Tuesday, 10 November 2015

remember remember

Copyright: <a href='http://www.123rf.com/profile_edwardsamuel'>edwardsamuel / 123RF Stock Photo</a>


Do you wear a poppy? Did you ever consider your reasons as to why or why not wear one? My earliest memory of poppies go back to school where I'd jump at the chance to avoid lessons to visit other classrooms offering the tray of paper flowers, hopefully co-joined by a good buddy or two. 

Then years pass and history becomes meaningful. Moving through the decades to parenthood, teaching war poetry to student troops, watching the news irrevocably filled with conflict and death; my views about wearing the poppy changed. It seemed irrelevant that I had no family members who had lost their lives or were serving in the armed forces, as far as I knew, I felt that people had died in wars that were defending the country I had been born, educated, lived, worked and was raising my family in.

Maybe it was teaching and discussing the poetry of Wilfred Owen or novels such as Private Peaceful with classes of diverse students that enabled me to realise the importance of understanding how these wars affected families. I pointed out the weary war memorials we blindly walk past in our home-towns bear the names of real people who died real deaths in a real war. We explored the tale of young men who signed up for service years before they were legally allowed in order to do their duty; which then in turn opened a discussion for what duty means and entails. In this time of 'holy' wars it's imperative we understand what drives a person to kill for their beliefs - even if we don't agree.

Amidst youthful protestations of 'it was their choice' or 'English soldiers should defend England' and  a sense of apathy about these wars, I explained conscription and which countries were part of the Empire, meaning that men and women from far-flung nations were also in service. I don't romanticise their involvement and clearly by the fact that most media images of this time erase Indian, African or Caribbean soldiers, it's obvious that they were not given equal status to white soldiers despite dying on the same battlefields.  I have read an account of a Grenadian officer during WW1 being refused permission to command his own troops after the voyage overseas purely because of his colour - he could remain in charge only on the ship but not on land as white soldiers would not accept themselves as a subordinate to a man of colour. Or the recounts of soldiers in British West Indies Regiment being mistreated and ignored regardless of the service they were providing

In researching a novel set in the Caribbean I came across an old Ministry of Information video entitled 'West Indies calling' telling of the Caribbean people actively involved in the Second World War. The crisp-clipped English accents and pristine uniforms place black service men and women alongside their white counterparts working hard and doing their bit for Britain. On a programme about a white supremacist group, their march was proudly led by an aged man wearing his wartime medals with supporters claiming how men like him and served and died in the war.  Yes this is true. And each to their own belief. But there were also men not like him who died for this country.

At this time every year, in class, I show clips and images of soldiers of all ages, nationalities and colour to the future generations that need to remember and remonstrate about the wars that have come before us, are still with us now and unfortunately will probably be with us in the future. 

I was compelled to write this post when I came across The Royal British Legion's charity poster for this year's poppy campaign featuring a black soldier who had recently served alongside a white soldier from WW1. The message simply evoking how war straddles generations and colour.

So it is my choice to observe the silence and wear a poppy.

This post also appeared on post40bloggers.com : Education

Monday, 9 November 2015

do you know where you're going to?

Copyright: <a href='http://www.123rf.com/profile_dirkercken'>dirkercken / 123RF Stock Photo</a>

I wrote a couple of weeks ago on the thoughts as the family took tentative steps onto new ground : visiting schools during open evening season. Fired up I was determined to search and destroy through every school in order to ensure our first born was given what she deserved. 

After a trip to the first school  I noticed BigL hanging back behind me; questions posed by highly enthusiastic teachers were bounced to me via her anxious eyes. This wasn't like her at all - the usual defiance and independence had somehow disappeared.  I thought little of it until GeordieLad took her to the next school open evening and was pleased to be regaled with tales aplenty of gruesome science experiments and the like. Completely different he said - couldn't hold her back, asking questions, getting involved. 

It became apparent that I was the difference between the two visits. Without meaning to, my stress levels and teacher-parent angst was spilling over into her experience. Friends may not have agreed with my decision to leave the rest of the school visits to GeordieLad and BigL (after all as a teacher surely I would recognise the signs of a good school vs a bad one?); but I realised that this wasn't about me. Look at my second sentence at the start of this post - there was absolutely no way I could hold back those feelings - that's who I am (no apologies - it comes in so very useful at other times) but I needed to back down and let these evenings be BigL's event. I think being teacher-me, somehow, got in the way of being parent-me; for her and for me. Plus I could check out the schools myself on open mornings. 

Anyhoo six rounds of schools visited and laden down with a forest full of prospectus packs she was done. Decisions discussed and ranked in order. So off she went to France with the school and here we were stuck with the online application.

The primary school process seemed a doddle so I thought I'll knock this out in half an hour ready for a glass of wine in front of the telly before I knew it.

Not so.

What a palaver. I can't even bear to relive it here. Suffice to say here are some nuggets of advice from my experience.

1. Keep your username and password close by - it's not something you'll ever remember and the amount of times the damn thing logs you out, you'll be calling it out in your sleep.

2. Save and save and save. Every time you stop to have a think about anything. Save. After re-reading and retyping our reasons for preferring the chosen school (optional) the system had kicked us out without warning and we lost all our prose.

3. Read each school's admission guidelines prior to starting the application and don't be naive enough to think each school within a borough or city would be as daft enough to have the same guidelines. Ha. We didn't - and hour one online passed slowly.

4. Have any arguments about which school should go at number 3 and 4 (or 5 and 6) before you log in. School admission systems do not wait for parental conflict, they just log you out. Wine was now poured despite being mid-application.

5. Hire a writer to scribe your (optional) reasons for choosing preferred school. That way you won't sound like a crawling licky-bum type arty-farty parent who will bully their way onto the school governors' board, when all you want to say is - "look you have a great school, my kid's great and I think they'll do really well at your school so please, please, please take her". Failing that type it out on a word document, save it, leave it a day, come back to it, pop it on the application form, SAVE it and forget about it until March.

By the way this whole October application, response in March deal. I wonder if I can apply for compensation for the amount of wine and chocolate I will consume in that time in order to 'forget' about said process?