Funny, poignant, charming and deeply sad at times, this is a fascinating insight into a teaching life.
Teaching wasn't his first choice, but once in the classroom he found his calling.
Tim is a passionate advocate for children and their learning, and his educational philosophy is illustrated through touching anecdotes of children and their struggles and successes.
Written against the backdrop of changing times in New Zealand, this memoir is a deep dive into education and its place in our world.
Funny, poignant, charming and deeply sad at times, this is a fascinating insight into a teaching life.
Teaching wasn't his first choice, but once in the classroom he found his calling.
Tim is a passionate advocate for children and their learning, and his educational philosophy is illustrated through touching anecdotes of children and their struggles and successes.
Written against the backdrop of changing times in New Zealand, this memoir is a deep dive into education and its place in our world.
Funny, poignant, charming and deeply sad at times, this is a fascinating insight into a teaching life.
Teaching wasn't his first choice, but once in the classroom he found his calling.
Tim is a passionate advocate for children and their learning, and his educational philosophy is illustrated through touching anecdotes of children and their struggles and successes.
Written against the backdrop of changing times in New Zealand, this memoir is a deep dive into education and its place in our world.
I WON THE hearts and minds of some of the teachers.
Others expressed reservations but were willing to give it a go. The teacher who still hadn’t forgiven me for knocking the Friday afternoon videos on the head said she would do it if she had to. The next task was to communicate the intention to adopt a radical new structure to the parent community. I wrote a full and detailed outline of the proposal in the fourth paragraph of an overly long school newsletter. Yes, I did know most people seldom read beyond paragraph two. They would look for their child’s name and, sometimes, for a list of upcoming events. One couple, one of the few Pākehā to send their child to the school, and then only because of its convenient location to their work, made an appointment to see me. I braced myself for their reaction, but was still surprised by its vehemence. They were angry and distressed. For them, the proposed changes meant the school would no longer look like the places they had been to as children, and this amounted to a heresy. The
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father lost his cool and shouted. I lost my cool and shouted. The mother called us ‘boys’ and calmed us down. She didn’t give us lollies. We talked for a long time. They spoke of how they expected more consideration, given that they represented the minority group I so desperately needed in the school. This made me feel like shouting again. I wrote them letters of explanation and finally won some grudging acceptance. But they also made me see that the struggling immigrant community of Newton Central was too busy trying to survive to have the luxury of questioning teachers. We were supposed to know what we were doing. Had I been teaching in a middle-class suburb, my attempt to throw out a traditional model of education would never have floated — it would have been blasted to bits before it even left the slipway. In 1990 we launched into it. A lot of time was spent making up class lists that would give a balance in number, gender, ethnicity and ability. Families were given the option of their children all being in the same room or different rooms. Almost all chose the first option, which was great considering we called the system ‘family grouping’. For the next six years this was how we operated. Systems were refined, community acceptance increased and the school roll began to reflect the demography of the neighbourhood. In fact, we had a steady flow of people from outside the area electing to come to us. By 1996, however, things started to fall apart, largely because of staff changes. The original group of teachers who had accepted the idea and worked on its development, responded to its challenges and enjoyed seeing it working,
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underwent change. Some left, but, more significantly, the growth of the roll meant that new teachers joined us. Most found the day-to-day work in a multi-level classroom too much of a shock. They had known about it, had much of it explained, but were bowled over by the reality — the cold shower in the tropics syndrome. In fairness, I have to acknowledge that it is much easier to accept something new if you have been part of its creation than it is to try to fit yourself into someone else’s creation. In the years in which family grouping had its heyday there were, I believe, a number of real advantages for children. Let me do the good teacher thing and present these advantages as a list:
1. In broad terms, ideas about chronological age became
less important than ability and attainment levels. If I asked a teacher who in the room was eight years old, he or she would answer this less readily than a question about who was at a particular reading level. We came to believe that if you had a classroom of children of the same age, the spread of ability and attainment would be from X to Y. If you had children aged five to eleven, the range of ability and attainment would probably still be X to Y. 2. A child could stay with the same teacher for more than one year, and in fact some children ended up having their entire primary school education with the one teacher. This gave child and teacher the chance to develop a deep and close knowledge of each other. I told parents
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they could change to a different teacher whenever they wanted to, but this option was seldom taken up. People argue that this deprived children of the strengths that can come from variety. There is truth in this, but I believe we are talking about a very close relationship, akin to the relationship children have with their parents — a relationship where the values of stability and consistency far outweigh other considerations. We called this family grouping because we wanted what we were developing to have the characteristics of the best of families, and consistency was high on this list of characteristics. 3. The beginning of each new year did not bring the usual kerfuffle as a teacher got to know a new group of children, established rules and routines, and learned about levels and needs. This was already known and in place, as were children’s friendships and their knowledge of where the reading books and paintbrushes were kept. I would walk around the school at five past nine on the morning of the first day of a new year and be overjoyed, overwhelmed really, by the fact that it was as if we had not been away for six weeks. Everything slotted back into place, wheels turned again, and the whole place just felt busy. It was a delight to be there, and to be spending time in classrooms with such a wonderful and courageous group of teachers — time I probably should have spent in my office, writing it all up for the Review Office before the sin of simply enjoying the cake came back to haunt me.
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4. One of the constant challenges in a conventionally organised school is balancing numbers. If you have significantly more children in Standard Two than, for example, in Standard Three, do you just make the classes at one level bigger than at the other, or do you contemplate dreaded composite classes? We were able to keep numbers evenly balanced — anyone could go anywhere.
THERE WERE THREE further significant advantages
that I want to outline more fully later. The first concerns new- entrant children, the second Māori language education, and the third involves care of children with special needs. But first I will tell you the story of one student, a true story that may illustrate what could sometimes happen in a family-grouped classroom at Newton Central School. Wednesday was often a day when the unexpected occurred. Monday had its beginning-of-the week turmoil and Tuesday was the day to sort out Monday’s unfinished business. Wednesday allowed me to look up, have a bit of a think. I always had a sense of anticipation about what Wednesday might bring. On this particular Wednesday it brought Frankie. Or, more accurately, he brought himself. I had never seen him before. He charged into my office and flung himself into one of the steel-framed, vinyl-covered chairs that I had arranged in a small circle for cosy chats with parents — the new, the anxious, the pleased and the displeased. These ugly, standard- issue chairs were low, with sloping backs and wooden arms.