breaking the mould

At the moment we're going through one of those (suprisingly frequent) times of upheaval at the moment; the family homestead is being vacated and I seem to be spending all waking hours working at wardrobes/drawers/shelves/light fittings/loft flooring (delete as appropriate); I've started a day a week at BBC (no, not that one) - more on that soon; and, after a stall on funding at my previous post, I've been back freelancing for a month on and off. And it's the latter of these things that is in my mind tonight, as I clear out much of the clutter in what has been our home office for the best part of a quarter century.

On the back wall, above a bookcase full of my VHS collection, remain stuck three pieces of paper, which were assembled during my PGCE year as mementos. One is a thank-you card from a secondary school class, the other a picture drawn for me by a seven year old - deluded people, perhaps. However, the third is maybe more unusual: a small, yellowed rectangle of newsprint, torn from a copy of The Guardian I had picked up in a cafe.

From a column called My Mentor, the Children's Laureate Michael Rosen - he of the legendary We're Going On A Bear Hunt - recalls a teacher who inspired him.

The secondary school I went to was a pretty dull and staid place until Barry Brown, a new English teacher showed up. He was just out of university and can't have been more than 22, which made a change. He came from Manchester - this was Harrow in the 50s, we hadn't even heard of Manchester - and he wore dark brown suede shoes, had longish hair over his ears, put his feet up on the desk and walked down the corridors with his hands in his pockets. There were all these rumours flying around about affairs he was having, which added to his kudos.

My parents were both teachers and so I'd been read to a lot and taken to the theatre so I wouldn't say that he sparked a love of literature in me, that was already there, but he felt dangerous and subversive. He would start off a lesson quite conventionally, perhaps reading round the class but would interrupt us, encouraging us to read with expression. Then you could see him getting bored and he would suddenly throw the book at someone. He was provocative and off the wall. He would pace the room and use it like a stage.

He would come into the classroom and, like all teachers of the time, be wearing a gown, except his would be all wrapped up around his shoulders like a shawl. Schoolboys were always complaining about how cold the classrooms were but teachers would tell us it was good for us, made us healthy. Barry Brown would come into the class and say, "This room is freezing!" and kick the radiators, which made it feel like he was on our side.

I remember once he was on the way out of the class and stopped and said, "Oh homework tonight, write a ballad about Robin Hood," and left the room. We were all left looking at one another, shrugging our shoulders. I went home and my mum and I sat at the kitchen table writing this ballad about Robin Hood and it was just great fun. I was desperately keen to please him, to write things and show him them and he was enthusiastic in his response. He put on plays in the school and encouraged us to join in, even taking parts himself and just generally creating an excitement in us all.

It wasn't that he was imparting great pearls of wisdom, but simply that he presented himself in a way that was completely different from anyone else I'd ever met. From him I glimpsed that there are different paths in life you can go along, that you don't have to plod along the well-trodden path, and at 11 years old, that was hugely exciting. Looking back, there are lots of people who go into the mix, who influence who you eventually become, and he stands out as someone who sowed seeds and helped me grow.

(Taken from Guardian.co.uk.)

For many people of a certain age, it would seem everyone had that one teacher like this - the maverick guy who seemed to rail against how he was supposed to do it, and instead won loyalty through the inspired, or random, or compelling methods they used combined with their unique personalities. At the time, this was exactly the kind of teacher I wanted to be.

A few years on now, and every time I find myself at an employment crossroads, the inevitable is asked: why not give teaching another stab? I fumble through several, reasonably honest, excuses: I found the curriculum, particularly GCSE English, mind-blowingly pointless and stressful; the workplace politics in some schools a little intimidating; difficult pupils hard to relate to. Fundamentally, I was frustrated with the paradox that yes, many teachers do little and get on fine, but that in order to be a great teacher, you needed to work your ass off. "But if you're this stressed, just do enough to get by," some might say. But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do the best I could.

However, tonight I sit and wonder if all of these do, in truth, pale in comparison with a realisation I have had as I reread Michael Rosen's tale from above. Barry Brown sounds like exactly the type of teacher I wanted to be - but after a year of teaching, I think what I discovered most was that in our society today, this would never be possible. And for all that is changing in life and our culture today, I cannot think of many things sadder.