, eyes wide with sorrow and face drawn.
‘On purpose?’
‘No, I just…’ The boy flails his arm wildly, in a fashion that could serve no possible purpose other than to strike the nose of another. He is clearly very, very sorry. For himself, mainly, but for the act, and the trouble that will follow also. The misery in his expression breaks the heart, such is the contrast to the joy it showed not five minutes ago. My word, but they know how to have fun, these children. Even in an English lesson. But his misery is not enough. For some reason, out of reach to anyone at the time, he must be punished.
‘Right. I think you’d better stay at the end, don’t you? Back to work everyone.’ This prompts an eruption of noise in the classroom as the boy’s chin sinks to his chest.
* * *
The young people are the topic of conversations with adults throughout the day. Stories and complaints are passed over coffee steam and the warm smell of a photocopier. Inevitably, the focus is on the lack of discipline and of respect, the spiteful and the irredeemably rude. They exist, these children, no doubt. Their nefarious deeds can dominate the mind, and it is deeply personal, always. The only tool of any use in this job is one’s personality, and it is painful when that tool is blunt and ineffective.
But comments about children are made without feeling. No-one can bring themselves to despise even one of the young. Their menaces are endearing. Their insults are sharp and insightful and, quite honestly, usually hilarious. They are so young that even the worst of them have not yet learned how to be bad people. Their innate goodness remains, and still dominates any corruption they are trying to cultivate. Try as they might, none can completely conceal that they were born good, and remain so. So the complaints that are passed around are just a valve, and more often than not are a private code of entertainment. And unspoken is the knowledge that sometimes those who simply cannot settle and learn, sometimes, very briefly, they settle and learn. And then. Well.
* * *
The day ends with the eldest. Older children have a greater sense of their responsibilities, a commitment to their learning. They have exams to prepare for, and are beginning to experience the maturity which equips them to work well in a classroom. They are engaged in revision for their examinations in the summer, and their serious approach reflects the importance of the work they are doing. Therefore, the room is as quiet as it has been all day. A purposeful hush descends.
‘Mr English Teacher!’
‘You know my name.’
‘Sir, Mr English Teacher sir, I have a question for you!’
‘Is it relevant to the work’.
‘Yes. Sir, I’m your best student, innit? This is A* work sir, from your best student. Innit that’s me, sir?’
This seems to be his question. The work, as we both know, is dreadful. He is beaming, so pleased to have produced his half a page of nonsense. He wants to share it with the world. Other students, however, are restless now. They are less naïve than our friend at the front, and do not appreciate the disruption. This they communicate eloquently.
‘Shut up, wasteman.’
‘This moist guy.’
‘You talk shit every lesson, you cuboid.’
This last one gives pause.
‘I’m sorry, did you just call him a cuboid?’
‘His head, sir, look at the shape.’
Swearing cannot be tolerated, of course, and these insults, physical ones especially, need to be stepped on early. The worst thing to do in this situation, therefore, is to look. The child in question looks very happy indeed. He is pointing at his chin, wearing an enormous gap-toothed grin, and is shaking, bobble-head like, an astonishingly cuboid head. It takes the minds of the young to notice things like this, but it is undeniable. The very worst thing to do now is to laugh.
‘My head is bare square though, innit sir.’
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