100% Literate

All children reading by age 6.

Apart from those who haven’t got the hang of speech sounds properly.

Oh, and those with a literacy difficulty (as yet, undiagnosed, because they are only 6).

And those with a diagnosed SEN.

And disabled children.*

Obviously, we don’t mean those children. THOSE children will never be literate.

Or will they?

 

Maybe we could stick with the 100% and look again at what we mean by literacy.

 

*children with Down’s syndrome were deemed ‘educable’ in 1971. It is only since 1981 that they have been able to attend mainstream schools.

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Ofsted: Correction

I hate getting things wrong. Not backing up my claims with evidence and veering off into polemic was a regular criticism during my student days.

Yesterday, I veered off into such a polemic, and I would like to publicly state a couple of things I got wrong. I’d like to issue a public apology for the error.

If, like me, you are unsure what a commentary is, and its purpose, I looked it up and you can find the definition here: http://www.dictionary.com/browse/commentary

  • There was a jot of admission of Ofsted’s responsibility for the narrowing of the school curriculum, with particular reference to ‘low attaining children’.

Here it is:

“Earlier this year, I commissioned a research programme to broaden our understanding of how curriculums are implemented in our schools, particularly the national curriculum as a key government policy. This was one of the main research priorities of my first year as Chief Inspector. One of the aims of this work was to challenge ourselves, as well as schools, about whether Ofsted has always recognised what is best in curriculum design, development and implementation. If we have not, I wanted to know whether inspection has played a role in bending the curriculum out of shape.”

I think 95 words out of 3,361 counts as a jot. (Definition here: http://www.dictionary.com/browse/jot )

Admitting when you get things wrong and making amends is important, I think.

You can find my original post here: https://notsoordinarydiary.wordpress.com/2017/10/12/school-accountability-and-the-entitlement-to-a-broad-and-balanced-curriculum

It also appears in TES here: https://www.tes.com/news/school-news/breaking-views/ofsted-needs-take-responsibility-narrow-dry-curriculum-puts-our

School Accountability and the entitlement to a broad and balanced curriculum

I’ve been a teacher a long time, since 1994 in fact, and over the years, I have been witness to the things that Amanda Spielman, new Ofsted chief, spoke of yesterday – you can read her speech here – a speech which I finally found time to read in the evening, while I was supposed to be watching the telly (I still have no idea, really, what the whole Terminator Mark Million was supposed to be about, and how old is John Connor supposed to be these days, anyway?), and, such is my irritation that I find myself cranking up the laptop on the train, as I whoosh through the early morning countryside on my way to work.

You see, what annoys me is not that the Chief Inspector has noticed that the curriculum (you know, the one that has cost so much money over the years), for a lot of children, is not that thing that we all hoped it would be. It is not a ‘treasure house of riches’ (that’s a quote from the foreword of the latest iteration), but a narrow, dry diet that in my view, and I am sure I am not alone in this, instead of opening up new opportunities and new ideas, widening horizons and just being interesting and, dare I say it, fun, for its own sake, puts children off education and makes school the very last place that they want to be.

For seven years, ever since I stepped away from domesticity and back into my professional life, I have been aware that my expertise in music, in history, in DT, in curriculum planning (yes, I am one of those who are increasingly rare in the system), is not valued. It might help you get a job in the first place, if you happen to get an old-fashioned head teacher reading your application, but in the end, in a today when the ability to play the piano in assembly isn’t valued, because you may as well use the CD so that you can use your assembly time for something much more valuable, I don’t know, like marking, or interventions, or catching up on your emails or whatever other job that teachers find to do in their precious non-contact time and after all, what we mostly teach is maths and English, and what do you know about that?

We know this; this story of narrowing and dryness and maths and English in the morning and again in the afternoon, the lack of access to the arts, to PE, to DT and all the other interesting things there are to learn in school, and which I notice children, my own included, enjoying so much, to such a degree that they chatter about what they have been doing in the evening, over tea, and skip off to school in the morning because looking at their timetable, today is their favourite day, is no longer one that belongs only to teachers (and you can concentrate and multiply this effect for children with SEND – the ‘lower attaining – let’s call it what it is). Parents, politicians, journalists and now inspectors have got wind of it.

I’ve written about it lots of times before, such is my consternation. Here’s a description of my daughter’s recent experience.

But this is not why I am irritated, annoyed enough to sit typing here, worried that my fellow travellers might spill their coffee on my new computer. Working as I do, for an educational charity with a national voice, I have the opportunity, unlike many of my former colleagues, to escape the powerless trap and feel, at least, as if I am doing something about it.

I am cross because of blame. In her speech, the Chief Inspector doesn’t just draw a picture and reassure the profession that she is going to do something about it – that would be a welcome pronouncement. She refuses to take, for the organisation she heads, one jot of responsibility, but instead points the finger of blame at teachers and schools.

Now, I know that schools aren’t perfect. They are human institutions made up of human people who make mistakes, just like me. But I do know this. The actions they take on curriculum, and ensuring that children have access to the things we, as a society, deem important, are driven, not by the curriculum itself, but by fear. The fear of our punitive inspection system, all in the name of accountability.

And here’s the thing. Here’s the thing that hurts: when, as the parent of a disabled child, you really need your school to be accountable, to you, in the interests of your child, they aren’t.

Elastic

This week has been one of journeys, of visits, to the past, and glimpses of the future. Sam, at 16, is leaving the care of paediatricians, moving towards adult health services, and together, we are making our way between appointments, visiting the places and people of our shared past.

There are changes in us all. Instead of a rough collection of post-war prefabricated huts there is a brand, spanking new Children’s Centre, but, funnily enough, many of the faces are familiar; over the years, the medical staff have rescued one or other of my children from the jaws of whichever illness was threatening to pull them under more than once or twice. One of the reasons, after our housemove, we have opted to stay on at the same trust is the continuity. Many of the health professionals who see Sam for routine check-ups have known him, and me, since he was born.

This week, after the hearing aid debacle (I have checked everywhere, in and out of pockets and bags, the washing machine and the reception desk at college), it was the turn of the heart scan. It’s been on the horizon since the summer; twice now we have had to postpone, due to holiday or work commitments. The date has been on the calendar for at least a month, a final check, just to be sure.

Sam’s heart hasn’t had such close attention since he was three days old. That day, bleak, and grey, the tail end of January, was wet. Instead of sunshine, the crispness of a golden autumn, it was slick. Brown and dirty; the dampness in the air, the remains of tears, the shaky sweat brought on by the hospital and a darkened room cooling in the cold air. Then, he was a tiny baby, he hadn’t been home, hadn’t had his first bath; now he is on the cusp of manhood. This was the morning when together, we looked in the bathroom mirror as he shaved the beard that is slowly roughening his baby face.

It was supposed to be no big deal. Like I said, it’s been on the calendar for months. Over the years, we have got used to dividing our time, not exactly taking turns, but attending the appointments, of which there are many, separately. Most of them are mundane. Most of them require only the polite boredom of waiting your turn, the oft repeated recitation of a medical history, the everso slightly defensive spike, the sensitivity to unsaid, but assumed stereotypes. I was unprepared for the wash of emotion, the tidal return of a day long gone, when I feared, when I truly feared what our future might be.

There was no reason to fear. There was no sign of breathlessness, no dusky tinge to his skin. As he has grown, he has become a vision of good health. I knew that this scan was a formality, a chance for a doctor to see the baby grown, to shake his, and my hand and say goodbye. But still. There are moments when reason does not feel strong. There are times when the echo of the heart is an unstoppable force. It overwhelms, and it catches you out.

We left with a smile. A wry admission that we hope never to meet again was our goodbye. We move on. We may carry the echo of that dark January day, but today there is sunshine. Today, there is tomorrow.

via Daily Prompt: Elastic

Sunday Best

I had the oddest experience the other day. As you (probably don’t) know, I moved house recently and, as the nights are drawing in and I have reached the conclusion of my hemming and hawing, I thought it was about time I sorted out some sitting room (the hubs calls it the lounge, which I tease him by declaring that that name is horribly bourgeois) curtains. I found a nearby branch of a fabric place I have used before (I’m not what you might call skilled in the matter of sewing), and off I trotted, measurements in hand – and they refused to sell me any. Not in so many words, you understand, we ran out of time and I had to make a dash for it (slave to the school-and-college run that I am), but still. I got the distinct impression that something was…off.

I thought about it afterwards as I scratched my head and googled around to see if there was anywhere else I could get hold of something to keep the darkness at bay, and I came to a depressing conclusion. I think it was something to do with me. Not that I barged in to the shop and demanded to be served, not that sort of thing (people who do that never seem to have any trouble getting what they want, after all), but that I didn’t look like someone who could afford to spend the kind of money that the curtains are going to cost (don’t worry, I have saved up – I’ve bought curtains before, I know they are costly things). Seeing as I had been cleaning the house (the other treadmill of my life), and the fact that it was raining, I had not considered dressing up a necessity – rather, I was considerably dressed down. Outward appearances did not tell the truth of the matter.

I’ve come a cropper in this way before, you see. I went through a phase of dressing up for church, when the kids were little. In an unconscious echo of my teenage years, when I dressed up (or down, depending on which way you looked at it) for the evening service, it was my one opportunity of the week to wear something swish, after a week of anonymous dressing in the ubiquitous uniform of early motherhood.  I’d even do my hair (well, sometimes) and put on makeup. I knew I wasn’t presenting the right kind of image after I had one very difficult conversation with someone or other (I had done something wrong, spoken the wrong way or asked for the wrong thing – in the wrong way) and I had to point out that I, as the mother of a disabled child, was the very person that, perhaps, they were seeking to reach.

Sometimes I think it was the same when  Sam was at primary school too (although we never had the same full and frank exchange of views about it). I didn’t fit the mould of the person who might need a hand, every now and again. Some people get all the help in the world, the cups of tea, the signposting to official people who you can ask for help, some people get the sickly sweet patronage of the welfare state and others, those hampered by their membership of privilege, instead of helped, are pathologised. Demanding. Fussy. Pushy. Difficult. Asking in the wrong way and at the wrong time, not following the plan, or being the right kind of mother.

I don’t know, maybe I should just suck it up. Maybe I should dress up for shopping and dress down for church, just so people know I mean business. Maybe I should cry in school playgrounds, not save my tears for the washing up or when I’m cutting onions; maybe I should publicly broadcast a somehow acceptable disability story so that everyone can feel sorry for me, and good about themselves for helping. Maybe I should hide who I really am, don the cloak of hypocrisy so that they don’t get defensive and I get…I don’t know what I get, a relief from disappointment, perhaps.

I’ll go back and get my curtains. I’ll screw up my courage, flick my hair over my shoulder, put on my sunglasses (even if it’s raining) and remind myself that I don’t have to care what other people think, or appear to think of me, that it’s the results (in this case, curtains) that matter. One day, I’ll transfer the lesson and I’ll stop being phased by the criticism of wrongness and then we’ll see.