Category: The Form Room

I’m terrified of the moment when my form slips from their current halo-wearing status. To this end I’ve been instigating a Friday afternoon ritual where we sit in a circle and do some kind of activity vaguely aiming to instil a sense pride and responsibility for what we have achieved so far as 7B. Last week was bullying. Yesterday, the more prickly issue of reacting appropriately to the achievements of others and ourselves.

In pairs they were given a set of possible sentences they would (honestly) like to say to a friend whose test result was better than theirs. Each pair then screwed up their chosen statement, threw it into the middle of the circle and grabbed another from a different pair. The statements ranged from ‘Well done – you deserved it’ to ‘It’s not fair, I’m better than you!’, and – luckily – 7B were generally honest and most pairs chose statements closer to the latter than the former. We repeated the process imaging that this time WE had scored highest and thinking about what we would say to the unlucky runner-up. With a similar range of statements available, every pair but one admitted that they would console the unhappy loser with a sensitive: ‘WHO THE MAN!!!’

As well as the amusing experience of 22 eleven-year-olds reveled in the unveiling of their collective inner b******d, the more serious goal of this enterprise was to acknowledge how difficult it is to deal with disappointment, especially when that disappointment can be directly correlated to another’s success. To my mind, the only way to prevent the inevitable baiting of high-achievers in a form is to accept that none of us are immune to feeling resentment towards others, or to the urge to crow about our achievements from the roof-tops. The problem is, kids are too often told that they shouldn’t have these feelings; that the feelings themselves are wrong.

As I tried to emphasise to my form, the stuff they feel is OK. In fact, it’s good insofar that it demonstrates ambition and determination. But the trick is to manage their emotions in a way which shows respect for others and respect for themselves. Having all seen each other’s secret thoughts about achievement, I hope they found this easier to understand. Time to get back to polishing those halos …

Either my year seven group have entered the school in a rich vein of form, or they’re genuinely lovely young people, as they have so far yet to set a foot wrong. Of course, it’s only been a total of five school days, so we’re hardly out of the woods, but so far 7B are ahead of the curve in terms of their behaviour and their achievement in lessons. Two young gentlemen, under gentle but steady pressure from their form tutor, even took part in auditions for the school musical. Watching them valiantly duke it out with the older, more experienced pupils in the hall, I realised how proud of my form I have already become. I have taken to vainly bathing in the reflected glory of their successes (both pupils will receive small but essential roles) in a manner familiar to competitive and proud parents the world over. And it’s a new and heady experience: seeing your own enthusiasm, beliefs or convictions filtered through the brains of 22 youngsters and presented back to you in the form of merits, excellent pieces of work, or even the surprisingly convincing Nuu Yawk accents of two year sevens auditioning for Bugsey Malone. There’s nothing better in my professional experience to date. But I suppose there’s another side to all of this. I’m clearly willing to attribute every success my tutor group achieves directly to my own input. Fine. But will I be as willing to accept responsibility when one of my form wrecks the learning of others during a lesson? Or viciously bullies another pupil? Or violently assaults a member of staff? Ultimately, our pastoral duties can only extend over the school day, and the millions of individual experiences our tutees are party to when they leave and before they arrive will always outweigh our tutor time chats and activities. So, for the time being I can smile and quietly enjoy the fact that 7B are ahead of the pack. But I sure as hell better be there for them when things start going wrong. And can I – or any of us – really guarantee that for the children in our care?

Timing a tube strike with the first day of the new school year was a master stroke of inconvenience-causing, mayhem-inducing industrial action here in London. It certainly added an edge as key members of staff languished on the wrong side of the Thames while new year sevens arrived, wide-eyed and quivering. I have the honour of sheparding one form of these new recruits through their first year, and they turned up in a flurry of nervously clutched planners, impeccably polished shoes and ridiculously oversized blazers. One boy’s parents were particularly keen to ensure all school equipment was thoroughly future-proof: in obvious anticipation of a sudden, hulk-like expansion in their son’s physical dimensions, they had bought him a uniform that would have been a bit roomy even for me. Now, received wisdom with year sevens is that one must ‘go in hard’, i.e. not matter how scared, nervous, polite and down-right tearful they appear, here shall be no quarter. Presenting oneself as an approachable, easy-going form tutor on day one means an endless stream of pointless questions on day two (year sevens are well known for their tendency to surrender all shreds of common sense at any given opportunity), and an endless stream of complaints from colleagues on day three as the new batch tests the limits of the school behaviour policy. So, I went in hard, and am now desperately praying that it’s worked: only time will tell. By the end of the week, my form were still looking sharp, and there’s only been positive feedback so far, so here’s hoping …