#NATECLA Day 2, vol 2: Democracy & Britishness 

My apologies. It’s been a little over a week and I’ve been sitting on this post that whole time. But bear with me – I hope it’s worth the wait.

It is probably unnecessary to report back on the NATECLA AGM, which, I have to admit, I have only ever attended once before, and that because the lovely people at the Ruth Hayman Trust were going to say thank you for raising money for them (which I strongly urge you to do as well,  because as far as I know they are the only charity that do the kind of work they do to support migrants in the UK). I have to also admit that I can’t decide if I find the whole business of proposing, seconding and voting on motions to be either charmingly democratic, or just a teensy bit archaic. Sorry: I think I am a bit of a dictator at heart, and if I did apply to be co-chair of NATECLA, I worry that I would probably turn out to be a bit like Chancellor Palpatine. Mild gags aside, what really struck me was how much influence NATECLA has gathered in recent years against a backdrop not only of funding cuts to ESOL but also of a worryingly convincing anti-immigrant discourse both politically and socially.

However, business duly done and it was time for what can only be called the graveyard shift at a conference. Almost inevitably things tend to thin out at this time of day as people head home a little early, and all the exhibitors have packed away and gone. I’ll admit that I’ve done this before, but for this one I stayed, because the final workshop I attended was on a theme which intrigues me and I was interested to see what was being said. The session was on “brokering Britain” and the notion of ESOL teachers as “mediators of Britishness.”

It was less of an input, and more of a discussion, starting with an introduction to a book on the theme that Melanie Cooke and Rob Peutrell (with others) were working on, and to which we were contributing, sort of , some of the final chapter. Certainly, the discussion is one which has appeared in this blog before: the responsibility and function of an ESOL teacher as more than just a language teacher, but also as brokers of the dominant social and cultural context in which English occurs in the UK. It’s interesting because it’s something I’ve always been uncomfortable with as a direct “duty”, for example under the Prevent programme, and yet despite this, something which I’ve engaged with in the sense of encouraging active citizenship. This distinction was one which was raised at the beginning of the session: between getting students to engage with democratic processes and to be pro-active in their communities, social activism, tempered with the discomfort of ESOL teaching as a tool of the state, of teaching language as a “social proxy”, perpetrators of the notion that language is a measure of ones loyalty: you cannot be British if you can’t speak English. In that sense at least we are both gatekeepers and prison wardens: “I judge that your language is not yet to standard, therefore you are not ready for the appropriate exam.” This, coupled with the unrealistic learning expectations of students, which I wrote about recently, can taint the relationship between student and teacher.

In our group the discussion hinged around the nature of the texts we bring into class. As a frequent user of authentic texts, it certainly got me thinking about the political edge which we bring to the ESOL class perhaps subconsciously: my sources of choice are newspapers of the left and the centre left (Guardian & Independent), and occasionally to the better quality end of the right wing broadsheets (the Telegraph) or (nominally) politically neutral sources like the BBC. Certainly the choices I make are texts which reflect my own political stance, which was another question we discussed.

One of these discussions that has stuck with me was around the extent to which we admit our own political views in class. I am usually fairly open about my politics in class, albeit prefaced with a disclaimer, along the lines of: “You are welcome to disagree, but…”. That said, I don’t start with my stance or allow it to dominate, at least not consciously, but students are often curious and will ask. An honest question deserves, I think, an honest answer: I’m not a politician garnering votes. And anyway, I’m open, even didactic in my opinion of less contentious issues than Brexit or General Elections. I once based the text analysis in a reading lesson on the way that the writer referred to the participants in a car accident in a way that dehumanises people in favour of the car (“a pedestrian was hit by a VW Golf” rather than the less deft but more accurate “a person was hit by another person in a car.”) The choice of text and theme was linked very closely to an aspect of personal politics, as it were, as well as being an interesting exercise in textual referencing and critical reading. Certainly I would hope that it would encourage the students to start to read about a more personal context more critically, in the way that migration to the UK is reported.

There was more to the discussion than that, of course – the notion of being an outsider to the whole citizenship question, for example, not just as a student but also from the perspective of a teacher who was born elsewhere. I wonder as well if we are brokers of not only Britishness, but also of belonging – agents not of integration and conformity, but rather brokers of our communities. I know that I sometimes feel “outside” the communities that perhaps my own students work and live within: I have yet to work in the city I live in, for example, which grants a sense of distance from the towns and communities I work in – I rarely, if ever, see my learners outside of the working week, and my knowledge of the social geography of their communities is deeply limited. I build on this distance, with comments like “Platform 8 [where I catch my train home]” is my usual answer to “What is your favourite place in the town?”

Needless to say, of course, the notion of the dreaded British Values was raised, but this really cemented that distinction between the view of citizenship as an officially sanctioned status, rather than the more liberal stance – while few, if any, would criticise the Values, per se, there is always that question of whether they are specifically “British” and whether they supersede any other sets of values you may care to mention, not to mention the key question, really, of whether we are just teachers of a language, or whether we are much more than that. I personally would say that we are much more than just language teachers, but that the Britishness we “teach” should rarely be explicit, if at all. Active, progressive, social interactivity and engagement, yes, but preaching whitewashed, nostalgic and officially sanctioned Britishness? No.




“I want to ride my bicycle/I want to ride my bike” sang Freddie Mercury in 1978. I’m not sure how genuine his sentiment was, but I tell you now after four weeks of being off the bike, it’s a fairly accurate approximation of how I feel. 

Let’s be clear, I’m not a skinny whippet clocking up 100 miles each weekend, and neither am I prone to throwing a mountain bike around the trails. But I do like to ride my bike: I like the ease of travel, the happy speed/efficiency ratio, the schadenfreude of passing people in big expensive cars stuck in traffic, the satisfaction of climbing a really big hill, the joy of freewheeling down the other side, the contemplative meditative state you achieve, and the sweet open freedom of movement. 

You’ll excuse me for gushing. But I’ve come to enjoy riding, and now, owing to an accident a few weeks ago, I can’t. This is only temporary, thank goodness, but even so I quickly started to come up with a long list of the things I couldn’t do while my arm was in a sling. I couldn’t support myself on that side very well, I couldn’t open jars or get those plastic seals off the top of milk cartons, I couldn’t sleep in the way I liked, I couldn’t hold a book while lying down, I couldn’t pick up my children when they fell over, or wrestle (you need a small boy in your life to understand this), or give them big-two-arm hugs. There were wider consequences: family routines had to change to allow for the extra time it takes to get to work without a bike, I couldn’t go swimming with them, I couldn’t drive on family trips, I was limited in how I could help around the house. As a result of not riding, and the longer journeys, I have come to resent work quite a lot for being nearly 90 minutes away from home, resenting meetings that over-ran by five minutes, resenting stupid relocation of one building to a site on the other side of town to the railway station (a 10-15 minute walk, after all, is an easy two minute ride) . Then there is the loss of  freedom of movement, not the pretend freedom you get from car ownership (free to pollute, free to pay car tax, free to pay for maintenance, and free to sit wasting your life, fuming and frustrated in traffic jams) but actual freedom where it takes you the same amount of time regardless of traffic, regardless of delays, and with a journey, even at rush hour that is always exhilarating and usually fun.

It’s healing now, of course, and now only some of those things remain true. And none of them are the big profound things that might have faced me with a damaged spine, or a lost limb, for which I consider myself very lucky. I’m still alive, as well, which is a big bonus. And all this time I’ve been able to clothe myself (just), wash, eat, cook, clean, read, write, work (only two days off), and in fact do almost all the other things that make me happy. Even though the hugs have been one-armed but they have still been hugs. So it’s not been bad, but the sense of “can’t” has been consistent, and still frustrating. 

So it was I found myself wondering about what you do go through if something properly serious happens: if you know you are never going to be able to do all those things, how long does it take to get past that frustration? How quickly does wistful wishing become outright despair, and how much support do you need to cope with it?

I also found myself thinking of my students: out of all learners, the migrant learning the language of their host country is almost universally defined by what they cannot do. Sure, we mean well, but the very nature of what ESOL teachers do is defined by what or learners can’t. And this sense of can’t must surely be more profound than my shoulder-related niggle: not just in class but in day to day life. Students come to class because they can’t help their children, can’t talk to officials, can’t cope at the hospital, and even if they can find a job, they can’t find a job commensurate with their skills and qualifications.  ESOL students are so often defined by what they can’t

I know ESOL teachers celebrate our students, their abilities and achievements: of course we do, and we must. To offset the deficit frustrations of not being able to use a language, we learn what our students can do, what skills they have: it’s what makes the job interesting, after all. They’re not helpless babies to be pitied and petted, but adults with knowledge and experiences, often a world away from our own comfortable existences: knowledge and experiences which we celebrate, share and engage with. 

Which brings me back to the far less important matter of my arm, and enjoying and celebrating the many things which I can do. So I’d anyone wants me, I may be reading a book, writing a blog post, drinking, eating (probably too much), and, of course, hugging my children. 

When the students know it is bad. 

In one of my earliest lessons, whilst doing my initial certificate, I really screwed up. Oh man, did I ever screw up. There are screw ups who can only dream of screwing up that badly. The lesson, a badly judged hour on adjectives for an upper intermediate group, had involved ages of painstaking work on planning and resources (cut out of fluorescent card, for reasons lost to posterity), to result in thirty scraped, desperate minutes at the end of which my trainer stood up and finished off the lesson while I sat in a corner with my day-glo cards and optimism in tatters in the floor. To my credit, I knew it was dying, I knew it was bad, just by the slow, deadly collapse of student interest and the polite, albeit frustrated, sympathy on the students’ faces. Unfortunately, being three hours into teaching, I just didn’t know how to make it stop, short of running from the room and never coming back. I have the expressions on the students faces burned into my memory, and the shame, oh the shame. 

(This wasn’t the only excruciating moment on that course; honourable mention should go to the oh so embarrassing hand out I did which I claimed was about the past tense of “have” but was, in fact, about the past perfect and my furious Wiltshire born insistence that the “r” in “car” was widely pronounced. Yes, I do know these are incredibly geeky things to be embarrassed about.) 

Since then, of course, I have been impeccable as a teacher. Mostly. Sometimes. Or at least occasionally, but always, always, the most affecting, most devastating feedback I have ever been given on a lesson is from students. This feedback, can take many forms, of course, through indirect feedback like the stony expressions as you flog the dead horse of your lesson to death. Students may simply tell you directly that said horse should have been put out of its misery a long time ago; although in my experience of such things, adult ESOL students sometimes find this hard, almost embarrassing, perhaps because they come from a culture of trust and respect for teachers. If anything, however, this makes it even worse: the very fact that for some students it is hard to give negative feedback to a teacher makes it all the more important to respond to that feedback appropriately and with respect. 

Sometimes, of course, a problem is not one of your own practice, as such, but of student belief or expectation: for example where a student thinks there are “too many games” because you use game-like information gap activities for speaking practice, or because they have unrealistic expectations about their abilities, and want to take an advanced exam by next Thursday. But whether it be the cold, stony silence of polite disengagement, or the niggling chatter of a disinterested group, or perhaps a student with an eloquent, genuine comment which is clearly rational, and based on the opinions of their classmates, you can tell if the problem is real, because, deep down, you know full well you have messed up. 

Student feedback, perhaps more than any other, triggers guilt. Guilt, as Yoda never quite said, leads to anger, and anger leads to the Dark Side. In this case, however, rather than donning a scary black mask and throttling people through the power of the force, one merely gets defensive, albeit sometimes aggressively so. It is, after all, genuinely upsetting to be told you’re not doing as good a job as you hoped. And maybe you feed on this, and you respond negatively to the students, all defensive and cagey “it was the lights/the management/the direction of the wind”. Or perhaps you internalise and dwell on it and lie there awake at 4 am wondering what you have done, and whether you are in the right job, and wouldn’t it just be better for everybody if you stopped now. 

Both of these, while human, and understandable, are also deeply unproductive. They are indeed the Dark Side of professional reflection: and as such we should all be good Jedi and move beyond them. Whether the feedback is direct, as in a student complaint, or indirect (my stony faced certificate class), then take it on board, and, crucially, change. Because that is the only thing you can do. If you don’t change then you might as well give up. Getting defensive with the students, or indeed with anyone, is pointless: listen to the complaint, notice what has gone wrong, make sure you understand it, promise to take action then, and this is the important bit, take it. 

Everyone wins. Students are happier with their course, and with you. It helps to rebuild a bit of faith and trust between you and the students, which makes teaching a whole load easier. It also helps you become a better teacher. A much better teacher because you are a better learner. You have received information (feedback), and changed your behaviour based on it. That, I reckon, is a fair definition of professional learning, and any teacher who isn’t learning is either lying or dead. Sure, students need and deserve good teaching, and you can come over all quality control assurance at me if you want, but as a teacher perfection is a rare thing, and learning is what we are all about. As teachers we learn from feedback and reflection, and students are one of the best sources of information on how well we are doing. 

So yes, make mistakes, get it wrong and listen to your class, but, as Samuel Beckett said: No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. 

Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year

It’s been a long old term. I’ve just finished for the Christmas break, or as I like to think of it, The Best Festival of the Year. I don’t know why I like Christmas over and above all the other festivals of the secular and non-secular year, but apart from the summer break, this is the holiday where I properly switch off: a brief burst of glory and feasting in the middle of winter, where there is no time at all to think about work. Like Bede’s account of the story of the sparrow flying across the mead hall, the Christmas break offers a respite from the darkness without. My only concession to Scrooge is the weird pointlessness of Christmas cards, both traditional and “electronic”, which I rarely send to more than five people. (No, really, why?)

It is in a break with tradition, then, that I write this: my Christmas card to ESOL, or perhaps thanksgiving. But either way, dear old ESOL, thank you. Thank you for giving me a job and a focus and a thing to be passionate about. I didn’t get into this subject on purpose, but I don’t think I would have got this passionate about journalism or the restaurant business, both of which I contemplated for a time. I’m not even sure I would have got this passionate about primary teaching, another briefly considered career. I can’t put my finger on it: something about that intersection between the personal, the social and the political, perhaps, or perhaps it’s just that now, after over a decade of doing it, I’ve met so many interesting and wonderful students. 

Thank you, then, to all those students who make my life fascinating, complicated, difficult and fun. Occasionally all at the same time. Thanks for challenging me, for giving opportunities to share in your lives, and for letting me experiment on you in the hope that it works out better. I’d say, on balance, that it has, but just in case the lesson that sticks with you is the naff one, thanks for bearing with me. Thanks for making an effort, for working hard, for remembering to value a bloody English class when you have a tonne of other stuff going on in your lives. Thanks for doing amazing things, like becoming student governor (as one of my students did just this week), having a baby and then coming back to college mere days later, coming to class in spite of depression, PTSD, and goodness knows what else, not to mention passing exams, and jumping through some of the random hoops we set you. Thanks for all that, and more.

Thanks also to colleagues, present, past and soon-to-be-past as the funding cuts begin to bite at work. You can, of course, be a right royal pain in the arse at times, but nevertheless I do enjoy working with you. On balance, of course, I can no doubt be infuriating, useless, unreliable and flighty, so I would like to say thank you for your patience and continued support. I love that I can shamelessly steal your ideas, or argue with you on points of practice (both soberly and otherwise, as long as you recognise that I’m right about learning styles). I love those times when you ask me about something just as I am about to go and teach, and that you don’t mind when I do it to you. I really really love that you challenge and question and support me, and that you do the job you do. 

It’s great, as well, to be part of that much bigger community of teachers, through NATECLA, through connections online, through random meetings and conferences. It’s great to be a part of that, and to know that your own worries and fears, and your own loves and passions, are shared by someone else, and that you can have that conversation with those people. Let’s keep it up, shall we? 

Thank you as well lovely readers, all 3 of you, for continuing to read the drivel I post here. It sounds odd, but I like having an audience: call it ego, call it purpose, call it what you like. Sometimes I post with a particular person in mind (no, don’t start trying to guess), but usually it just helps to know that someone somewhere is reading it. As any English teacher can tell you, audience is crucial as knowing who you are writing for gives voice and purpose to the text. So knowing that maybe there is a reader out there reading this helps give voice and purpose to the blog. Thanks for that, you. 

I know I don’t do positive as well as I do critical, but I’m having a go, for a change. It’ll be business as usual in a few weeks. In the meantime, however, have a lovely Christmas, and a fabulous New Year. 

Working for the Man

I started writing this on the first day of a new government and I am sad to say that ultimately, I work for them. It’s a scary thought, really, but an accurate one. My salary is drawn from public money, paid to college from the state. This means that I am, as they say, working for the Man. And the Man, as I mentioned before, has a different idea about what my job is for than I do. This is, of course, politics again. The government have, and will continue to have, an impact on what I do not only in terms of how the courses I teach are funded, but on what my role within those courses is, and what is within my remit. 

Take political action, for example. One of the reactions to the most recent set of funding cuts was the production of some excellent teaching materials, which in turn supported and suggested positive political action on the part not only of teachers but also of students. This took the form of letters, of emails, of students engaging actively with the political system of the country they live on issues which are important to them. On this sort of thing I have no problems with supporting students to engage with legal protests, and I think that not only are these things important on a political level, but also as a great opportunity to develop language skills. 
There is a limit to this. If I took an issue to the classroom, or if a learner raised an issue, and it turned out that none of the learners was terribly interested in that issue, then it would be wrong of me to insist that the learners take part in action. If I took news of savage funding cuts to a class and the general reaction was “so what?” then what right do I have as a teacher to force that on the students, even though I am fully aware of the impact it may have. I do believe that students have a right to know about this sort of thing, but the choice of taking action remains with the students. Whether the government like the idea of my students knowing about their shabby approach to funding in FE is neither here nor there, indeed, I would be more than happy to irritate a few ministers, quite frankly, and in several cases would gladly do more than merely irritate. 
You can tell I don’t like the new government, can’t you? Not that I would go beyond the law on this one, of course, but I have taken and may well, in the future, choose to take action against governments. But my own antithesis to government is casting a further friction in my role as teacher, particularly with the roll out of the Prevent programme. Prevent, in case you need to know, a wider UK Home Office strategy which aims, as the name suggests, to identify and stop potential extremism and radicalisation within the UK, in part through training and supporting non-security services. A cynical person would argue, perhaps, that this is the government using education, health and social care professionals as de facto security services, (these services have been border guards for some time, after all) although the language of Prevent is about stopping individuals from harming themselves and others. Either way, I’m not sure I feel comfortable with the morality of the role, and certainly not with my own ability to make judgements on these things. It’s ambiguous at best: after all, to what extent can certain behaviours be clearly described as suggesting or leading to radicalisation?  Am I radical for my profound dislike of the Conservative party, particularly the prominent figures of Cameron, Osborne, May and Gove? I don’t think these are radical, (arguably quite normal, given that the Tories got in with a minority of the national vote) but they are strongly anti-government and a learner who expressed similar views wouldn’t, for me, get mentally flagged up as being some sort of extremist. Religious extremism would be every harder to spot: for this atheist, even moderate religious belief is a pretty radical jump
Even if it were that straightforward, there remain questions of trust and faith in a what should be a fairly objective professional relationship. Does it change something in the working relationship that you have with your students if they think you might report them for showing evidence of radicalisation? I think so. 
This comes back to the teacher’s role. It’s tempting to say “I am just an English teacher” and that is very much the basis of my perception of my role. However, we are becoming increasingly forced into positions where we are having a wider impact: teaching ESOL for employment, for example, comes with the uncomfortable awareness that if a learner doesn’t attend a certain percentage they may well have their benefits stopped (and let’s face it, with benefits cuts being imminent, job centre plus staff will be looking for any excuse). Yes, the learners know this, and by not attending they have responsibility for that risk, but that doesn’t make it any more comfortable. ESOL teachers have been almost border guards for some years now, checking learners eligibility for funding, and now we are being asked to step in as de facto security services. I would want to be able to discuss worries I have about a learner without the possibility or the responsibility that this would somehow be reported up to the proper security services. It is this direct link that worries me, and which creates the possibility of mistrust. Ultimately, however, I’m not entirely sure where I stand on Prevent. I think it runs the risk of creating issues of challenging trust and responsibility for teachers, and is unlikely to deal with the problem that it sets out to solve. Anyone smart enough to outwit their families and friends is unlikely to blab to their teacher, after all. 
I’m not saying we should create an apolitical landscape in our classrooms – for one, it would be impossible. We should embrace the political diversity of the classroom much as we do the religious, racial and sexual diversity, and not bowdlerise the curriculum. Learners should be encouraged to look critically at the issues in hand and to explore the ways they can do so safely and without harming themselves and others. ESOL is about enabling and empowering, and an inability to participate in political action is the challenge for many, not the extremism of a tiny, if dangerous, minority. That we may enable learners to challenge the status quo, however much this may be within the legal boundaries of the UK, may not be appealing to certain parts of the government who would no doubt much rather we peddle some sort of Little-Englander mentality where one knows one’s place, and doesn’t ask difficult questions. Sadly, for them, however, this government employee will continue to encourage students to participate, to challenge and to ask questions. 

Evidence, Anecdotes and bike helmets again.

Last week, Chris Boardman, Olympic cycling champion, and general ambassador for cycling in the UK went on public British TV to talk about the benefits of cycling, reducing the barriers to it and the rest. The piece showed him and the presenter riding sedately round London, with the BBC presenter wearing the full cycling monty: helmet, hi vis, lycra, the works. Chris Boardman, who has made his career on two wheels, was wearing not only normal clothes, but no hi vis stuff and crucially, no helmet. Naturally various social media went off on one, complaints were made to the BBC for Mr Boardman setting a bad example, and with gloomy predictability the calls for helmet wearing to become a legal requirement followed. Sensing a nice bit of pent up outrage the BBC followed this up with an online poll about cycling with headphones on, where a majority said cyclists shouldn’t be allowed to do so.

Well, ok. I talked about helmets before, and there is an excellent site devoted to the statistics for and against helmet wearing. And by and large, statistics would suggest that a) the public health benefits of cycling far outweigh the impact of wearing a helmet; and b) where helmet wearing has been made a legal requirement this has led to a decrease in cycling uptake. The cycling fraternity is usually quick to point out as well that in enlightened countries like Denmark and the Netherlands, helmet use is unusual and the number of cycling head injuries are lower because the infrastructure in those countries is far better for a more sustainable transport economy.

The pro-helmet lobby is a bit rubbish with its statistics and prone to a nice bit of cherry picking – especially when one considers that far more head injuries in the UK occur when people are driving or walking and yet nobody is suggesting that pedestrians or motorists wear a helmet or not listen to music. (Statistically, especially in the case of pedestrians, helmets might not be a bad idea…). The most pervasive and engaging pro helmet lobby, of course, is the personal anecdotes: genuine sad stories along the lines of “if my son had been wearing a helmet….” My possibly slightly callous answer to that is to say “yes, but if your son had been riding in an environment where the culture and road infrastructure was less aggressively pro-motorist he might not have had an accident at all.” Unfortunately you can’t fit that sort of thing into a neat headline or Facebook meme.

All well and good. I still wear a helmet, if I remember. I encourage my children to wear one. Sometimes I forget and cycle a few miles without one, but when I do I get it in the neck. For some people to is tantamount to just walking out in the street and lying down under the nearest bus.

This is all about evidence and the use of evidence. When it suits a particular social or political viewpoint, evidence is triumphantly pulled out and waved under the noses of everyone who cares to listen. When it doesn’t, however, it gets quietly ignored in favour of emotional anecdotes.

We can see a parallel here with teaching. When a piece of evidence exists in favour of a particular viewpoint it gets quickly trumpeted across various media. This happened with the Sutton Trust report “what makes great teaching” last week. Here we have a fairly big study which is generally pretty careful in its claims and suggestions. It is pretty measured stuff, but the only bit that made it into the media was the big claim that evidence suggests that discovery learning is less effective than direct instruction. It’s worth noting that this claim is made carefully in the report. First up, the direct instruction it describes is telling people stuff, yes, but also questioning them, finding out what they remember, and generally involving them in being talked at. What it isn’t is the two hour lecture that comes to mind, and which suits a nostalgic conservative view of education in the Good Old Days. And actually, discovery learning done well can be effective, but which needs lots of support and scaffolding from the teacher. Done badly, all educational interventions are rubbish.

Much the same happened with the FELTAG report. This made all sorts of good suggestions, but the only one which appears to have made any inroads into education is the suggestion that 10% of all courses become online. It’s been almost amusing to watch the handwringing that has happened by various commentators in social media about this. “But FELTAG is about more than the 10% thing! It’s about teacher development and sharing and all sorts of good things!” And they are absolutely right, but I’m not sure in which naïve universe the hand wringers are living when they think that a sector under increasing financial pressure is not going to focus on this as an opportunity to cut costs. The only time anyone ever hears of FELTAG is when it gets cited for the reason behind the 10% of courses going online. Pretty much all the good ideas about supporting and training teachers have been forgotten, because they are expensive ideas. Because the FELTAG report has an evidence base, or at least claimed to, then it gets used as a stick with which to beat staff into getting on board. I’m lucky: we have regular training days at work where we have the whole day to explore these things, and some serious time has been given over to preparing and supporting staff. I’m also pretty technologically confident, so my learning curve hasn’t been that steep. But that’s not true for every teacher in the land, not by a long shot.

The other challenge with the 10% rule is that on reading the report there appears to be no evidence to suggest that it works. The whole of FE is basically taking part in a massive experiment. It’s not been sold that way, of course, but there doesn’t appear to be any evidence nationally or internationally that this is going to work. For me, when viewed that way, this becomes actually more exciting, because UK FE can be the big study cited in the rest of the world about how this worked really well on a massive scale. I hope.

One way or the other, it does fit a particular need at a particular time, it fits trends and fashions and what people are interested in. Ditto the cherry picking of the Sutton Trust Report, and much of the discussion around helmet use for cyclists. Evidence is there, yes, but it’s usually filtered through the censors of fashion and policy, and so needs to be viewed as sceptically as the rest.

A Bunch of Lies

You know, out of all the people who ever read this blog, probably only about six or seven have seen me teach, and of that handful, maybe only two that I can think of have objectively observed me teaching ESOL.

This is interesting because for the vast majority of the people who read this, my reputation as an ESOL teacher rests entirely, absolutely 100% on my self promotion.

And the thing is, all of the comments and the lesson descriptions, the criticisms, reflections and observations, any reference at all to classroom practice could be a big bunch of lies. I could be very carefully constructing a particular professional image based on a few minor aspects of my professional life. I’m not, or at least, I’m not lying when I write here. I have occasionally obscured the truth behind verbal hedges, particularly where individual or institutional reputations are at stake. There’s not really a lot to be gained from making it personal, except where it concerns me, and an awful lot to lose. Most institutions have a “bringing the name of the college into disrepute” type clause somewhere, and that is always there at the back of my mind, even when I am nudging at the edge of the envelope a little.

Most people who blog, tweet, post Facebook updates, all the rest, are managing a particular online presence. I know I am. I’m certainly more cantankerous and shirty online than I ever am in the flesh. Face to face? Big slightly shy pussy cat. Scrub that. Horribly, excruciatingly, agonisingly shy. I suffer from a massive fear of telephone calls, so much so that I have been known, for crucially important phone calls, to write a script to read from to get me started. That bit, by the way, is absolutely true.

Or is it? That’s sort of the point about online personas. I could manage my online persona to be a super-positive techno bubbler who thinks everything is AWESOME, breathlessly excited about some new app or gizmo (Wow! This app can actually make your head disappear up your own rear end, and allows you to reflect on it while you do it!), hyper jolly about all things methodological (Woo! Blooms new digital e-taxonomy revised – second edition!) mega-super-pro-college (Yay! Go Team College!), and it would all be very exciting and would look awfully good on the CV. Or I could work very hard to anonymise my posts and post long, savage, sour and unfair criticisms of the government, my employer, everything.

To be fair, both versions are pretty dull: I want a human when I read a blog, but I don’t want three hundred posts about how pants everything is. I know, at least as well, if not better than you do, how pants it is, and wallowing in your interpretation of that is not my idea of fun. I once had to listen to someone whinge vaguely and incoherently about how they hated setting SMART targets (using such tried and tested arguments as “I’ve been teaching for twenty years…”) and resisting the urge to grab then by the lapels and scream “shut up!” The super excited babbler is also pretty tedious: people with such a low excitement threshold are useful in this world, because they test out everything before the rest of us do, but I’d rather not hear about it straightaway, thanks. (For the record, by nature, I’m whatever the stage is after early adopter. Such people are usually time and money rich, where I’m not, so I let someone else spend their money and effort working out something new before I start to play with it.

In reality, I think most of my online presence is somewhere in the middle. I’m quite careful not to implicate my employer in what I do online, although I may have slipped once or twice. It’s partly because I want to avoid pointless slagging off, of course, but also, and this is quite important, this isn’t college me. The work here is all my own work, both good and bad, and I get full credit both ways, thanks.

Of course, it could all be a complete fabrication, and thus we are back at point the first.