the shyest teacher in the west

I’m fairly shy in real life [how ironic is it that just as I finished writing that sentence I flew out of the coffee shop, tipping my table (and coffee) over, and ran through a busy shopping mall screaming “Seán” repeatedly at the top of my voice?] Okay, well, apart from the obvious exceptions that prove the rule I am quite the introvert.

As a teacher it doesn’t pay to be too retiring however, and I manage to fight my shyness quite effectively in the class room. In many ways I am a completely different person standing in front of thirty teenagers than I am in real life. This, of course, means that my pupils often find it odd that I struggle to maintain eye contact let alone conversation once they leave school.

A few minutes ago Helena, a pupil of mine from a few years back, saw me in the distance and came running (literally) to take me for a coffee as I seemed “to have fallen off the edge of the universe” since I stopped teaching her class.
Off the edge of the universe - well, I suppose that’s one way to describe where I’m teaching now.

Helena was, in many ways, such a stereotypical emo when I taught her. She had massive parent issues on a daily basis, had become completely disillusioned with a society she wanted to reject before it rejected her, and somehow managed to turn a rather generic, bland, school uniform into a theatrical dark gothic creation. Even outside of school she was never to be seen in anything that wasn’t black.
But it wasn’t just an image thing for her; she really saw the world in various shades of purple and black.

She loved art and would always come to my class to show me what she was drawing. She was always (rightfully) proud of whatever it was and after thirty seconds of false modesty she would beam as I told her how good I thought they were. They were always dark and haunting and always absolutely beautiful. Intensely mystical worlds filled with so much detail and emotion. Epic fantasies showing an imagination I could only - well - imagine. It frustrated me, as an english teacher, that she was unable to express these worlds in words and paragraphs but I loved the fact that she shared them with me projected onto paper - and I thought they were amazing. She would explain all the various elements in that breathless excited way she always spoke - as if she had just seen something amazing and had to tell someone about it.

Every morning in form class she would plop herself in front of me, flip open her sketch pad, grin broadly and say, “Well? What d’ya think?”

And here she was, talking non stop in that excited, breathless, stream about the old times. Reminding me of the characters in our class; bringing up embarrassing incidents I had long eradicated from my memory; asking - no, interrogating - me about why I hadn’t made more effort to become a permanent fixture in that school. She was no longer the girl dressed in long black coats and platform boots with attachments, wearing far too much eye makeup. She was now a young adult; still with a rather distinctive style; but not a hint of black. In her eagerness to ask questions about what I was doing with my life now, she was forgetting to wait for answers and seemed completely oblivious to my lack of conversation. A couple of times I tried to join in - but my social ineptitude kicked in and I was reduced to smiles and nods as she told me all about art college and how she was experimenting with photography now. She told me that I’d always been her favourite teacher, qualifying it by saying that I was the only one not up their own ass. I, she informed me, cared. She said that as a teacher I tried to encourage her, not change her.

But I wasn’t her teacher any more. The different circumstances threw me somewhat. I no longer had to establish authority in the situation. I didn’t have to control the environment around me; didn’t need to fill any vacuum with constructive learning. I didn’t have to present myself as a figure deserving of pedagogical respect... and so I was completely unsure of what type of figure to present -- That is until she pulled out her sketch pad, flipped it open, grinning, and said, “Well? What d’ya think?”

when am I not the best me I can be?

Sorry I disappeared for a while there. Based on previous experience you'd be forgiven for thinking it was due to incompetence or attention seeking - but not this time, I promise. "He's hit the wrong button again" I imagine you sighed when you arrived only to be confronted with a password protected notice. But no. For once it was deliberate. Let me explain.

One day I was teaching merrily away in class when someone quoted a blog entry I had written a week or so before. It turns out that some of my pupils had stumbled upon my blog. Now to be honest it's not a big deal - these are a nice bunch of kids who, while they may enjoy the odd giggle at my expense, have their heads and hearts in the right place. But at the same time I did stop and think. I'm not actually that keen on the idea of pupils in general reading my daily (or not so daily) frustrations with the education system, perusements on modern life and the persuit of happiness. I don't mind people knwing my personal opinions but I'm not too sure how I'd feel if my photocopier incident or the parent-in-the-supermarket thing became the subject of a piece of GCSE creative writing.

So I thought I'd lose ToaSNT for a while; safe in the knowledge that young people under 23 have a ridiculously short attention span and will have forgotten all about it by now. I guess we'll find out how valid this theory is soon enough

Anyway, I have to admit that I was actually a little put out. Not that they'd stumbled on the blog - but that they'd had to stumble upon it. How hard is it to find? Despite the fact that at 6'5" I am hardly the most elusive figure on the planet it appears that, in some ways, I am virtually invisible. They found me, not through my own blog, but through a link from someone else's. I'm trying not to take offense at the fact that Google clearly feels other people do a better job of me than I do. Apparently I am less relevent to me than I had been led to believe previously.

So I did a spot of research. You'll find me okay if you search for a "foot vasecomy" - despite the fact that I know not what they are. If you're looking to find a picture of Sammy Winward rolling about in a bed of daffodils sans clothing you'll possibly happen upon ToaSNT - despite the fact that the photo is nowhere to be seen in these pages. But if you actually go searching for me - well, you'll find a lot of stuff, but you'll be looking a long time before you actually see anything that pertains to me.

Now, as it turns out, I am enough of a narcissist to be troubled by this, but not enough of a narcissist to pay for google to make it better. I want the world to love me, to bow before my greatness - I'm just not sure whether I can be bothered to put in the effort to become great. Is it wrong to want to be admired for my existence rather than my achievement? It is? Oh.

Well, then, my loyal bunch of procrastinators (and those of you searching in vain for nudity and daffodils) I'll leave you with an expression of my gratitude - by reading my words you make me real - but if you happen to spot any of my pupils hanging around - you haven't seen me, ok?

my fifth years have precisely THIS much respect for me

and I don't actually know what it means

out of ten

I love marking exam papers – I really do. Sure it takes up far too much of my life at this time of year, and sleepless nights really start to hurt when you get to my age,

But

If I were to give a single reason right now, if you were to ask why I am teacher, if you pressure me and hold my arm tight behind my back right this instant, if you beg me to give you just one single explanation… I would say that the reason I teach is to be able to read some of the incredible things pupils write when they don’t know the answer to an exam question.

The best examples are the ones where the pupil has a genuine guess. Ironically when a someone is trying to be funny in an exam they rarely are. The genuine shots in the dark are the comedy gems that make me a rich man.

As a history teacher I used to love reading all the amazing reasons why the Germans lost the first world war. I also loved it when they got their bands mixed up and explained that Kasabian started the war by being shot. Ah, the best war comedy since Dad’s Army.

This year I am an English teacher. An English teacher with a range of names it seems. On the front of the papers I was called everything from Mr Cambelle, to Camble, to Cambpell, to Cambell, to Cabell, to Miss Scott (I have to have a quiet word with that particular pupil)

In the year eight writing task they were required to write a letter to a friend relating their first year at the school to a friend. I always think tasks like this are risky – you’re leaving yourself open to a world of criticism if you ask a pupil to express opinions about the school. Some of them don’t even mean half the scorn they spew.

Still, it also leads to much amusement. Most of which I can’t relate here without leaving myself at the mercy of libel laws. I can share a few of the comments pupils made about me in their essays:

I like all my teachers, specially Mr Cambelle. He is funny sometimes but you need to get him in a funny mood.

My English teacher is Mr Campbell. He’s funny but sometimes cross. He’s REALLY tall.

Mr Campbell is way bigger than me.

Some of the rest were less complimentary – did they not think I’d be reading them. It’s really given me an insight into how the average twelve year old sees me. I had no idea I had such mood swings, I had no idea I was seen as some sort of giant and I had no idea that I was being funny – I gotta work on that one.

Open letter to the pupil who ran out of my class.

I’m sorry – but not for what you thought I should be apologising for.

Yes, I was ignoring your constant attention seeking – but not out of malice or even indifference. The fact that I don’t constantly acknowledge you is not a sign that I don’t care. I do know what has happened to you, I do know that you have lost everything. I feel pain when I imagine what you must be going through. Thoughts run through my mind and questions pass unanswered in a constant flow through my consciousness.

Don’t think I’m heartless when I change the subject and stop you talking about what you want to talk about. I know you need to let your feelings out and express your loss – possessions, family, sense of security. I know you need to talk about those you loved and who loved you. I know that your distractions, irritating behaviour, belligerence, and defiance are your way of making some form of much needed human contact. Forgive me when I respond occasionally rather than constantly. Don’t assume this means I only care occasionally rather than constantly.

If I could find a way to solve all your problems I would. If I could find a way to ease even part of your burden I would. All I can do is be there for you and try to give some semblance of normal life in an otherwise abnormal existence.

Look at the thirty young people around you. I know you must feel none of them have the slightest idea what you’re going through – and you may be right. But don’t misjudge them. When they try to stop you being disruptive or express frustration at your outbursts it is not because they don’t care – each and every one of them is full of concern for you.

Like you, each one of them is extremely valuable. They need my help as well. But I am not putting their needs ahead of your’s – I am putting them along with your’s. True it seem I am quicker to help them out, but that is because I am able to fix their vocabulary problems quicker than your life challenges. I wish with all my heart I could mend your spirit by telling you how to spell ‘establishment’ but we both know I am helpless in that regard.

So when you ran out of the room and I waited a few seconds before following you – when you looked up in tears and saw my eyes were dry – it wasn’t because I felt nothing. It was because my tears won’t give you what you need. No tears can do that. And that is why I am sorry. But more than that I’m sorry that I can’t say these things to you in person – that I can express them to complete strangers but not to the person who needs to hear it the most.

it's tough being this famous

I know how it feels to be the Beckhams. It's a frustrating world out there but sometimes you just have to grin and bare it. People say that they chose fame and so have to live with the consequences - constant paparazzi attention, stalkers, snide comments.

Okay, so maybe I'm not on the same scale as David and Victoria or Angelina and Brad - maybe not even on the same planet - but I am familiar with the basic concept. Today I was out for a walk (from my car to Starbucks and back) in Coleraine. I'm lucky in that I live in a different town from the one I work; this means I rarely bump into my pupils outside school hours. When I do you can see them spotting you and slyly nudging their mothers and pointing you out. I, of course, maintain an air of nonchalance as if I haven't noticed them. As they get closer they'll say "hello sir" and smile sweetly. At this point I will allow a smile of recognition cross my face and reply with a suitable greeting as I pass by. Occasionally I'll spot pupils in the distance who will whisper among their friends when they see me and shout some random comment across the road.

Sometimes it is a little irritating but nowhere near as irritating as when they don't recognise me. Today as I was walking through town I passed a pupil with her mother checking out Dorothy Perkins' window. I prepared my dignified nonchalance - but nothing. I walked a little slower to give her more time to recognise me - but nothing. I was in turmoil - I checked my reflection in the mirror in case I had changed appearance or gone invisible.

Which is worse? Being an anonymous face or being jeered at from across the street. I don't rightly know but I am sure of one thing - when I hear someone say that Tom Cruise and Katie whatever-her name-is are not entitled to a private life because they chose to become famous, I may just explain about living in the same town as your pupils.

snow is falling, all around us, children fighting everywhere

then the snow started and that made it worse that is not fair well look for yourself below to see how class it looks.

http://aspergers-syndrome-student.blogspot.com/


Yes, indeed the snow started. Unfortunately not quite enough to close down the school. In fact looking out now I can't see any evidence it happened at all. Just as well I got a couple of photos. This is probably all we'll get this year - and with the whole global warming thing we may soon have to ask the eskimos for some. My pupil wrote a blog all about Jade and her Eskimos - check it out.

the consummate professional

Teaching is a unique profession. Having said that, like other professions, teachers have to behave in a certain way even when they're not in school. We are expected to set an example to those around us. Take me for example - when I do something wrong my first concern is that no one who knows I'm a teacher witnessed it. Well, maybe not my first concern but it's up there.

Take a situation, for example, where a teacher is out shopping for groceries. There I was in Coleraine ASDA looking at some computer game reviews in their magazine section when I spotted a couple of my pupils entering with their parents. Conscious of the fact that it would never do for me to be seen to be promoting video games (when my job requires that I promote reading, reading and more reading) I immediately dropped the magazine and stealthily made my way to the fiction shelf of the book section. The consummate professional. The professional who quickly grabs the nearest hardback when he hears the whisper behind him,"Mum, that's my teacher, Mr C!"

The professional who tries a quick turn and flash of his professional smile only for the book he was holding to wrench itself free of his grasp and enlist a dozen or so followers from other shelves on its slow motion journey to the ground. The professional who, in trying to catch at least some of the falling books trips on his own feet and goes sprawling into the pile on the floor.

I try a little one sided smile as if this happens all the time

"He's the special needs teacher."

"Figures."

Always the dignified professional.