Teaching difficult children
Text 1: A Letter from the Ragged School, by Agnes Pellow
An original letter written in a nineteenth-century voice; a period simulation, not an archival document.
My dear Lucy, You asked me in your last whether I repent of coming to the school in Mill Lane, and I will answer you honestly, for I have no one else to whom I may complain. The room was once a stable, and on a wet evening it remembers the fact. Forty children crowd upon the benches, some without shoes, many without breakfast, and nearly all without the least notion that a letter of the alphabet is a thing worth knowing. On my first night a boy of perhaps ten threw a slate at the lamp, and the whole school sat in darkness, laughing, while I groped for a match.
I will not pretend that the weeks since have been a triumph. They steal the chalk; they fight over the bread we give at nine o’clock; they leave the moment the rain stops, as if learning were only a shelter. I have gone home more evenings in tears than I care to confess, and my hands are raw from the cold water we use to wash the smallest ones before the lesson.
And yet, Lucy, last Thursday the boy with the slate stayed behind. He did not speak for some minutes. Then he took my pencil, very carefully, and wrote the word JAMES upon the wall in letters a foot high. It is his own name. He had never before seen it written. I ought to have scolded him for spoiling the wall, but I could not, and I have not had it washed off. If you wish to know whether I repent, go and look at that wall. I think it will keep me here another winter at least.
Text 2: Paid in Instalments, by Daniel Ashworth
An original contemporary article.
People ask me what it is like to teach in a pupil referral unit, and they usually ask with a face that has already decided the answer. They imagine chairs flying. Sometimes chairs do fly, though less often than you would think. More often the difficulty is quieter: a fourteen-year-old who will not take off his coat for six weeks, a girl who answers every question with ‘Don’t care, Miss,’ a boy who falls asleep because he spent the night minding his little brothers.
I will be honest about the cost. I have been sworn at in ways I did not know were grammatically possible. I have driven home and sat in the car outside my own flat for twenty minutes because I could not face going in. Paperwork grows like mould. Every small gain can be wiped out by one bad weekend at home, and on Monday you begin again, as if the term before had never happened.
So why do I stay? Not, I think, for the dramatic breakthroughs, because there are very few of those. I stay for the evidence that piles up slowly, almost too slowly to see. Last spring the boy in the coat hung it on a peg. Nobody else noticed. He did not say anything and neither did I, because saying something would have ruined it. But I went into the staff room afterwards and made everybody a cup of tea, which is the closest I come to throwing a party. The job does not pay you back every day. It pays you back in instalments, and you have to learn to recognise the currency.
‘Both writers show that teaching difficult children brings more rewards than frustrations.’
How far do you agree with this statement?
In your answer you should:
- discuss what we learn about the challenges each writer faces as a teacher
- explain how far you agree that the rewards outweigh the frustrations for both writers
- compare the ways the writers present their experiences of teaching.
Support your response with quotations from Text 1 and Text 2.