By Karen Crichton one of our Blackhen tutors
What do you do when your child isn’t learning anything at school?
Oh my… Where to begin?
I suppose at the start – which now is twenty years ago!
We moved to France when Jake was 9. In England, he was above average in his class, a little lazy at times, but generally on track. Before leaving the UK, he began learning some French basics, and I bought the Muzzy books and computer games to help him learn the French language. He did pretty well (‘I learned hello, goodbye, and petit-pois because it sounded funny’, says the subject of my narrative who is reading this over my shoulder just now), but a truthful analogy of his efforts could be equated to ‘an adult learning to drive in a toy car’. Once school started, we quickly realised that no end of preparation could have helped make him ready for the reality.
As he came out of school on that first day, dragging his heavy bag behind him, I could see that he was exhausted. An aside here – why do the children have to carry everything to and from school – why not leave the majority of their things there? I could hardly lift the bag myself! Poor children! I asked him how his day had gone and was surprised to see that he was actually quite happy –
“I read all day!”
I’d suggested to Jake – ever the avid reader – that he take a book to school, just in case he couldn’t do what was expected of him in class. I didn’t want him sitting around getting bored. Consequently, he had devoured several chapters of the Harry Potter story that he was currently reading, and had thoroughly enjoyed his time at school.
“Did you meet any new friends?” I tentatively asked.
“No. They just say blah, blah de day do blah – can’t understand a word… oh wait a minute, there was something about roast beef.”
I was soon to discover that reading his English book was all that was expected of Jake. I assumed his teacher was happy that he was quietly occupied whilst I was rather concerned that he wasn’t joining in with the class.
Being new to France, this teacher was to be my benchmark upon which others were to be compared. I should happily say that though I had occasional issues with some of my children’s professors, thankfully none ever sank below this – my original measure.
I could understand that the level of French in CM2 would be beyond Jake, but I wondered why he wasn’t being given some easier exercises to have a go at, or why he wasn’t expected to have a go at maths – after all numbers are numbers and the operations work just the same way in French. I tried speaking to his teacher who told me that once Jake could speak French, he would be able to access the curriculum. However, in the meantime nothing was being done to help him learn French. Jake was more than happy – reading all day was like an extended summer holiday – who could wish for more?
I, however, was frustrated. I decided to put a series of lessons in place for him to study during the day: French handwriting, grammar exercises, topical vocabulary and linked writing. Each evening, I would mark it with him and talk through the next day’s expectations. I’d told him he had to start doing the maths activities in class, so I added mathematical vocabulary to his daily lessons too. I also found a tutor – a lovely lady who eventually became a family friend. She specifically worked on conversation and grammar. We also joined various afterschool clubs, like Aikido and badminton, so that he had an opportunity to meet with people, outside of his school circle, in a more relaxed setting. Sometimes I felt as if I were juggling eggs. Working during the day, tutoring Jake and occasionally Freya in the evenings, homework, after school clubs and then trying to squeeze a trip in somewhere over the weekend – for fun or cultural enrichment. Boy were we busy… but looking back it was certainly worth it.
Eventually, the blah blah blah turned into words and Jake made a friend – Valentin, a tall, smiley kid with size 46 feet (at ten years of age!) – they both shared a passion for reading, camping and water sports, so they were well matched. The more Jake became socially embedded in his group, the quicker his French came on. By Easter, he could hold a conversation with his friends and asked me if he could go away to a kid’s camp, during the summer, with Valentin. I was somewhat surprised, but also immensely proud that he felt confident enough to go off and have fun without close family support.
It was around this time that I wondered if he was ready – now that he could speak French – to access the class curriculum. I was still writing lessons for him, but I hoped he could at least join in with the science, history or geography lessons. Given the topics in advance, I could prepare him with the necessary vocabulary. It was with this thought in mind that I contacted his teacher, asking for the upcoming topics for the summer term, so that I could introduce Jake to the key vocabulary. I never had a response to my request, nor my subsequent one. Instead, I was sent an official looking letter, requesting that both Jake and I attend a meeting with him. I went to the meeting in a positive mood, expecting to receive information that would help Jake during the future months at school. Unfortunately, I was very much mistaken. We were given a lecture detailing how, ‘Jake never participated in class activities, his behaviour was good – polite and friendly – but he needed to focus and apply himself more in order to learn written French. Now that he could communicate and understand what was being taught, he needed to catch up with the rest of the class.’ A reasonable synopsis perhaps and an obvious need, but how was this to be achieved? He then produced an IEP (individual education plan) which I was familiar with having written hundreds of them myself when I was school SENCO (special educational needs coordinator) back in the UK. Jake’s teacher then proceeded to list all of the targets that Jake needed to work towards – it was a rather long list – followed by what I needed to do in order for him to succeed – make him aware of the importance of learning, sit with him and ensure he did his homework properly, support punishments given at school for not completing class exercises, and insist that he follow the daily lessons and not read his book.
Satisfied and smug, he pushed the paper over for me to sign…
Another aside here – I asked Jake if he had anything to add. When he got to this point he said, “I remember that meeting! I was terrified. I saw the dragon!” (Thankfully rarely seen, the dragon is apparently a look that I get when angry, my face goes still, my expression flat, my eyes seemingly alight from within and my voice goes quiet and low… my children joke with me now about it, but they would never have joked with the dragon.) “I thought the dragon had come for me then you looked at him, and I actually felt sorry for the old *#$!”
…In turn, I pushed the paper back.
In the UK, an IEP is weighted: we give 2-4 targets for the child to work towards, a paragraph of tips and suggested activities for the parents to help when supporting their child, and finally a list of strategies and interventions that school is going to supply in order to help the child progress. This final part, for us, is the most important – it is the backbone of the IEP expressing how we will structure the learning and provide the opportunity for the child to succeed. This was missing from Jake’s IEP.
“And what will you be doing to help Jake achieve these targets?” I quietly asked.
I watched and waited. His puzzled expression, the French shrug, a nervous glance toward Jake, did nothing to alleviate my anxiety. It was suddenly all becoming clear. This man, who was in his fifties, had done nothing to help my son, he had idly accepted my lesson interventions, observed him making headway with conversation and now decided it was time to introduce the stick having already eaten the carrot himself.
“Well? What support strategies are you going to put in place?” exasperated…
“Nothing.”
So, there it was. I could picture him standing at the front of the class, regurgitating learning that he expected the children to magically absorb just because they were present and focused. He was the teacher. He would tell them what they needed to know. If they didn’t learn then they should try harder to listen more carefully. Why should he need to do more? It was the child’s fault if they did not learn.
This attitude was so contra my own. I could no more label him teacher : may as well call a whale a fish.
Looking him in the eye, I carefully picked up the IEP then said in a surprisingly calm way – considering how angry I felt – “In my world, teachers teach. They take the responsibility for a child’s learning journey and do whatever they can to help them to succeed. When you decide to do your job and add a list of school targets to this IEP then I will sign it.”
With that I tore it in two, took Jake’s hand and left his office. I never received an updated IEP. In fact I didn’t communicate with him again until three years later when my daughter went into his class – but that’s a completely different story, perhaps for another day!
Jake finished the year participating in as much of the curriculum as he could, following my lesson sheets when he couldn’t, and still devouring his books – which were now in French as he’d joined the library.
I feel so blessed that I am a teacher. I didn’t have to give in to pulling out my hair when faced with such lividity of appreciation of what a teacher should do for every child in their class. I could have homeschooled Jake, but I knew he wouldn’t have learned to speak French as quickly nor meet peers so readily. My only option was to be his teacher’s shadow and provide Jake with the basics that he needed.
Thankfully, Jake then moved on to collège where he was given some 1-1 support in his first year. He also fondly recollects some of his professors who really made his learning journey a great adventure; nurtured by a brilliant science prof, a sensitive French prof and an hilarious English prof, Jake bloomed. I continued to support him with his homework, when needed, and he met with his French tutor three times per week throughout collège. By the time he took his Brevet he was working at the same level as his classmates but was never wholly focused, considering how many times “Pas de bavardage!” appeared on his reports… C’est la vie!