I'd be cynical about this, but I tire of it

If I have a flaw - well, one that stands out above the rest, it would be that I am infected, and filled with a cynicism that shames me. I wish I didn’t have it – I wish I could at least control it better – but it’s always about there somewhere.

I have a good friend who hasn’t a cynical bone in his body. He is devoid of cynicism and when we are together it makes me all the more aware of the skepticism, the suspicious and sneering smog that floats around me. I mock his naivety and make knowing smirks when he refuses to see the bad in someone. I mock him but I envy him – I envy him so much.

Let me tell you a little story about something that happened a year or so ago. I was on route to Church one Sunday morning. My dad was driving my grandparents and I, as he did most weeks. And, as most weeks, he was listening to the Priests as he drove. (For those who’ve never heard of them, The Priests are a classical musical group made up of three Catholic priests all from Northern Ireland who have been singing together since they boarded as students at school in Garron Tower off the north coast)
It’s a short journey and quite soon into it the Priests began to sing ‘How Great Thou Art’ That’s when it began.

It started with a quiet humming, then gradually my grand father began to softly sing along; then my father; then my grand mother. As I listened I was surprised to hear four voices – I was singing too; picking out the bass line. There we were, three generations of Campbells belting out ‘How Great Thou Art’ in some form of four part harmony. It was a beautiful moment, a spontaneous moment, a hallmark moment, if you like. And then I ruined it.

As we approached the Church I thought of how people there would react to the spectacle. It was all okay when the only witnesses were the cows in the fields we passed out on the open road – but at the Church there would be actual people – people who knew me. They would stop and stare; they would think we were odd; they would point and laugh and commit the image to memory so they could bring it up in conversation with their family over the Sunday roast. From now on, any time they saw me they’d remember me as one of the motorcar choristers. That could not happen! I stopped abruptly. And immediately I wished I hadn’t. Quite honestly I wished people had seen me – I wished they had known me as one of the Motorcar Campbell Choristers – because I know it would have been with the affection that they always held us; not matter how strange we sometimes were.

I have just arrived home from taking my Dad to a Priests concert at Glenarm Castle (not too far from where they met at Garron Tower) They didn’t sing ‘How Great Thou Art’ but it was a wonderful experience to see them live, and it brought that Sunday Morning drive back to mind.
My grandfather passed away a month ago. There will never be a chance to relive that moment. I have committed it to my memory, not that I bring it up over the Sunday roast – but when I think of it I am reminded of how amazingly fortunate I am with the family in which I was placed. My grandfather was immensely wise, immensely gracious – he quietly lived a life filled with understanding, faith and love. If I learn anything from him it should be that a cynical attitude, while more and more prevalent, is not compulsory. It’s not even the default setting. If I am to make the most of this beautiful creation I need to start trying to see it through untainted eyes, and see the best in everything around me. My good friend and my family seem to have known that secret all along.

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art.

things you should know about me

For the most part people who stumble upon this blog don’t really know me that well – so I thought I’d put together a quick cheat sheet of things you really should know.

1. I am not a special needs teacher. At least not at the moment. When I set out to begin this blog a couple of years ago I was working within the special education department of a mainstream state school. When I tried to think of a title it sort of made sense as my job had been gradually taking over my life. Now I’m not working there any more but I am too lazy to change the name of the blog.
What I’ve come to realise is that the title is a little misleading in at least one other way. Basically because I call my blog the Thoughts of a Special Needs Teacher people assume it will be all about special needs education or education in general. It’s not. Education slips in because I’m a teacher (sometimes) and the state of the state of the education system matters to me. It’s on my mind if you like. It’s on my mind therefore I vent.
The current disastrous state of Newcastle United Football Club also occupies a sizeable chunk of my mind so you’ll find they appear on occasion. My family are rarely far from my mind but since my sister started reading this occasionally I have to be careful what I say about them.
No, this blog is mainly just a means of clearing my head. When I was a school kid I used to record the detritus clogging my mental pores in the form of notes and doodles on my file paper. I’d write them down and then I’d crumple the paper up and throw it in the trash – now I publish them on the web.

2. I really am as bumbling as I make myself out to be here. I am in no way adapting real life to make it appear worse than it is as some sort of attempt to appear blind-puppy-style endearing. I do not relate my experiences either to endear nor to elicit pity. I do it because sometimes I can’t believe how incredibly stupid I’ve been and need to tell people about it. The pity thing is an added bonus.
When I appear naïve it is because I was naïve. When I appear clumsy it is because I was clumsy. I am but a camera (Evelyn Waugh would be proud) capturing events as they happened for you’re amusement. A camera in the old sense, before photoshop was invented obviously. Rest assured, if ever I do something suave, sophisticated or generally smooth you will read all about it.

"I'll expect you'll be becoming a schoolmaster, sir. That's what most of the gentlemen does, sir, that gets sent down for indecent behaviour."
Evelyn Waugh - Decline and Fall (1928)

3. I have several guilty secrets. Don’t tell anyone but occasionally I watch rubbish television. In fact sometimes I enjoy it more than the good stuff. Currently I am addicted to the Big Bang Theory. I love everything about it from the Bare Naked Ladies theme to the lame stairwell conversations to the cringe-worthy stereotyping. The girl who plays Penny (Kaley Cuoco I think – I hope that’s spelt right) bears an incredible resemblance to a girl who helps me out sometimes when I’m filming weddings. Similar in appearance and personality. She has the same sunny disposition, the same assumed ditziness, the same patient but frustrated look when dealing with someone who’s overly complicated ramblings and general bumbling make no sense to her whatsoever.
Sometimes when I watch it I find myself diagnosing various syndromes in the characters – I’m not sure that’s healthy. I think it maybe suggests I miss the Learning Support Unit.
Anyway, I’m not going to attempt to argue the merits of the show – it’s frivolous, occasionally sketchily written, stereotype affirming, generalises wildly on a regular basis – and I can’t get enough of it.

4. I hate/detest/abhor/loathe those emails that ask you to take “10 minutes” out of your time to answer “a few” (dozen) questions about yourself. Can someone tell me what the point is? Are you really going to try and persuade me that you can get to know someone better through these things? Really? How does it benefit anyone to know what colour my toothbrush is, or when I last cried, or what music is on my ipod/ cd player / 8 track? It doesn’t I tell you! Well, I suppose they can now choose between buying me a gift of a CD, a toothbrush or some tissues.
Not only are they a waste of time but they revel in that fact. I saw one recently which asked the victim to record the time they started the questionnaire and the time they finished. It then asked them what else they could have spent that time doing. Cruel.
Worse still, they have pervaded the blogosphere. They take the form of an award that you pass on to blogs you admire. Once “tagged” you answer a few questions about yourself in your blog and pass it on, pyramid scheme style, to seven other victims. “Award or virus?” I hear you ask. “Or is he maybe just a little bitter that he’s never been tagged?” No! I’m not! Although you would have imagined that someone out there would have me somewhere in their top seven blogs.
These are not to be confused with the profiles to be found in some blogs. These are a different beast entirely. They tend to be relevant and specific to that blog. They don’t require you to pass anything on to anywhere. They are generally humorous and interesting as opposed to inane and irrelevant.
So, no tagging. Agreed?

And that will do for now. I think you know all you need to about me. And all without the use of a single questionnaire. Although if it is bothering you – I prefer cold vacations to hot ones, I have two pets, I wanted to be a train driver / pig farmer / psychologist when I was growing up, I’ve never been toilet papering, I have blue eyes, I prefer croutons to bacon bits and my toothbrush is purple.

Father I place into Your hands...

It’s been a pretty horrible few weeks for me. At times I’ve wondered whether it would be easier to give up and let someone else take over.

I remember once when I was a kid I had a Home Economics assignment. I wasn’t as good at cooking back then as I like to believe I am now and I had worried myself into a frenzy over it. I had undertaken to create some kind of apple sponge swiss roll style thingy. I had no idea how I was going to do it, I had no idea what I needed to do it and I had no idea why I was planning to make something like that when I couldn’t stand cooked apple. The one thing I did know was that I had messed up.
So at 4am on the morning of the assessment I finally broke. In less than six hours I was going to be plating up for the teacher. I hadn’t looked up any recipes; I hadn’t even checked whether I had the necessary raw materials.
I got up and made my way down the dark corridor to my parents’ room. I knocked on the door, went in and, with tears running down my face, shook my mother awake.
“I need help.”
I half expected her to be angry that I had left everything to the last minute. I fully expected her to be livid that I was waking her up at a ridiculous time. I would have understood if she told me it was all my own fault and that I had to learn the lesson before washing her hands of it and going back to sleep.
Of course she didn’t. She got out of bed and started pulling things out of cupboards in the kitchen. She showed me how to stew the apples, she gave me a masterclass in weights and measures, and we even had time to do a practice run for the sponge making.
The weight she lifted off my shoulders that morning made the journey to school the most pain free it had ever been. And it is probably that incident I return to when I try to trace my love of cooking odd things. I’m not a parent so I cannot begin to surmise why she did it or what was going through her mind at the time – but it left a lasting impression on me.

So when I was weighing up my problems while standing in the freezing cold rain on a half deserted football terrace watching Coleraine losing one nil to Ballymena United I thought again of going to my mother for help. When Coleraine had their main goal scorer sent off it appeared to symbolise the uphill struggle I seemed to be facing. I wanted to talk to my mother about what I should do about my lack of employment, about the toothache that was keeping me up at night. I wanted to talk to her about the huge gap she had left when she passed away on the previous Monday after fighting illness so bravely for so long. But she is no longer there for me to shake awake.

As I stood in the rain, half watching the match I suddenly realised what she would tell me. In fact it was as clear in my mind as if she were standing in front of me. It was real because it was what she told me time and time again when she was alive. I wouldn’t dare suggest that my problems all drifted away at that moment but I was able to be a bit more objective. And a few minutes later Coleraine equalised. Not that I’m suggesting the events were related but it did bring a smile to my face and I spent the rest of the match jumping up and down and urging my team forward with all my breath. My voice has not recovered yet.

But I bet you want to know about that apple sponge swiss roll thingy. Well I went into the class full of confidence. I threw it together with panache and a smile on my face. The teacher was impressed and I got a decent mark. But it was never going to be as good as the one my mother made six hours earlier.