Category: The Staffroom

The Superteacher^TM is not just a really good teacher. He or she is something altogether unique and instantly identifiable. The Superteacher exhibits levels of energy normally observed in the substance-gobbling patrons of illicit raves who’ve downed four Red Bulls with an espresso for the road. Despite maintaining levels of activity more usually associated with career-fixated worker bees, Superteachers exude the healthy iridescence of the newly promoted (they probably are), the newly in love (maybe not), or the newly intoxicated. Typical behaviours of the Superteacher include: complaining loudly of hangovers from mid-week nights out (enjoyed while non-Superteachers are safely tucked away) as they stand fresh-faced by the photocopier at 7.30am; pointing out how well they relate to certain pupils who, lacking the drive and ambition you’d expect from the spawn of Satan himself, are probably the offspring of a lower-ranking, middle-management demon; and inducing soporific levels of calm obedience in children generally more happy exploring what they perceive to be the classroom’s untapped potential as an arena of gladiatorial combat. It is perhaps unsurprising to note that the relationship between teachers and Superteachers is one typified by peculiar inconsistencies. While face-to-face interaction fluctuates between warm camaraderie and reverent diffidence, the Superteacher may often be the focus of uncharitable and generally unsubstantiated staffroom speculation. Interestingly, this speculation subsides each and every time the Superteacher in question enters.

The fact that the Superteacherhas emerged at all says a lot about how teaching is changing. It is nowadays possible to quantify a teacher’s skill according to a four point scale: we’re all either “unsatisfactory”, “satisfactory”, “good” or “outstanding”. Incidentally, whole schools are ranked using the same criteria. These incrementations of quality are directly related to the effective utilisation of a raft of teaching and learning strategies which, when mastered, constitute “outstanding practice”. Thus a teacher who delivers a lesson which differentiates content to ensure it is accessible to all learners, which sets a clear objective and then effectively tests the extent to which learning has been achieved and which keeps all pupils actively engaged throughout may well be judged as “good” rather than “outstanding”. Why not top marks? Well, for a start, the lesson has apparently failed to incorporate “kinaesthetic” learning (i.e. some sort of physical movement) and has as such failed to take into consideration the optimum learning style of probably 70% of the pupils in the class. Moreover, the lesson’s assessment of learning has seemingly made no reference to established criteria. Eh? Well, as learning and the assessment of learning are now expected to form a continuous loop which is understood and driven by pupils themselves, it is necessary to equip these pupils with the language necessary to conceptualise and vocalise this understanding. That means devising specific criteria for each grade or level using “pupil-friendly” (i.e. simple) language. If a teacher praises a pupil’s work without using this terminology, that teacher is making it difficult for pupils to understand – and thus ultimately control – their own learning. Not good, and, therefore, in no way “outstanding”.

In an environment with so many complexities, potential pitfalls and – lest we forget them – extremely unruly youngsters, it’s not surprising that most of us just about hang on and manage to deliver a combination of “good” or “satisfactory” lessons, pulling the odd “outstanding” out of the bag as occasion demands. Anything more is superhuman, and this is where the Superteachers come into the picture.

However, their reign of terror is reaching an end. Whisper it only, but we’re on the Superteachers’ case. Non-Superteachers the country over are quietly supplying unbelievable, awe-inspiring teaching with none of the tiresome self-promotion and staggeringly insincere self-deprecation of their superhumen brethren. Wielding kryptonite white-board markers, the non-Supers are the John McEnroes of pedagogy: the Superteachers may be James Bond, but we’re John McClane; and (reaching as always to football as the only really effective metaphor for life) if their flair, talent and consistency makes them Brazil … well, we’re probably England. And on our day, no-one can touch us …

The summer holidays, now a distant memory, have already taken on the patina of old, worn film in my head. The sepia-tinted, yellow haziness lends the memories a nostalgic air (though surely nostalgia normally takes more than a fortnight to kick in?) Now we’re back to weekends as islands of slightly bewildered calm in an ocean of action, reaction, planning, evaluation, communication and all the things that make a teacher’s week what it is.

After a honeymoon period of two and a half days, what teachers euphemistically term ‘behaviour’ has returned with a vengeance. For the three newly qualified teachers (a term universally shortened to ‘NQT’) in my department, it came as a shock. And I found myself in a situation I’d privately (and embarrassingly) been looking forward to for some time: finally NOT being the least experienced in the department, and being approached for advice rather than desperately seeking it. Having awaited this moment with some anticipation, and having myself so often sought the advice I was about to dole out, I was disappointed that the stuff I heard myself saying was all deeply pedestrian. Anyone with any teaching experience will know the drill: “Clearly state your expectations!” “Consistently apply sanctions!” “Chunk up lesson content so the kids don’t have time to misbehave!” And the old chestnut: “Catch them being good!” All effective strategies of course. But at the moment of truth, embattled NQTs will often discover to their horror that these supposedly devastating pedagogic weapons are just plastic toy replicas of the real thing. As the experienced teacher down the corridor blasts any ‘behaviour’ firmly into submission with a dazzling array of measures designed to shock and awe, the NQT rolls out the big guns only to find that though they produce vaguely realistic gun sounds, they only actually fire elastic bands. And there’ll probably be plenty of those flying around already. Shock and awe? More like duck and cover.

I think that our advice to new teachers should focus less on what to do, and more on how to do it. The most effective managers of behaviour at our school do exactly the same things as the NQTs. They just do them with a level of confidence, conviction and belief that is simply undeniable, and that is what makes the difference. Unfortunately, as a piece of advice: “You need more confidence, conviction and belief!” is not particularly helpful. But emphasising that there is no silver bullet, and that inexperienced teachers are doing exactly the right things, and that these things will work if the teacher believes in and cares about the children … well, let’s face it: that’s pretty useless too.

So in the end, the advice I gave was no better than the advice I received: keep trying; it’s going to be OK. It’s not often that the modern, emotionally literate person gets to deliver a platitude of quite such inexcusable meaninglessness, but as I turned and felt the heat of the NQTs’ baleful stares gently drying the back of my shirt (let it be noted that I’m no behaviour hot-shot myself), I didn’t feel that bad. Even in the most supportive department with the best colleagues in the world, you’re on your own as an NQT. Time to sink or swim.