Why I don’t write…

Why I don’t write…

Again, we come back to the silence.

After days of being aware of the computer sitting there; days of me faffing around and dragging out mundane tasks because I wouldn’t know what to say, and pretending that the weeks don’t pass, I’m finally back, staring at the page and writing whatever first comes to mind.

It’s strange that this kind of writing used to be what I was best at. It’s what I did as a teenager when I kept this accursed diary that took on board whatever I thought for night after lonely night. But that was so private, and without the ears of the outside world it allowed itself to drift into the meaningless ramblings that did so much harm to me.

It’s important to have an anchor. Without it, it’s easy to become lost. After all, without an anchor we drift and it becomes hard to know who are we, really. And not just deep down really – and not as some spiritual question of philosophy – but who are we in our world. Where do we sit? What do we stand for?

What do I stand for?

My writing expresses much of it… haha! But that’s tell and not show isn’t it…

So what do I stand for?

What do I think will help?

A freedom of expression has always been my goal. A fearless honesty that allows the human condition to experience itself and reflect on that being, rather than cutting itself short with fears about our worth. We are worth it because we are alive.

It’s ok to be who you are – and more than that: it is essential to be proud of who we are; and a writer’s voice is a voice that we have a responsibility to use… but it’s not enough just to tell yourself that.

Allowing yourself to be is only the first step in being.

It’s who you become; that’s where the living lies.

And so what stops me from doing that? What stops me from being?

I know the answer already.

I know why I don’t write.

It’s because most days I’m so fucking angry, about so much, that I just want it all to burn.

And I think I’m ashamed of my anger. So I hide it.

I’m ashamed of the rage I feel about climate change, and Trump, and Brexit; and our gender battles, and #metoo and my losing my kids; I’m ashamed of sitting, stalled, on my couch and watching the world through a screen; and dating online because I can’t find a life; and I’m ashamed of the impotent rage I feel going into school every day and teaching kids about 15th Century poets when technology is changing the world so fast that no-one can keep up and the civilisation we’ve taken for granted for so long is spiralling out of control so fast that I don’t see a way out of it for us… and yet I sit on the couch and just manage my rage.

I’m ashamed of my anger. So I hide it.

Because rage is just passion misdirected. Like depression is just passion misdirected. And anxiety is just passion misdirected. And sloth is just passion misdirected.

But when I write, and I put it down and can see it again, I’m ashamed of my shame.

And then I know that it’s time to post something.

Let’s hope it doesn’t take as long next time…

Hello again…

Right. Blogging.

The best blogs are these kind of constant streams of thought that let you into someone’s world. The ones that make you feel like you’re listening to an honest friend who’s whispering into your ear.

I keep trying that. I’m so angry though, and I don’t know where to start.

Am I angry at the world?

Is it Trump – who’s become exactly the kind of bogieman that I think he’s always wanted to be; or is it the shit-storm that is Brexit; is it race-relations, or gender, or capitalism, or the environment…I mean fuck, where do you even start?

Do I write about the fact that I see nothing but pain ahead for my species? Not my race, you understand; not my family, or my friends, or myself, but my entire species; and every other species on the face of this planet. We live in an age that could bring about the end of all life on planet earth.

The trouble is that when I write that I always feel a little trite. Melodramatic. OTT.

But it’s not though, is it.

Haha! Fuck. It’s not even melodramatic to say that humanity is going through an existential crisis – and I don’t mean we’re all smoking in rain coats, it’s that there’s an actual threat to our existence.

So what do we do about it?

Haha! – again. Because I don’t know. I wish I did. I think I keep delaying writing my posts because in truth I don’t see a way out of it for us, and I don’t want to start talking until I can see some kind of solution.

But that idea itself was against what I wrote in my first post.

What I said then was that the blog should speak with whatever voice I wanted to express and just speak it. So maybe the solution is just to start with that simple truth, and to see writing this as a kind of therapy.

So I’ll say it: I don’t see a nice way out of this for us. This time we live in. I see a lot of pain ahead because we’re not listening to the collected voice that tells us not to… cause so much pain ahead!

Haha – fuckit… just fuckit

But it’s weird, because this wouldn’t really happen if we all didn’t secretly want it to. It wouldn’t happen if we all stopped looking at what made us different and started reminding ourselves about what made us the same: we all want to survive this fucking crisis.

Surely that’s one thing we can all agree on.

So maybe we need to calm down, and learn to love the Trumps, and the Brexitiers, and the misogynists and the racists… Or wait, hold on…???

Can we love someone, but fundamentally disagree with them? Can we see their human heart, but still hate what they stand for? Can we fight for our ground without worrying about it falling out from under us?

Can we hate each other, but learn to love ourselves enough to learn to live together?

I guess that’s the question that I don’t have the answer to.

And I guess that’s why I don’t blog. Because I don’t know the answer.

But this evening, I’m wondering whether or not the first step is simply to ask the question.

The problem’s the matter, not the method

The problem’s the matter, not the method

Two years ago I left a successful career as a copywriter to become an English teacher, and now I feel like I’ve entered Room 101. It wouldn’t be so bad except that I’m expected to teach 1984 while standing in the middle of it…

Not long ago I saw a grown woman break down in tears because she’d spent the afternoon desperately trying to teach Macbeth to a group of year tens who couldn’t care less about the Bard. In the end I comforted her in the only way I knew how and made it clear that it didn’t really matter, none of them would have any use for Shakespeare anyway. Through the tears she asked me why we even bothered, and I struggled to answer that.

Six months before I’d been asked to teach Midsummer Night’s Dream to a kid who’d not long moved here from Eastern Europe. He couldn’t speak modern English, but I was supposed to teach him the Elizabethan variant. He was just getting to grips with grammar, and I was turning it on its head.

I knew a teacher in London who claimed she could get a student a C in literature even if they couldn’t speak English. I’ve been reassured since then that she wouldn’t get away with that anymore because of the terminal examination system, though that doesn’t change the question of why we teach Shakespeare, with his topsy-turvy syntax and out-dated vocabulary, to kids who can’t master the modern language and will only find their lexicons expanded to include halberds, codpieces and perfectest reports.

Not long ago I put a range of people on the whiteboard and asked which one of them was most likely to vote for the Tory Party – we were doing an exercise in characterisation. The year tens sat in silence for a minute or two, until one asked who the Tory Party were. Another barked that it was obvious – they were something to do with the government… weren’t they? I smiled and reminded them that they’d have the vote in three years. They all agreed that they didn’t care, and, to my shame, I hoped it would stay that way. If they didn’t even know who the parties were, how could they be expected to make an educated choice on the subtleties of policy? Democracy’s great, but only if anyone’s being taught how to use it!

I put the matter to my then head of department who made it clear that educating them about the world wasn’t our job. Our job, he said, was to get them through their GCSEs. He offered to lead the class for a starter a week later, and made it clear to the kids that they’d be using what he taught them for the rest of their lives – right up to university, if any of them decided to go. In that moment I understood the depth of education’s aspirations: their job is to get them through as many exams as possible, and it ends after the final one. The world stops at the school gates. Teachers teach what they were taught, and if there are problems, they lie with the government, the parents or – worse still – with the kids themselves.

The idea that the problems with teaching lie with the kids reminds me of an old David Cronenberg horror called Dead Ringers in which a radical gynaecologist realises that his problems are because women are built in the wrong way. The simple truth is that the learning must service the kids, and although it’s possible for a dynamic teacher to keep a class enraptured with a well written shopping list, it’s not the most efficient way to work. In most cases kids aren’t engaging with what’s being taught, despite our best efforts, and the reason for this, I believe, is the matter, not the method.

So what if we changed it…

What if poetry was swapped for song lyrics, leaving Shelly, Byron and Keats shelved for Lennon, Dylan and Eminem? Because is it really ok to teach To His Coy Mistress or The Laboratory, but claim that rap is immoral? I’ve taught Cleaning Out My Closet and had the classroom in raptures – opening up and sharing their inner selves in a way that I’ve never managed with any of the Romantics. And I’m not saying it’s impossible to access a class with poetry from ages past, but it’s harder to emotionally engage a teenager when they’re completely divorced from the themes of the verse in front of them. In the same way, it’s possible to climb Everest with a ball and chain around your feet, but why would you bother? What are we trying to achieve by teaching them straight poetry when there is more fantastic, lyrical verse being produced today than at any other time in human history? Again, I’m not having a go at the classics but I’ve had more success sharing ideas about depression using Elbow’s Some Riot than I ever have with Keats’ Ode To Melancholy.

And what if plays were replaced with film? What if, rather than studying the language of the stage, students learnt how to read narrative and character using one of the biggest and most influential industries in the modern world? And I don’t say this because I don’t like theatre, but I did once know a 15 year old who thought that the robots in Transformers were real, and I had to explain to a whole class how Avatar was really about the damage that we’re doing the rain forests. “Sir,” one said. “They’re nine foot tall and blue. It’s not even about this planet. I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

And what if we replaced an emphasis on reading fiction – which is vastly overrated in education – for an understanding of press bias, the role of advertising, and the language of PR managers and lobbyists? It’s shambolic that most kids leave school knowing what onomatopoeia is but have no idea how a well-worded press release can make someone doubt human involvement in global warming, despite all evidence to the contrary. I once heard a stroppy, smart year 10 complaining about To Kill a Mockingbird saying: “So racism’s bad, tell me something I don’t know!” Given the fact that he was Indian, liberal, well educated and absolutely lovely I did rather think it was a case of preaching to the converted. Alongside the rest of the class, though, he came alive when I did a ten-minute plenary and explained who the Anonymous group were. Suddenly they all had challenging opinions, and as they left one asked me what actually happened in the financial crash. It broke my heart to know that I’d never have the time to explain it.

And it’s not that I’m putting down any of the classic art forms, I just feel very strongly that in order to genuinely prepare our children for the world they’re entering into we should, at least sometimes, refer to the world that they’re entering into. I recently taught Frankenstein to a set of year 7s and although they embraced the philosophical question of what makes something truly alive, the class didn’t really come alive itself until someone started surreptitiously passing round a copy of Blade Runner, and I’d shown them HAL’s death scene in Kubrick’s 2001. In the end I had to apologise for the fact we needed to return to the two hundred year old novel that many of them would have loved to study at degree level, but didn’t want to read at the time.

I find it astonishing that we teach centuries old texts, when the world is drowning in intelligent, relevant, mind blowing, world changing art, and science is taking steps that are both profoundly dangerous and awe inspiring in their scope. But the kids don’t know any of this. Most of them don’t even know who the Tory Party are, and some think Transformers are real.

I am aware that a lot of this was covered while Gove was making his changes a while ago, but my experiences in teaching have led me to believe that Gove was really only giving the educational establishment what they secretly want. The reality is that while pay, pensions and working conditions made headlines during Gove’s push the idea of dropping Shakespeare, poetry and an emphasis on Victorian literature didn’t. At its heart this is because the teaching establishment still connects the classics with rising standards when this simply isn’t the case.

The truth is that English teachers like poetry, Shakespeare, Dickens and Tennessee Williams. They like them because they were taught them, and they became teachers because they liked school. It’s a self-preserving model, and it’s tough to break down. Teachers don’t want to embrace change anymore than the government does, but someone needs to push this through because at the moment the world is changing fast, and the kids we’re sending into it aren’t even remotely ready.

The solution has to be, as Gove rightly put it, to return to basics: what do we want to teach these children, and how do we best do that?

If I’m honest, I have no interest in teaching them Shakespeare – he’s dated to the point of only ever being relevant in the broadest sense. I hated Shakespeare at school and still think British education has done something unique in overrating the greatest writer to ever have lived. I want to teach them to read and write though. I want to help them become worldly, open-minded members of a progressive society that is ready to take its role in a globalised economy. I just don’t see how they can do that when the majority of what they’ll need to know to do that is going to have to be self-taught.

Education as I see it is a self-serving, self-preserving form of social conditioning that’s been (accidentally) designed to create the illusion of education while keeping anything of any real value away from the people who need it most. And I wouldn’t feel so bad about this if I didn’t think that teachers were as complicit as the government in preserving it.