John Tomsett wrote a thought-provoking post a few days ago on the vulnerability of the teacher. I think he has a point: one of the unique things about teaching is that it inevitably becomes so intertwined with the practitioner as a person that it is difficult to know where the boundary lies. My impression gained from acquaintances who work in other fields is that there remains a greater degree of emotional separation between them and their job; while people of all sorts of course invest personal feelings in their work, there are perhaps few activities where it becomes quite so inextricably bound up with the person doing it.
I suspect The Quirky Teacher would not approve of this touchy-feely-ness so I hasten to add that I don’t see it as an excuse for a lack of rigour. It is essential that children experience environments that develop their higher intellectual faculties, and that involves going beyond the instinctive, emotional state of the mid-brain. This is why it is important that teachers are mature, intellectually-developed people who are able both to do that for themselves, and model it to their pupils.
But I don’t think this removes the sense of insecurity that being a teacher can provoke: I’m not sure that denying the existence of an emotional self is the mark of an intellectually developed person, in fact quite the opposite. I suspect that a fully-functioning intellectual mind simply becomes more aware of the fundamental tensions, contradictions and sheer unknowability of the educative process, and of life itself. The fact that the ultimate effect of a teacher’s work is so invisible pretty much guarantees, in conscientious people to breed a sense of insecurity.
This is all the more so in a climate where so much hangs on the observed so-called outcomes of the process. I can understand why people have increasingly grasped at children’s small, identifiable steps that can sometimes be seen in the classroom – but that can still not deny the bigger truth that the process and effect of learning are so broad and amorphous as to be invisible. I’m afraid the impression I have gained of those who prefer discernible ‘progress’, and toughness to emotional sensitivity, is that it is an expression not of intellectual superiority but of an inability to grasp the subtler, indeterminable truths.
Thus, while I completely support the view that teaching should be a rigorous profession, I am unconvinced that this means abandoning or ignoring the emotional landscape. While we should of course push children intellectually to achieve the best of which they are capable, this must be accompanied by an emotional literacy that understands their immaturity, both personal and developmental. It means being able to respond to children as individual people, not just as exam-machines.
And it should not just be confined to our pupils. A good colleague/friend and I encountered this week an emotionally-charged situation involving another colleague; he later admitted that it had taken him a few critical seconds (longer than I) to register the emotional context, and he considered this to be a weakness. I hope he would forgive me for agreeing with him, though I should add that he is an excellent teacher in very many respects. But as someone with a professed desire to climb the promotional ladder, I hope he will work at this emotional sensitivity, and accept that it need not be seen as a weakness when expressed outwardly.
When teachers invest so much of themselves in their work, those who attain seniority need to remain aware of this fact. So much of the contemporary educational climate emphasises the toughness of the profession and the demands that this places on people; so much is made of individual accountability, the consequences of perceived failure, or of being seen to be ‘soft’ that we have trampled on the emotional landscape that is still there, just beneath the surface and in some cases feeling quite raw.
Criticism of one’s teaching is so close to being a criticism of one’s self, personality and intellect that it is hardly surprising when teachers react deeply to it. Being made to subvert one’s personal modus operandi to that of an increasingly assertive corporation may be difficult to accept in any walk of life – but it is particularly the case when one’s basic functioning depends so heavily on one’s personal characteristics. Given the emotional investment that this job extracts, it is unsurprising that loyalties to schools as institutions sometimes develop further than many perhaps feel to their places of work – so consequently, schools should perhaps be all the warier of trampling on their employees’ feelings, even in the most extreme of circumstances. Tomsett seems an icon of success in avoiding this, which others would do well to emulate rather than playing tough.
One would hope that this is an evident case of enlightened self-interest for schools. I cannot conceive how one can expect teachers to function at their best when their own emotional state is in turmoil. The argument that being a professional means being tough enough to over-ride such concerns may today be the preferred, macho response – but I challenge anyone to ignore deep-felt internal discord completely or indefinitely. The call to be tough is little more than a sop for treating people inconsiderately. In my view, this lies in direct contradiction to the qualities one might seek in a teacher in the first place, and which we might counsel with respect to our pupils. But one must first secure one’s own oxygen mask before helping others with theirs.
Personally, I like to think that sensitivity is a quality I bring to the classroom. It provides almost a sixth sense with respect to those needing attention, and it generates the enthusiasm that fuels my teaching. I have been repeatedly complimented on the relationships I build; it means drawing out the goodwill in people, rather than bludgeoning them into compliance.
But I’m not sure it’s possible to be sensitive and thick-skinned simultaneously. It also painfully exposes me to a sense of failure, makes criticism cut deep. It took many years to build inner confidence in what I do, and to accept the positive reactions of my pupils as validation, even when those in charge appeared less than happy with my approach, which was not always procedurally what they demanded. It means that although I’m reasonably resilient (and I have the years to prove it) it has taken a year even to come close to healing the deep wounds of last autumn, when my practice was called into doubt – even though the individual most probably responsible for initiating that has now been discredited and has left teaching. Was this really the wisest way to treat a teacher?
I would draw two conclusions from this. One derives from Tomsett’s post: the most appropriate way to engage in professional development, support (and critique) is peer-to-peer. This retains a level of empathy and trust that very few top-down structures can match. It does imply a more eclectic and serendipitous process, allowing the less useful temporarily to co-exist with the more, and permitting people to sift for themselves. This has been anathema to those who prefer to wield direct control – but I hope the foregoing explains why it may still be a wiser approach. I would only differ with Tomsett inasmuch as he seems to think it is a new idea; I would argue that it is what teachers have always done.
And secondly, in a time when tough decisions are being faced by institutions as austerity begins to bite, I would caution macho-managements everywhere when it comes to trampling on their staff’s feelings. Goodwill is something they are going to need a lot of in the near future.