Transformative and Inspirational Eduction Ticks no Boxes

Chapter Ten
Ascending the Clouds Skywards



Ruhuna Michelle Mary Anne is nose diving fast, until, at the final second, sensing great disaster, ascends through clouds to safety. She requests a list of feminine names to choose from to provide her with a new identity. She pops her head into the staff room letting go a continuous stream of verbal harassment. Puppy dog following its master, continuous questions, each time gaining in cheeky confidence. I can’t object to that, but the boundary into my personal life is getting a little pushed.

“But you called me honey. You did Richard, I heard you!” Tricia’s close by and say to her, “Anna Michelle Nadine Maxine Yvonne says I called her honey.” All mellifluous and sticky tacky words through her dirty teeth, “and Tricia it’s not true. I don’t like the use of such names.” She’s moved from the ambition of becoming a policewoman, “I’d be good at that”, to becoming an “Olympic athlete. I’ve made up my mind Richard. I’ve taken notice of what you’ve said. I’ll apply myself.”
“What type of athlete?”
“Juggling!”
“But juggling isn’t in the Olympics yet.”
“Yes it is”, she insists.
“You’d have to train every day and dedicate your life to your chosen sport. You’d have to live like a nun, none of your messing about, nothing but total dedication, getting fit and taking hormones, probably worse.”

“That’s right”, she replies, “I can’t win. You always knock me down.”

The mountains of her Himalayan homeland matter greatly to Lucy, especially now she’s changed her name - definitely. Each time the students talk to her they have to think carefully how to address her. It’s helluva subtle strategy to stop them calling her Ribena. After two years they’ll be so confused, or programmed, they’ll simply refer to her by number. During her computer lesson she works on her Himalayas project and in caring detail captivates flowered fragrances and rushing wild clouds obscuring massive peaks. Her imagery of colours, and of her family, come alive, albeit briefly for she wipes the damn work off the computer. I can’t help thinking it’s symbolic of the remains of her own life, tattered someplace where Buddhist bells jangle and tinkle in the breeze and Mill Hill suburbia. I’m completely uncertain what to do with her. I talk to the counsellors about Jonanna Anna Danella’s request for a psychotherapist who suggest we leave the issue on hold until we see how her counselling progresses. It may be sensible to take the slower, moderate route, only time will tell. Katerina Xotial Zandra Beverley is getting more assertive - she’s pushing against other students as much as possible, testing what they can take. Probing how much she can get away with, sometimes successfully, sometimes with a rebuffel. Rightly so.

Dean has taken to Katerina Dvina Mary because she allows him to shake a fist at her with impunity, rather than getting a slap across the mouth as others might do. He’s also developing a sense of dawning strength from within. His laughter’s becoming deeper and his sense of fun more involved and sophisticated. Minute, but significant, movements. Anna Michaela Christina Flora running along the corridor, chasing Dean, childish games relived, hide and seek, catch me if you can. Then the Buddhist bells ring, the wind howls and the snow smothers summer shadows.

“Richard can you tell them to stop laughing at me”, she pleads, “can you tell them to stop calling me names. Richard, please tell them to leave me alone.” My answer is, increasingly, “No, I can’t help you. You need to learn to fight your own battles.”
“But I can’t win with you.”
“Yes, but you can learn not to lose, which is more important.”
“You don’t listen to me. I’m going home”, and she duly walks off, only to return a few minutes later, lost and apologetic, throwing out the same words as usual. “I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking, I must do something. I’ve decided.”
“Ah yes”, I reply, “but what have you decided?”

I’m infuriated by her lack of desire to focus on what she’s chosen to do. By the caretaker’s office, where it’s relatively quiet, we lean on some upturned boxes conspiratorially chatting whilst staff, with their own concerns, drift past. I throw everything back at her, emphasising her life’s her own and everything her choice. She’s two years at college to learn how to better her life, to gain confidence.
“I know”, she says, immediately reprising “but I can’t win with you”, as her do nothing mantra.

She personalises everything, refusing to talk details and facts, hiding her life as the great clouds of the Himalayas obscure peaks ready to be conquered if only they were visible. Confidence boosting chats and frenetic discussions are one thing, but silence when questioned hemorrhages will as her life force drains away. Snow melted into streams and rushed somewhere else. “I can’t go on. I’ve had enough”, she mantras withdrawing in her habitual manner. Her voice is subtly different, slippery, cold, a child sliding across ice, deprecating and self-loathing. I listen to each new intonation, quicksilver moving through numerous topics in the time it takes to change words betwixt brain and mouth. Avoiding college to feeling persecuted because of her name, joining the police or becoming a famous film star. Each a subtle dynamic cast from a rod fly fishing to catch salmon. I’ve been caught, I’m trapped, now listen to me. Her complexities foxing and bedazzling. I try to ignore her, suggest we talk some other time and I turn my back on her. She glares at me saying loudly in front of Mike and a group of students he’s with, “You always ignore me. Always!”

I turn it on her. “Always means forever, on each and every occasion. Am I doing it now? I’m not, I am listening to you, aren’t I? But what I am saying to you is I can’t give my time exclusively to one student, I have others. We talk when necessary and I never turn away a student in need.”
“I can’t win!”
“Yes you can, but first you have to think you won’t lose.”

2

All in Monday’s work, the weekend little remembered as students wind up for the week ahead. A small team of the less able, kicked sideways and rejected, becoming more able and willing to tackle what they should have done, encouraged to do, years ago - work. An infectious enthusiasm is slowly building. It must be the effects of the end of the first term, a time to reflect and feel reasonably pleased about progress made. Students taking more control of their lives, yet Paddy, the doe eyed lost child still gives me cause for concern. I speak to him during a computer lesson. “You can’t keep messing about and changing floppies every few minutes, especially when you’ve not checked your work with me. I want you to work, not prat around!”
“OK, Richard!”

That’s the standard response, but I’m not going to let the little bugger get away with it. The Microspecial has a ‘Paper-round’ programme where the player has to plot the most efficient way to deliver four newspapers in a maze using co-ordinates and estimating the number of steps required to navigate the route. I hear his voice call out, “I can’t do it!”
“I can hear, honest I can, but I’ve something more pressing at the moment. Read the instructions, think and do it again”, I shout over.

Every one’s working. Paul’s taking an interest in green politics and we discuss a few points he wants to insert into an already developing article. Annie Mai-Lise Gabriella Marsha is working hard on the Himalayas. Sunil’s working on a trip he did last year to Delhi and Lee’s conquering the Dart programme to produce some amazing shapes. Paddy’s still shouting, louder now, cursing the world. I guess he still can’t master the paper-round and must be stuck in the maze figuring co-ordinates. Chung and Tricia are deep in thought in the corner. They seldom do much in this session other than
ruminate in dark conclave which disappoints me. I walk up to them. “Can I join you? What’s going on?”
“We slept with each other at the weekend”.
“Well, nothing like honesty”, I reply.

I’m taken aback by their candour. I’m thinking of something deep and meaningful to say. Maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t want to risk stupid questions. Was it nice? Did you enjoy it? Gordon Bennett - did you take precautions? We had a pregnancy last year. Please mother of God not another one this year.

“You must have supportive parents if they let you sleep together.”
“I have”, replies Tricia.
“I got shouted at”, says Chung and see fear in his face. When they speak each sentence, each utterance, appears thought out. Each word seeking consciousness. They hold each other tight.
“Tell you what”, I say, “why don’t you write about it”.
Tricia, ever the enthusiastic one, jumps at the suggestions.
“Right, c’mon Chung, let’s get started.”

Paddy’s getting fidget mode ready to leave his chair.
“Shall we start the programme now?”, I ask, moving towards his station.
“I don’t understand it”, he repeats.
Some papers fall from his briefcase and he stretches to pick them up.

“Let’s go through it together”, I reassure him. We do, but not before I go to the staff room and collect an old compass. We then examine the screen, reading carefully the instructions. I can see his mistake, he’s gone the long way around the maze and given incorrect compass bearings. We spend fifteen minutes going over the instructions. The mood of concentration persists, just as when I left the room to collect the compass - that of work and effort.

“Look, Richard, I’ve done it!” screams Paddy, looking at me, ecstatic, achieving something he thought he never would.

I check on Chung and Tricia. Words are appearing on their screen. “We spent the night together,” Tricia tells me, “Chung was very good. He told me he learnt it watching blue movies.” I leave them to it.

3

The assertion training, cancelled last Thursday, because of Julia’s illness, is about to take place. We’ve been able to slot an extra session in next term, but right now the group looks apprehensive; what’s assertion written large over their faces. Julia takes control, aided and abetted by Mike and myself. She takes a whiteboard marker and throws it at a student. “Tell me who you are and write your name on the board.”

She throws until all the students have their names displayed. Each does a nervous fumble, a cack handed catch, before moving awkwardly to the front. Chung’s signature is no longer the tiny “I can’t see it myself so I don’t have to write big scrawl”, rather a complex flourish that shouts, “I’m getting to be special.” Sunil no longer turns his back to the group, but straight forwardly introduces himself. We discuss the meaning of assertion and grapple with how to apply it to our lives. More than a few vague and lost expressions. Paddy begins to tap his briefcase. We split into twos, each pair taking a sheet of flip chart paper and a felt tip. Chung and Tricia, Sunil and Elizabeth Regine Rose Ulla Anna, Dean and Lee, Paul and Paddy and Mike and myself.

Julia begins to write on the white board, ready to remove what’s already on it.
“Oh my God, don’t!”, I shout, “can you leave this morning’s message on.”
“Pardon?”, she enquires.
I explain I’m doing a project on the power of words. It started when I wrote my first message, “Today the world will end at 3 p.m.” Of course, it didn’t. Then I wrote, “The world will end tomorrow at 8 a.m.” Ditto. Now the message simply reads, “The world ended this morning at dawn. Who’s to blame?” I write first thing in the morning and students are beginning to think I’m a little strange.

“It’s OK, Julia, just leave the ‘who’s to blame’ bit on please. Thanks.”
Julia’s headings, ‘submissive’, ‘dishonesty’, ‘aggressive’ ‘assertive’, writ large and bold, vie with my words. She explains we’re to brain storm in pairs. Nods of approval as they fathom out their words to write beneath the headings. After five minutes of contemplation we commence and soon the flip chart paper is filled.

Under ‘submissive’ is written:
It’s like being angry
I want to fight or hit them
You can’t tell them how you are feeling
Being quite shy
Having headaches
Hanging your head and hiding your body
Not being yourself
Not wanting to show who you really are
Not wanting to say or do what you want

Under ‘dishonesty’ is written by various hand styles in gloomy colours:
Pains
Pain in the neck
Headaches
Breakdown
Cowardly
Sneaky
Half-hearted
Lacking in confidence
Letting others do and say what you should do and say yourself
When you don’t want to come out and with it
Because it’s too hard to say

Responses continue as they read the comments pinned on the wall. Sabine Paloma Gertude Dolly Anne refuses to work any longer with Sunil and the group’s angry with her. She’s broken the mood and momentum of the others and begins to pace up and down the room, walking out, to quickly return. For ‘aggression’ Shelley Nadine Mabel Mary Anne wrote in her own fair hand, “when you’re feeling aggressive you want to cry and you feel under the weather. Sometimes you want to tell them you are down because they don’t know how you are feeling.”

One liners continue in a tidal wave of special needs consciousness: punching, bullying, angry, breakdown, happy, depression, smacking, upset, violent, rage inside, lacking in love, feeling weak and angry without knowing why, pushing people around and telling others what to do and think. Assertive was the least responded to and only Madelaine Odine Marlene Alice Anne adds anything of substance, “when you want to speak out how you are feeling and don’t want to bottle it up inside.” In small yellow felt tip writing she adds, “fed up”.

We take a break. Reconvened we discuss the comments in turn beginning with ‘aggression’. Lee, in his soft spoken voice begins, “I know how to stop being aggressive.”
“Tell us Lee.”
“Instead of me hitting people and getting angry I should let them hit me. I’m strong and don’t feel pain”.
“Don’t be a wally, that just hurts you”, shouts Tricia.
“But I feel myself getting mad and I shouldn’t hit anyone, should I?”

“Aren’t there other ways of showing aggression?”
“Yes!” shouts Dean, “smacking them.”
“Do people think that’s right?” I ask.
“No!”, intervenes Sunil in full scream force.

“Lee”, I continue, “remember last week when you came into the room and told Eunice Henrietta Sarah Ursula Violet about her taxi?”
“Yes, when I burst in.”
“That’s the word,” I continue, “but can you remember how you said it?”
“I told her about the taxi,” he repeats.
“Yes, but how did you say it?”
“Oh, I shouted.”
“Yes you did, didn’t you?”
“And what happened?”, I turn and ask the group.
“People listened to him.”
“Yes they did, didn’t they,” continuing, “sometimes just talking firmly and with authority gets people to take you seriously and not think you’re a push over.”

“I always carry an alarm,” pipes up Angela Marilyn Aurelia Matilda Sara.”
“Why?”
“As a protection.”
“What does it do?”
“It keeps people off.”
“How?”

“It just does.” The great unspecific speaker sowing confusion on her slushy syntax is getting rattled.
“Explain”, I demand.
“Oh, Richard!”
“Yes, come on Sarah,” the group replies, “tell us how it keeps people away.”
No response.

I try a different tack. “O.K., what precisely does it do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” I begin, “how can an alarm protect you? It can’t biff to the ground a mob of raging lunatics. It can’t say, stop, I am an alarm you must obey me and go away, can it?”
“No, it can’t.”
“It makes a loud noise though, doesn’t it? It wakes the dead and makes the living take notice. It was the same when Lee came looking for you. He took a deep confident breath and told you your mini-cab had arrived. Sometimes speaking like that is good protection.”

Dean’s head is hanging low on the table, slumped, dough like, flesh flattened on the melamine, thinking of all the reasons he wrote ‘smacking’ on the sheet. I wonder how many of the group bears the temporal scars of smacking. Lee’s already decided he can take the pain of thumpings because he’s had to. He’s never fought back to express anger, preferring the security of self-effacement. The small words of day to day aggression directed at them, bullied, beaten and kicked, a holy triumvirate of the meek and the weak, magnifying into self loathing. And Lee thinks he can cope with such inflicted pain? And the rest? Weaknesses, long suffered headaches, being submissive. Accepting fate, prolapsed consciousness knowing to fight means rebuke, knowing to express feeling is to scorned and mocked. We raise the subject of our ‘inner-selves’ and what it means to possess one. Paddy assertively declares he hasn’t got one, whilst Paul, beneath his thick spectacles, declares he has. Chung’s uncertain, and Dean still slumped upon the table, is barely breathing.

Ruhina Samantha Amanda Venus informs the group these mighty topics are not easy to discuss. We listen to her but can’t understand what she’s trying to say. The more she continues the more the group appears to respect her, but the substance passes jumbled through her mouth. She drones on not being able to cope and we studiously listen, though the central meaning of her monologue has slipped from our grasp. She abandons ship at this point, by which time lifeboats have disappeared over the horizon and class ends.

Thursday’s our next session with Julia, but she arrives twenty minutes late. She tells us to walk around the room - prevents us from asking her why she’s late I guess - and mingle. Ordering us to walk submissively, to walk assertively, greeting people in these moods. This is difficult, they complain of being tense when they walk assertively and complain of doing nothing out of the ordinary when they stroll and mingle submissively. Warmed up we split into twos and write down situations where they’ve felt aggressive and angry about something, I work with Paul who complains about his mini-cab being late this morning. “But it wasn’t his fault,” he continues, “he got caught in the traffic.”
“But Paul, what would you have liked to have done?”
“Phone up the town hall and make a complaint.”
“How did you feel about it?”
“Angry, upset and frustrated.”

Sunil joins forces with Adelaide Marylou Diane Yvonne who, after a few minutes, leaves the room. He joins Paul and myself to describe the traumas at school in Wembley; beatings, robberies, racial abuse, continuous threats, feeling powerless. “It was no good telling the teachers,” he informs us, “they’d did nothing. Anyway, the kids would only beat me more than ever.” We write this down on flip chart paper.

We report back. Lee’s first, talking about his incident with Max, Sunil and Dean. He reveals his feelings of anger and weakness, his lack of power being kicked on the floor. Sunil reports what he’s written. The group listens, apart from Paddy - who fiddles with a magazine advertising video tapes.
“What could you have done differently?”, Julia asks.
“Hit them back!”
“I couldn’t, they were much bigger than me.”
“I would,” affirms Tricia.
“I’d punch them,” chimes in Susan Cynthia Camilla Megan.
The rest are silent, Dean especially so. His parents are talking about leaving London and that depresses him. No more college, no more friends.

I break the ice, “Life’s risky for teenagers.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s risky being young. Acts of violence, unsure how to respond to feelings, easily being taken over by them and reacting in an extreme and aggressive manner.”
“I’d still hit them”, replies Anastasia Augusta Francine.
“And what happens if they have a knife?”
Una Rachel Claire Sarah now gets down to her real business. Nobody understands her life, nobody understands how difficult it is for her to cope and no one in the world listens and helps her. She, on the other hand, is the good doctor, the proverbial Samaritan helping others with their problems. The students listen intently and seriously.

“People get angry with me and tell me to get lost.”
“I wonder why?”, shoots back Tricia.
The group’s warming up, Julia and I sit back.
“I don’t know”, she replies hurt.
“I’ll tell you,” Tricia continues, “you never leave us alone. All the time you come over to us uninvited and give your opinions and interfere in our affairs. I don’t like it!”
Pauline Roxanne Melissa looks perplexed.

“That’s right, nobody listens to me, you all ignore me,” she intones in hurt innocence.
“That’s rubbish.”
“We’ve listened to you for twenty minutes talking about yourself, so somebody listens - right”, Tricia blurs back.
“But you don’t. None of you care.”
“Are you saying we lie to you?”
“Yes!”
“Thanks a million!”
“You do.”
“So, no matter what we say to you, you disbelieve us?”
“Sounds to me you want to lose all the time.”
“We’re telling you we do listen and do want to help, but you say we lie.”
“She’s crazy”.
“Yes, she is Dean.”
Quixana Corozon Emma Jade turns her back on her fellows inflaming further passions.

“You should apologise. I think you should say to all of us, by name, that we do listen to you.”
“That’s hard to do Richard.”
“So is listening to you. You take up everyone’s time but give nothing in return,” adds Chung.
“I really mean it. It’s hard, I can’t cope.”
“And we can’t cope with you,” adds Dean quietly.
“What do you want me to say?”
“That we do listen and take notice of you.”
“Say it seriously.”
“She doesn’t mean it!”

Slowly and haltingly she begins to say her lines to the group. Her smile gradually fading from her mouth as she works her way around the room. The group’s taken over, asserting their feelings with the one student who places herself in the frontline of her own and others’ emotions.

3

Friday’s the sponsored table tennis. Many of the second years who planned the event are missing. Derek’s no place to be seen and Bart the dog man is AWOL too. The first year’s contrary as ever, turn up in force instead and the local press, after promising they would, don’t. Nor do we start at 10 a.m. prompt. Nobody has informed Gerry, the transgender cleaner, about it. The tennis tables have no nets. We can’t find the bats and balls, and quickly discover one of the tables has a habit of collapsing when the play gets heated, the slipstream draught too great for its ricketiness to cope with. Nevertheless, the game goes well and Janet, the local representative from the Guide Dogs for the Blind, arrived with her dog. Peter and myself are invited to their next committee meeting to hand over the raised cash. All we have to do now is organize the disco.

Alan talked to the vice principal who does not see any difficult over Tricia and Chung holding hands, but doesn’t intend to see Emrhys for fear of inflaming the situation. Meanwhile Tricia and Chung are looking increasingly worried having long counselling sessions with Julia.

Inspirational and Transformative Education Ticks no Boxes

Chapter Nine
From the Palm of his Hand



From the palm of his hand Chung withdrew a sliver of thin clear plastic, long and seemingly endless, it emerged through parted flesh.

“Richard, I’m getting fed up with people, especially Dean, asking when’s the wedding. I’ll explode,” he starts as the class begins. His volcanic temper has been temporary kept under control, revealed only through his tongue and inflamed eyes, as Tricia’s arms have begun to calm him. My mind, my intuition, is telling me something’s different this time and feel the group’s silence is positive. Chung’s more open and mature, and has something others haven’t.

“Chung what would you do if I brought a member of staff into the group and put my arms around, if I found myself falling in love with her?”
“But you’re married.”
“Chung ....!”
“Oh, you mean like a divorce?”
“Yes, some people do, don’t they?”
“Chung, what would you feel?”
“I’d feel angry.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d be excluded.”
“Right. Maybe Dean, Paul, Lee and the others feel excluded. They haven’t got what you and Tricia have. Chung, do you know what you and Tricia have?”

“Yes”, says Chung directly and sharply affirmative, his head looking straight forward, his eyes proud, “love and caring.”
“And friendship. Someone you can turn to and talk about the world. Someone who can help you when things go bad.”

I wonder loudly, whether Dean, or lost Paddy, have the love and affection they need. I ask Chung if he thinks they’ve special friends to depend upon.
“They don’t, do they?”
“But you have a special friend. I wonder if they feel jealous. Do they Chung?”
“I don’t know.”
“I wonder if it’s time for you and Tricia to help us. Do you think we could talk about what’s special in your relationship?”

I’m asking his help to lead a discussion, challenging the undermining “we’re boys and girls” self image they have. But I’ve lost the thread, unable to come up with the right lines. I’m faring no better than Chung confused with the weight of responsibility I’ve placed upon him. The subject’s sinking from view, important matters tossed about with insufficient focus. Maybe they’re tired, perhaps I’ve been too personal, preferring to keep parts of me hidden and private. Possibly Chung and Tricia are not keen to reveal the depths of their intimacy. Why should I have one rule for me and another for them? The class breaks leaving me feeling nothing but doubt.

I talked to Chung afterwards and tell him I don’t plan to continue our sessions next term. He seems upset. “Can’t we talk about feelings again?”, he asks.

“Do you think college would allow us to continue working like this instead of normal work?”, I ask him.
“Well, you could ask”, he replies.
“I can ask if I could split the group, one half continuing group work, the other written work.”

I’m pressurised by another factor, staff criticism of their relationship, more specifically their hugging and holding each other in public. A meeting’s been arranged with the counsellors to discuss how they could become more involved with special needs students. I see this as an opportunity to talk about Tricia and Chung, making them more conscious of open hostility from certain members of staff. I begin by asking, “What happens when they’re approached by Emrhys again? I object to him telling me I must control the feelings of my students. I don’t think their actions are wrong at all.”

The counsellors say they’ll support me if there’s further trouble from Emrhys. The test for this offer of support is soon in coming, on a Wednesday, forever to be my unlucky day. I receive a call from my faculty director to meet him in his office. “There you are Richard!”, he says as we bump into each other along the corridor leading to his room, “can we talk?” I feel honoured to be sought out by an old style educationalist I greatly respect.

“I’ve had a complaint from a member of staff about two students of yours, Tricia and Chung.” Oh God I think, as my happiness quotient plummets below zero. Alex is senior management and I need to watch what I say, listen intently, and not be abrasive which is how I feel when Tricia and Chung are criticised. I’ve got to put my views across calmly even though I’m intimidated by him. I don’t want to curtail what the couple have. I’m not a moral policeman, but here I am beneath vulture Alex circling me, ready to swoop, pecking me into line. I’m being scrutinized. Christ have I got to justify them - and myself as well - what kind of adult education college is this?

“Richard, I received a call from Emrhys about your two students literally an hour ago”, he says, beckoning me to sit down, though remaining standing himself. “Emrhys asked the two students to stop kissing and behave in the appropriate manner. Can you go and tell them not to behave like this.” My mood sinks deeper, my breath forced from me to conform to what I don’t accept, stop affection and its public display. I remain deliberately silent, passive hostility oozing from me. Alex shifts about the room and tells me he’s seen more compromising behaviour at staff parties, I’ll bet you have, I think. “Richard, I know you care for your students, but Emrhys told me they verbally abused him, and I can’t allow my staff to be spoken to in such a manner.”

“But”, I continue, summoning up strength, “this isn’t the first time disagreements have occurred between them. Emrhys regularly makes hostile comments to them. I think the relationship is important to them and for other students too. I’ve already had a meeting with student services about it.” But I can’t add we decided the problem is Emrhys can I? I’m floundering trying not say the wrong thing without getting tongue tied and bursting out, “go away and leave them alone will you. Give them a break”. I can’t say that. In the face of Alex’s insensitivity I remain calm. Then he adds, “it’s against college policy for this type of behaviour. This is a public place. We have students aged sixty and over, coming into this building. What do you think the effect is on them? Richard, go and tell them to stop their behaviour.”

Joe and Joanne Hendon, the couple atop the 303 bus circling the estate with its impersonal concrete blocks, are avoiding college portals, fearful of meeting couples embracing and muttering sweet nothings.

“Alex, we discussed the whole subject last week and I’ll have to talk to my colleagues and student services about our discussion”. I’m shaking inside as I leave. I won’t act the moral policeman, I storm around the college building looking for the couple, but they’re nowhere to be seen. They must be outside. I go upstairs to talk with Alan, but he’s not around. I tell one of the counsellors the whole story, seething anger as I do.

“I’m sorry for burdening you with this, but it’s upsetting me. I’m supposed to be dealing with adults, helping kids come to terms with themselves,” I tell her. And Alex, I think to myself the philosopher of education, argues self learning is the most effective way to develop. “Listen,” I conclude, “when Alan comes back can you tell him I’ll be downstairs in the gym.” Within the hour we meet up.

“Richard, I’ll have to talk to Alex and get this sorted out as soon as possible,” he informs me leaving immediately from the sweating echo of the gym. I’m luckier this
time in my search for the two criminals.

“I want you to do something for me immediately. Go the library and write down what happened earlier. Be detailed, write the time, where you were, what you were doing, what was said - and be honest. Remember everything, talk about it together. And do it now!” The urgency in my voice didn’t even prompt a simple “why?”. They turned and vanished along the corridor to the library. I search for my acting manager, but he’s no where to be seen, I find Carol instead and talk to her about events.

2

The group session begins on Thursday, a little loose and ragged. Michelle’s been stalking me. I’m changing tack with her. Her increasing integration into the group and growing confidence means I can adopt a more direct approach. Though she’s full of self doubt I can take chances with her. I make her the centre of attention in the group telling her she has to make choices. No ifs or buts. She chose to come to college full time, so there’s no alternative. She has to think what’s in her best interests and be more confident. She’s to respect my wishes when I ask her to leave me in peace. Her written work is coming on apace, topics on Berlin, the Himalayas, and herself on holiday, but she must stop leaving private messages on my desk signed with “love from Michelle”.

In response she wants to say something to the group, I ask her to speak up and face them. She begins by saying everything’s getting her down and she can’t cope, the usual global complaints lacking focus. I ask her to be more specific. “No, no, speak up Michelle, we can’t hear you!” I look at the group reminding them over the term how we’ve all helped each other. “We’ve all said things we’ve not talked about before, we’ve all been honest and with guts expressed our feelings without embarrassment. I want you to help Michelle.” There’s agreement, now Michelle must talk. Her head slumps on the table as if decapitated from her woollen covered shoulders.

“Michelle we need to hear you speak. You have to tell us what’s the matter before we can help.”
“I’ve seen my doctor.”
“And? What did she say?”
“That I’ve to have an operation.”
“Yes?”
“And I might not pull through.”
“Is it serious then?”

We wait, but there’s no answer to Dean’s simple question. The silence grows. The group’s restless. “Michelle, you have to help us, you have to open your mouth. None of us can help if you sit in silence. We all need to open our mouths to let thoughts and feelings out.” Silence. “Who else has had surgery here?”

Paul reveals he’s had seven major operations, necessary ones to keep him alive. Tricia similar life saving ones, but only six. Lee, he of the voice becoming loud and frenetic
energy, has had numerous operations on his club foot. Even Dean joins the chorus telling us of a visit to the dentist to have teeth removed.

“But I won’t pull through,” she exclaims emphatically.
“But we’ve all survived haven’t we?”, I add.
Paul grins his eyes made large through thick lens.
“But I won’t!”
“Can you tell us why?”

More silence. Followed by more. Tricia’s getting angry, the group losing patience.
“If you won’t tell us we can’t help you.”
“Shall we break for twenty minutes?”

I find Gill in the staff room.
“Richard, can I have a word with you.”
“Sure.”
“You know Emrhys’s looking for you.”
“Why?”
“About your two students. Do you want me to talk to them about their inappropriate behaviour?”
Gill really thinks she’s helping me.
“No”, I tell her quietly as she changes tack to admits that, “Every time Emrhys becomes involved in anything it’s the kiss of death.”
“I understand how you feel Gill, but I don’t think I can tell them what is, or is not, appropriate behaviour,” and inform her of my discussions with student services.
“It sounds as if you have it worked out.”
“Yes”, I repeat, “we’ve discussed it.”
“But beware of Emrhys.”
“Thanks Gill.”
I’m furious again. Mike arrives in the staff room, and I quickly update him on the situation, when Dean pops his head around the door to shout, “Come on Richard, we’re waiting for you!”
“Dean, give me a few more minutes will you.” Well, now seems the time to raise what I missed with Chung earlier. I start the group, but I’m lost for an opening gambit. They’re becoming restive and quickly uninterested as I fumble my lines and ask them to bear with me. “It’s important”, I try to convince them. Michelle’s sitting with her back to the group. I tell her to move into the group and show the same respect to them as they’ve shown her.

“What would you do if I brought a member of staff into the room and kissed her?”, I repeat. I explain Chung asked me to raise this and tell them I was unable to. I ask Chung to hold his response for the time being, instead asking the group, in turn, what they think. “Well”, says Paul, smile beaming beneath blue eyes, “I wouldn’t object, it’s your life.”

From around the group each gives an opinion, apart from Chung. All in favour. I ask the group what they think Chung’s response was with me. Dean bursts in, “He wouldn’t like it!”
“That’s right, isn’t it Chung. Dean, can you tell us why you think this?”
“No, I can’t!”, he blurts promptly shutting up.
“That’s o.k.”

I continue. “Chung, can you remember the word you used to object?”
“It was jealous.”
“Yes, and another word. Can you remember?”
“No!”
“I’ll remind you, it was ‘exclude’, wasn’t it?” I’m on firmer, safer ground now, and over my embarrassment. I ask the group what they think Tricia and Chung share, and if they’ve ever had a special friend. The group reaches out in support.
“They care for each other.”
“They love each other.”
“They can talk to each other.”
“That’s right, they have each other when things get tough. They can talk together can’t they to make life easier. When Chung admitted to feeling excluded did anyone else feel the same?” Sunil feels a little out of it, and says so, becoming less shy about his feelings. The rest admit they don’t. “Does anyone feel it’s wrong to show affection the way Tricia and Chung do?” They seem surprised at the question, commenting it’s perfectly natural.

Over the past week or so Dean’s been kissing Sunil on the cheek, so I ask them if they think this is wrong. Sunil objects strongly to the group and calls Dean a “poof”. Paddy gets aroused by this and for the first time says something, “It’s queer”, he shouts. Nice to see you’re still here Paddy. “What would you do if you saw two men, or two women, come to think of it, embracing and kissing.”
“I’d say something to them”, ventures Sunil.
Chung and Lee say that in France and Russia men kiss each other openly, “and sometimes in Italy too”, Chung adds for good measure.

“Sunil, would you say anything to Tricia and Chung kissing each other?”
“No!”

“So why would you dare to make comments to two men, or two women?”
“It’s queer!”, shouts Paddy again.
“Oh shut up!”, replies Tricia.
John looks around the group and smiles, “Well, I wouldn’t object because it’s their life.”
“That’s right. It’s their life. Who knows the age of consent in this country?”
“Sixteen.”
“That’s right. Who knows what it was in a hundred years ago?”
“Fourteen”, bursts forth Paddy.
“That’s right. So, you can decide at sixteen to make love. Who knows the age of consent for two males?”
Nobody does.
“It’s eighteen. Sunil, why did you object to Dean kissing you?”
“I didn’t!”, laughs Dean, then quacks.
“Duck off will you Dean”, a voice answers.
“I don’t like it!”
“That’s o.k., but why?”
“I don’t like it,” asserts Sunil.
“Maybe because you didn’t consent, and it was done against your will.”
“That’s right!”
“But if both partners agree on it,” says Tricia, “and they’re old enough to make their own choice, it can’t be wrong can it, because they’re consenting adults.”

With discussion now well lubricated by student outrage and controversy I need to tell them what’s happening outside our cosy and safe room in the corridors of power, abuse and uncertainty.

“Listen, I think this morning we’ve made clear what Tricia and Chung do with their lives is a choice only for them. If Dean, or any other student, wants to date someone of their own sex that’s their choice too. If that’s where they get affection and love that’s also a matter for them, isn’t it. We all support Tricia and Chung, and this morning we’ve told them so, and from them we’ve learned the importance of having a loving relationship, or a special friend.”

3

The second years, having self-selected themselves down to seven, are moving with haste on their sponsored table tennis game. They’ve used reprographics facilities and covered the college with posters advertising the great event. Nish suggests we call into the estate’s community centre to seek sponsorship money. The group agrees, though Chrissy’s very reticent, pacing up and down the class room saying she can’t go, becoming more agitated each step she makes. We have our sponsorship forms, so off we go.

The pensioners remember us from our previous visit, young faces they won’t forget. I buy a mug of tea and ask the group to home in on the tables and get as much cash as possible. Chrissy’s agitated. “Go ahead Chrissy, just ask the nearest person.”
“I can’t! I don’t know them!”
“That’s true,” I tell her. “Before you came to college nobody knew you, did they? But now everybody really knows you well. Just approach the kindest looking person and see how it goes.”
“I can’t! I don’t know them!” She continues to pace agitatedly, so I leave her alone.

Peter’s a true businessman, his sponsorship form quickly filling as my mug is slowly drained. Nish likewise, and even Harry, though looking his usual lost strangeness, is making an effort. Mohammed’s coming forward and hands his cash to me. A woman beckons Chrissy over to her and asks what it’s all about. Chrissy, lumbering over, half woman, coy, shy, half girl, explains the purpose of her visit. A few moments later, as another mug is emptied, she comes to me handing over £2.50p, she’s scored and beams confidence.

We cross the Concourse to visit the disabled day centre opposite the community centre. I explain the purpose of our mission to the officer in charge, who, as a one off, agrees to the request. Mark, suffering total confidence collapse waits outside in the cold. But nobody enquires inside as to where he is, they’re all too busy. I just see his over coated shape merging with the sky and concrete grayness, his wild hair adding a mousy glow to his cold and pinched face.

Back in the base room we count out £25 and the group’s over the moon. We split and throughout the remainder of the week money’s thrust into my hands and new sponsorship forms requested. We did the same thing the following Wednesday, this time booking the mini-bus, and visiting the other two college sites. I’ve no need subsequently to tell Chrissy what to do, she goes right ahead and does it. Some of the first years’ are getting in on the act requesting forms. Soon the cash donated is touching £100, with more pledged on paper.

One of Emrhys’s colleagues comes into the staff room saying she’s totally peed off with him. He’s becoming obsessional about Tricia and Chung wanting to protect them from original sin. She says a male colleague and her conspired to canoodle in the corner of their staff room to wind Emrhys up - all hell was let loose when they did. I ask why she thinks he’s worked up about it. “Is it because she’s disabled, or is there another reason?”
“No, he’s genuinely against sex before marriage.”

Meanwhile, Alan has decided to go above Emrhys’ head and raise the issue with the vice-principal to get the matter clarified once and for all.

Inspirational and Transformative Education Ticks no Boxes

Chapter Seven
Tricia was Raped




Tricia was raped three weeks ago and during Tuesday tutorial tells me she’s pregnant. I feel powerless. I want to place my arm around her shoulder but recoil. I feel something’s happened I have no experience of. Earlier Chung, seething anger, looked as if World War Three played retakes in his skull. The “I want to talk” expression on his face collapsing into vagueness when I remind him he’d requested a private meeting with me. Bits and pieces stumble into place. Tricia’s close to tears but holds them back. Lots of serious expressions, but few words, apart from she didn’t inform the police. “What’s the use”, she says, “he wore a mask. I couldn’t identify him.”

I admit I’m not able to help, other than provide a sympathetic ear.
“Does Chung know?”
“Yes he does.”
“What does he feel about it?”
“Mad.”
“Will he stick by you?”
“Yes!”
“Yes, he’s like that. Loyal and caring.”

I get the Student Guide and find the Rape Crisis Centre giving Tricia its number. It’s a twenty four hour service and if she feels like talking she can phone anytime. This knowledge affects me all week. From the outside the student group appears like any other, boisterous, antagonistic, humorous, seething with unresolved conflicts. Beneath, a state of mutual understanding and support, staff catching merely a smidgen of their reality, as private corridor talk (rightly) excludes us. How can we rebuild their educational and family relationships? Do we have a right to? An obligation? Things and matters professionals take for granted: confidence, an ability to express feelings and anger without fear of rejection.

Lee approaches me in the staff room complaining Sunil’s kicked him. “O.K. I’ll see both of you.” This should be my time to prepare lesson plans, but that’s fast becoming fragments of aspiring imagination. Seeing Lee I decide to change my tactics. Lee fills me talks to me in the quiet space next to the refectory. The sky’s subdued and grey outside after earlier winter brilliance. Tall, lost and skinny, a padded jacket swaddled around his febrile frame, his eyes glowing a wondrous gape, when not red with anger and frustration.

“Why does Sunil pick on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you fight back?”
“I can’t. I suppose I’m not like that.”
“Lee, who do bullies pick on?”
“What do you mean?”

“It’s like animals who hunt and kill.”
“I don’t follow.”
“They pick on the most vulnerable; the sick, young, the lame. Make it easy for themselves.”
“Oh.”
Lee smiles his simple naïve, gentle smile.

“Sunil picks on you, and Tricia, because you’re vulnerable. You can’t, or don’t, fight back.”
“Shall I hit him?”
“There are different ways to fight back. Other ways to be strong.”
“You mean like training and weight lifting.”
“They could be one, but they’re other things, like having faith in yourself. The way you move your body, what you wear, tells people things about you. Lee, what do you think college is about?”
“Getting education, learning things.”
“Yes, that’s right, and getting a better life for yourself. It’s also about being independent, making new friends, exploring things, learning to think and be free. College is one place where you can learn to cope with people like Sunil. A place where you could learn to be strong.”
“How?”
“By being positive about yourself, telling yourself you’re strong. Lee, listen to me, stand up, go on. In front of me, that’s right. Now tell me, ‘I’m Lee, I’m strong’. Go on. I know it’s not easy, but try it. Take a deep breath”. Slowly, like learning to speak in a new language, he begins. No one’s ever seen him attempting to be strong, his new words tumble out, a mixture of impunity, fear, self reproach, cacophony of alien sounds struggling to re-jig years of passivity.

“I’m Lee. I’m strong ....”, but he stops, his voice ringing hollow.
“Again!”
“It’s hard.”
“I know, so is life.”
“I’m Lee. I am strong”, emphasising ‘am’ as if he’s suddenly discovered its potential. His face beams childish smiles. Blue eyes catch aflame.
“Tell you what Lee”, I say as he sits down next to me, “get your yellow folder, the one in your bag, over there, that’s right.”
“Now write on it, ‘I want a better life’.”
And write it he does.

“Richard.”
“Yes.”
“I want to come to college by myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to get here by myself. By bus, not mini-cab.”
“Think about it, and we’ll talk later in the week.”

Where Lee sat, there’s now Sunil - after a search. He’d not gone to his lesson and I find him, ever ready as usual, with an excuse, in reception. He tells me he thought the lesson was cancelled: “I think you have a better memory than that.” Sunil’s a different kettle of fish to Lee. More intelligent, capable of strategy, one of which is withdrawal, with multiple complexities at his command. His small frame is slumped forward, his head retracted on his chest. For all intents and purposes he’s asleep, hibernating from further potential damage to his ego. “Why do you pick on Lee?”
“He hit me first!”
“Did he?”
We pause.
“I remember the first week of term when Tony hit you in the chest.”
“Who?”, he asks quizzically.
“Tony, the tall black guy, hit you because you made nasty comments to Tricia. But you didn’t pick on him, did you?”
“No.”
We pause.

“Sunil, I think you hit Tricia and Lee because they won’t retaliate. Remember, when we talked about your previous school, how you got picked on.”
“Yeah, I got beaten up all the time.”
“That’s right. You’re small and skinny. You’re easy target, easy meat, aren’t you? Does anyone here beat you up like they did at Wembley?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because college is better.”
“Sunil, then why hit Lee and Tricia?”

He pauses into silence, bowing his head.
“Lee doesn’t fight back does he?”
“No, he’s soft.”
“And”, I add, “he doesn’t know how to stand up for himself.”
“That’s right.”
“Yes, and the same for Tricia. More easy pickings, eh, Sunil?” Pause. His head sinks further into his chest. “Sunil, when I talked to Lee I mentioned that college was about getting a better life, thinking about our future, about learning things.”
“So?”
“So. You came here to escape being beaten up at Wembley High, and now you do the same things to others as were done to you. Did you like it being done to you?”
“No I didn’t!”
“You pick on others because you’re weak. You can’t damage those of average size. You’re small and puny. Easy targets, like Tricia and Lee, are simple, aren’t they?” We sit and say nothing for a few moments.

“I talked to Lee about getting stronger, learning to respect each other. But no matter how much I talk you won’t change until you feel positive about yourself.”

2

I’ve done nothing but think about Sunil’s behaviour. I’ve tried to convince the group Thursday’s session is the easiest of the week, as all we do is sit and talk. However, I’m wary of playing the session at the same intensity as last week. Can the students cope with it? Probably, but a nagging doubt remains. I enter the room a little late. Chung’s playing Brick-up on the computer, others are standing around. I need to turn this to my advantage. In Brick-up the player is given a clue and the first two letter of a word. So, ‘a body of singers’, clue, ‘ch’, answer, choir. I ask others to assist Chung because the clues are becoming more difficult. With this support Chung’s ready to break through the brick wall he’s behind. Amidst group celebration Sunil attempts to muscle in and operate the return key on the final clue. Chung tells him where to go in no uncertain terms. From this riposte I have an idea.

“This group’s called special needs isn’t it? Why do you think that is?”
“Because we’re thick”, declares Sunil.
“We’re not very clever are we?”, adds Lee.
“That’s not right”, says Ruhina who has now taken to calling herself Michelle, “I’m not thick!”
“Yes you are darlin’”, asserts Dean.
“Hang on, not so fast”, I tell them, “we’ve just played a really difficult game. Remember the word I got wrong and you got right. Lee gave some good answers, so did Paddy”, and pointing to each in turn, using their names, remind them of the responses they’d given. “I don’t think you’re thick. Remember when we did the brain in science? How many brain cells do we have?”
“Yes, eight hundred noughts,”, says Lee.
“And what’s the figure in front of those noughts, it’s more than nothing isn’t it? I don’t think it’s to do with being thick. Do you?” They nod agreement, all accept Dean who quacks like Donald Duck.
“Don’t be stupid, Dean”, shouts Sunil amidst mirth and insults.
Lee begins to make silly noises, then stops. I focus on Dean.
“Dean”, I say directly to him, “your father has an important and responsible job”, then turning to the group as a whole, continue, “he teaches people to drive responsibly. BSM isn’t it?”
“That’s right Richard, quack, quack.”
Sunil’s ready to hit him, his mouth curling angrily.
“Could you imagine Dean going for a job and his potential employer asks, ‘Now tell me about yourself?’, and he goes quack, quack! No job, no money, no independence.”

“Something stops us from learning”, Chung decides but offers no more.
I turn to Sunil, asking him, “why are you here?”
“Because I didn’t like my old school.”
“Why?”
“I got picked on.”

“You were robbed too, weren’t you?”, I said remembering the files I’d read.
“That’s right.”
“Maybe Sunil’s special need is to have peace and quiet.”
“That’s what I want”, adds Michelle.
“Maybe we all want peace and quiet. Who likes college?”
“It’s a nice place to be.”
“Lee, last Friday you left your pullover in the gym, and someone handed it into the office. You got it back today didn’t you?”
“Yes I did.”
“The college is a nice, peaceful place to be isn’t it?”
Dean’s stopped his daffy duck impersonation.

“Lee, you went to Southmead. Who else went there?”
All the students except John, who’s very quiet today, Sunil, and Tricia. Michelle’s deadly silent, festering about to explode.
“What was special about Southmead?”
“The staff are good”, asserts Chung.
“And?”, I probe.
“They cared for us.”

“Yes, that’s right. We might be special needs because things haven’t been as easy as we’d have liked.” I look at Lee saying, “We talked about something like this on Monday, didn’t we? Remember, about being strong and standing up for ourselves. Sunil, can I tell the group about what we talked about?” His head slumps forward. “Do you mind if I tell the group?” No reply which I take as a yes.
“I told Sunil one reason he picks on Tricia and Lee, and Michelle, is that he was picked on. It makes Sunil feel better....”
“That sounds like sense”, butts in Tricia.

“Most of us went to special school where the staff were kind and pupils didn’t bully, so we aren’t used to it, are we? Everyone, at some time or another, finds it difficult to cope. Sunil came to college for peace, do you think we should respect people who want peace?”
“He doesn’t respect other peoples’ peace”, blurts Chung.
“Isn’t that something we all must learn? Treating others with respect and being strong ourselves. College is about getting a better life isn’t it?” We decide to take a break as half the session has gone.

Michelle, puppy dogging me everywhere, constantly asking me to allow her time off, follows me to the staff room. “Richard, I can’t take it anymore.”
“Can’t take what?”
“Being called Ribena. They think it’s a joke, but they don’t know what it’s like to be laughed at all your life. I wish I could change my name.”
“Is yours a Kashmiri name?”
“Yes.”
“What’s its English equivalent?”
“Rose.”
“Maybe you could use that instead.”
“But Sunil will still call me names!”
“You must learn to tell him to stop, tell him no. Tell him enough’s enough. No’s such a small word, smaller than ‘yes’, more difficult to say.”
“I can’t Richard, I really can’t. I want to give up.”
“You have to.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Michelle, people will always pick on you if you don’t defend yourself. Sunil knows how to defend himself. Listen, tell me ‘Sunil, your a shit’. Go on, practice with me, then tell him face to face what you think, that you won’t allow him to walk all over you.” Fifteen minutes to say it, fifteen minutes to raise her voice to anger pitch.

We’re sitting around pushed together tables and I recommence where I’d left off. I take the theme of being laughed at. In their childish, giggly self they boast they don’t mind being humiliated.
“It doesn’t bother me”, brags Dean, adding a quick ‘quack, quack’.
“Well, I don’t mind being laughed”, declares Sunil.
“I like Ribena”, splutters Dean, “quack, quack!”
“Do you think you could stay grown up for today Dean?”

Michelle looks to me.

“Michelle, can you tell Sunil what you told me in the staff room?”
Sunil raises his head, looking quizzically around.
“What do you mean?”, he asks
“Michelle, can you tell Sunil what you think of him”.
“Yes. I think you’re a shit Sunil. You laugh at me all the time.”
“And I agree!”, shouts Dean.
“Why shouldn’t I call her Ribena, it’s fun!”, says Sunil getting angry.
“Why shouldn’t we make fun of you Sunil? You’re skinny and small”, said Chung.
“Did you like being laughed at in your old school?”, adds Michelle.
“No!”
“So why laugh at me now?”

They become serious. Michelle’s ready to flood tears, “Nobody understands what it’s like”, she tells the group.
“Do you think we should all say to Michelle, I respect you. I respect your name.”

3

Later I learn Tricia claims she’s been raped three or four times though never done anything about it. I fight my misgivings wondering if she’s telling the truth. Is it a symbolic gesture, confusing time and place, Tricia unable to identify what’s real and what’s not? I don’t know, I’ll have to take what she says at face value until I discover the contrary. Truth seldom reveal itself in clear cut communications, explanations, facts or events.

Emrhys, law unto himself, hurls a symbolic grenade into the staff room as I’m talking to Mike and Carol about student progress. Such a dark, smooth way of creeping, talking, full of unspoken insinuations, full of his own symbolic pains. “Don’t you think the romance has gone on too long?” Click! The pin’s removed. We look at each other in stunned amazement. Good God, Emrhys’ rumbled our secret triangle. With the pin in his flabby hand the grenade thumps and tumbles along the floor towards us ready to fragment shrapnel. “Or maybe you think it’s therapeutic?”

Blast! We recoil, darkness envelops us, as Emrhys vanishes along the corridor from whence he came. Demoralised and groin kicked, a colleague lays into me, arguing most forcible, that Tricia’s and Chung’s behaviour is “inappropriate”. I’m tempted to scream, “what the hell is it to do with you?” But this is college, not school, for sure not a cosy family united by unspoken collusions. I hold back anger to counter her points one by one. I suggest she spends time in a wheelchair, that Tricia enjoys being lifted from the chair and sitting on the floor by the stairwell. Being normal. I can’t believe I’m hearing this from a feminist, but it’s true, she, like Emrhys is trying to take something from Tricia, wants to circumscribe her will to explore. Reduce her emotions to penury, starving the insatiable who want to be feelings previously denied. Exercise her right to make decisions; and mistakes. Chung managed to bang himself out of Brick-up, but I fear what’s to be played out here is more than a game.

“Perhaps Tricia and Chung want to do what other teenagers do.”
“But college is the wrong place for it!”
We continue to argue, winding up nowhere.

Dean eventually hit Sunil.
“He laughed at me so I hit him.”
“I thought you didn’t object to being laughed at?”
“Well, I do. So there!”
Sunil doesn’t look happy. It’s the first time he’s been socked since Tony’s punch, and he’s visibly upset. I decide to take no action. In a contest between two equals I’ve scant sympathy for someone who gets what they deserved. Maybe a lesson’s been learnt out of class. We’ll see.

Transformative and Inspirational Education Ticks no Boxes

Chapter Six
Through the Mist: Blood and Gore

Through the mist into the womb of winter. College is shrouded in damp mist, auguring watery sunshine and clean night skies studded with freezing stars. Reflecting I wonder how the rest of term will progress, pray it won’t be too chaotic. Optimistically, I expect things to quieten down. I’m supposed to plan ahead and be clear in my mind what I’m doing. In reality it’s Henry V’s battles: gore and mess everyplace.

Ruhina, my new student, arrives today. She appears quiet and introverted, but there’s substance beneath her dark sleepy eyes, sallow skin, and infrequently brushed teeth. I give her a brief tour of the college following enrolment. She’s introduced to the staff who’ll teach her and wonder how she’ll fit in, suspecting she could be a positive influence.

The computer class begins at 10. 30. Paddy’s fiddling with his mouse as I introduce Ruhina to students asking them to say some positive words about college. Hard work this and the inevitable word play jokes about her name begin, “Hello Ribena”. In her soft spoken voice she’s not easy to hear. Sunil wants to know where the microphone is, apologising when others tell him that’s not a nice thing to say. Is this the self same Sunil who refused to introduce himself to his fellows, turning his back to them the first day? Well, some progress, I guess. I ask Ruhina to join Paul on his weather assignment, and they begin to work well together. Dean, however, is unable to concentrate, so I remind him of the assignment on cars he’s doing, only to discover he’s forgotten his portfolio as he listlessly drifts from activity to activity. I give Sunil and Lee a basic list of household items necessary to furnish a bed-sit so they can price the cost of home making. They work well together, unlike Tricia who’s upset and shaking, unable to articulate her feelings. After the class Chung locks himself in the disabled loo hiding from the strident advances of Ruhina. A swoosh of arrows tipped in poison are heading my way. Monday’s gone and normality is returning. Artificiality has faded, the mist has cleared and leaden clouds hang over what was once an aerodrome during the Battle of Britain. It’s normal once more and I’m feeling happy.

On Tuesday Chung tells me Tricia’s no longer his girlfriend. I want to know why beginning by asking him about his half-term break. “Well”, he stops, taking a pausing breath, to continue with great speed, “Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were boring, the rest of the week wasn’t.”
“Why?”
“The rest of the week I saw Tricia.”
Perversely he doesn’t volunteer why he’s finished with Tricia, and don’t press him, asking instead, his plans for Christmas. He tells me he might go to Kuala Lumpa. “But I might not”, he states, “it rains too much.”

Chrissy, from the second years’, is having tutorials with me to improve her literacy, and, excited with beaming eyes, asks, “Can I read you my story?” A sad tale of a mother unfolds asking her daughter to do something, who replying in anger, tells her mother to “fuck off”. Chrissy didn’t want to read these two words to me, she merely pointed to them at the end of the sentence. “We need to work on it”, I suggest, “keep it for next week and we’ll go through in more detail.”

“Look”, she interrupts me, “this magazine is where I got the idea from, pointing to a grainy black and white photograph publicising the NSPCC. A child sits in a corner, bare floor boarded room peeling wallpaper. On the opposite page of the spread a doll lies discarded. “That’s me”, she chirps gleefully with no sense of pain, or loss, in her voice, “I was like that once, and that’s the doll I threw away.” Through the mist the womb of winter’s entered. All I’d done was suggest she builds a story from pictures. I didn’t think her fertile mind would work so graphically translating images to her own half conscious dramas of damaged childhood.

I pass Tricia in the corridor, stopping awhile to talk. She’s near to tears, but can’t open her eyes to cleanse the pain. She becomes over talkative when she needs silence and reflection. Most of all she needs to stop smiling and shape her mouth to the sadness she feels inside. Not much chance to escape quivers of destruction this week.

Paul, he of the bomb checking fame and disco madness, decides to leave college and sign up for Youth Training, though his careers officer knew nothing of it. The second years feel relieved he’s gone, but uncertainty pervades the group, especially as Tony, another prime mover of “money for dogs” isn’t with us.

“Can we still do the disco?”
“What about raising money for the dogs?”
“He said we’d have to pay him two pounds if we left. He’s left and paid nothing”.

It’s Wednesday’s visit to Southmead Special School where the second years are to talk to its pupils about their plans to raise money “for the dogs” as they innocently phrase it. Chandra and Mark, ex-Southmead pupils, hope to re-establish old contacts, and we rehearse our spiel. They’re terribly nervous, and it shows, chattering one moment, pensive and withdrawn the next.
“We’ll do all right won’t we?”, Mark asks nervously.

I expected maybe a dozen or so pupils, instead there are at least forty, arranged in neat rows, eager to discover why they’re missing a lesson. With a cup of tea in my hand, kindly provided by the headmistress, I’m comfortably sitting on the far side of the room, isolated. I’m not going to say anything. It’s the group’s show - let battle royal commence. Mark kicks off after a teacher introduces the students: Hendon’s ambassadors. He explains to them what they want to do, but soon becomes tongue tied. Chandra steps into the breach riveting the pupils with his apocalyptic message.

“Man thinks he can kill the animals and that’s not right. They have a right to live on this earth. When men blow themselves up it’s only the animals that will inherit the earth. So we are helping to save the dogs.” But Chandra, I think, if man has such a precarious hold on life shouldn’t the dogs be helping us? However, pupils laud him a standing ovation!

The group perform better than I expected. Nish mentions the disco but quotes the old price of ₤2.50, rather than the pound to which they’ve changed to. The Sunday date for the disco goes down like a dead lead dog. A Southmead teacher asks the pupils for ideas to raise money, how quickly they come: sponsored swim, assault course, bike ride, a drinking contest , “With water, sir!”, somewhat shouts to giggles.

“Do you remember who came last week?”, she adds, desperate to calm said giggling mass They do, “the lady with the guide dog”, who visits anywhere to talk about the work of the Guide Dogs for the Blind Association. Suddenly I have an idea. The group wind up and receive a long and extremely loud applause for their efforts - their first public accolade, I reckon.

Safely ensconced in the base room we discuss the visit, agreeing they didn’t need Paul to speak for them. Electing a new committee they talk about raising money for the Guide Dogs for the Blind Association, agreeing to invite the blind woman and her dog. Even Socorina, on her once a term visit to collect her cheque, smiles benignly - I’m amazed. Jools has vanished, yet again, though Tony’s decided to turn up just as the group splits for lunch.

Harry’s ever so strange and angry. He approaches me, and without warning, says, “You shouldn’t have done that to me. I hope you get terribly burned on Bonfire Night. I hate you. You’re mean and I hope your dad beats you!” I have no inkling as to why he should fire another tirade on me like this.

2

Lee and Dean accost me as I’m finishing my lunch. More indigestion, ulcers and burps.
“Sunil’s just pushed me down the stairs!”, cries Lee, obviously in pain, very flushed, exceedingly flustered. Dean, for dramatic effect, sloganises, “Sunil must go!”
“Right, let’s see Sunil. Where did this happen and when?”

I corral Sunil and Lee to the base room with Chung, chain mail aggressive, ready to explode claiming he’s witnessed the outrage. “Yes!”, he says firmly, “I saw Sunil push Lee down the stairs from behind. I just about controlled myself. I wanted to hit him hard!”
“Where did it happen? No one’s told me, yet. O.K., how did you fall, show me.”
“I didn’t hit him! I wasn’t here”, responds an agitated Sunil.
“Yes you did! I saw you”, spits out Chung.
Tricia arrives telling Chung to calm down.

We return to the scene of the crime to re-enact the incident. Lee moving from left to right on the concrete staircase, twisting around and banging his side on the steel banister so we’re clear as to what happened. “Lee, lift up your shirt. I want to see if you’re bruised”. There it is, a long fresh red mark on his ribs. “Right, don’t move mister!” I need to find a witness, a colleague. “Sarah, can I borrow your eyes for a minute?”
“What?”

“Lee, show Sarah.”
“That’s terrible, what happened?”
I tell the claimant and perpetrator I’ll discuss the incident with my manager.

Later that afternoon the phone rings. It’s Sunil’s mother wanting to know what happened. “Sunil told me Lee’s accusing him of pushing him down stairs. He says it’s not true.” I pause to think, but she continues to talk. “I phoned Lee to ask him if it’s true.”
“Pardon!?”
“I phoned Lee. When I asked him if he was pushed by Sunil he told me he didn’t know, he couldn’t remember.”
“That’s intimidation, he’s in shock.”
“Sunil says he didn’t do it.”
“There’s a witness and I’m meeting my manager to discuss it further”.
“O.K., I have to go now. Goodbye.”

Crawling in the womb of death, through mist and confusion Wednesday draws to a close. Club feet stumble, and ribs, padded by thick woollens and winter jacket, turn red, black and blue. A witness to terrorism fumes. Unconscious, strange voices arguing over who did what, not why. Circumnavigating the college for advice. Shooting from the lips. Damp mist increasingly caked with gore and bloody mess. Arrows homing, it’s only a matter of time before the target falls beneath whining and swooshing feathered hail.

Lee pops his head around the staff room early Thursday morning.
“I’ve a letter for you from my mum.”
“Yes, I know what it’s about, it’s o.k., I’ll see you later.”
I slipped the letter from its blue envelop. As expected Lee’s mum is furious about the “cheek” of Sunil’s mother phoning her son. She intimates that if nothing is done about it she’ll withdraw Lee from college, and, with a final flourish, adds, “Sunil’s kicked Lee before and I’m not happy at all.”

In their assignment lesson students are furious, a halberd cutting a blunt swathe through unexpressed sour feelings. They’re not interested in the worksheets. I ask if anyone can tell Ruhina what we’ve done for the past six weeks. Dumb silence. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”, I demand, though I’ve suspicions.
“It’s the phone call. Lee’s really upset.”
Chung, tight lipped, seething anger let’s go, “I want to start World War Three!”
“Now there Chung”, intervenes Tricia with a forced smile, “calm down.”
“I didn’t push him!”, asserts Sunil.
“Yes you did”, explodes Chung, as a thermonuclear device is lobbed across the room careless of consequences.

I’m silenced, thoughts race through my mind. Let’s benefit from this teenage irresponsibility. In the womb of winter an acorn fell beneath barbarian feet. “What makes us angry?”, I begin, “Why do we get annoyed? There must be some reason for it. It doesn’t just happen, does it?” Spinning to avoid the barbarian I select each name in turn with the same question, “What makes you angry?”

Sunil denies he ever gets angry, “Maybe, when I get my hair cut.”
Dean doesn’t like the noise from his neighbour, “The dog’s always barking and the radio in the morning drives me mad. I feel like throwing myself out the window.”
“Do you want to break your bones and lacerate your skin Dean?”, I ask.
“I’ll tell them, I will.”
“Dean, is this person a man or a woman? What would you like to tell them?”
“A woman. Silly old bag!”
“Pretend Tricia’s the woman and tell her your feelings about the noise.”
“Bloody government!”
“Does the Prime Minister live next door?”
“I can’t”, he declares, stumbling into silence. Trying to get angry with Tricia in the role play he’s unable to find his voice.

“Paul, what makes you angry?”
“When I’m nagged. All the time being told do this, or do that. Not having any peace. Especially when I want to bring a girl friend home.”
“Lee, what makes you angry?”
“I’ve got a headache, I need a rest. Can I go upstairs?”
“Paddy why do you get angry?”
“I never do.” Doe frightened eyes not conscious of it avers.
“Never?”
“No, I never get angry.”

I don’t have to ask Chung. “My uncle, who looks after me, makes me angry. He tells me what I can do and what I can’t do. He did last week during half term. He never takes notice of me.” Tricia places her arm around Chung’s shoulder.
“Ruhina, what makes you angry?”
“My life. People don’t understand how difficult it is for me. I don’t think you should bottle things inside. It’s not healthy.”
“I’m the opposite”, says Tricia, “I find it difficult to let go and express my feelings.”
“That’s not true”, adds Chung.
“No it’s not is it Chung.”
“What do you mean Tricia?”, I ask, “I’m confused.”
“When I get angry I hit the walls at home.”
“Do you do that a lot?”
“Yes, a lot”, she says, then laughs.

“But you should get annoyed”, says Ruhina.
“When I get mad I want to hit my computer.”
“When I get angry with my mum and dad”, says Paul, “I want to commit suicide.”
“Do you?”
“Yes”, jumps in Tricia, “I feel bad inside when nobody listens to me”, her smile now fading.
I put in my twopennyworth, “I suppose we all feel bad when nobody listens to us. Do you think we need a witness, you know, someone who listens to us, doesn’t ignore us?”
Dean’s unusually quiet, he’s hiding his face by slumping across the table.

“I get angry when my brother hits me”, says Sunil forgetting his earlier insouciance.
“Is he older than you?”
“Yes.”
“What do your parents do?”
“Nothing. He hits me if I don’t do things for him. He carries me upstairs and throws me across the bed. It’s better when he goes away to university I don’t get hit then.”

“Paul says he thinks of suicide. Has anybody else thought of killing themselves?”
“Yes! I tried it”, says Ruhina.
“Would you like to tell us?”
“Everything got me down. My mum had a breakdown and I had six children to look after. I couldn’t cope with it anymore. Why should I have to? I was placed on tranquillisers.”
“Does anybody know what tranquillisers are?”
Ruhina explains. “They made me feel dead inside. They made me feel awful. I didn’t like them. I had to force myself off them.” Slowly Ruhina begins to cry warm tears of desolation. Tricia moves closer and placing her arm around her shoulder, hugs her.

“When I feel bad I cry myself to sleep”, says Chung opening his soul for others to listen. The atmosphere becomes quiet, they need to pause. Silent mists kiss us with human warmth. I’m not immune. Tears are welling up inside of me. Nobody’s bullshitting. Gone are the puerile comments of previous. “Yes, life’s awful at times isn’t it, it’s shitty. Nobody listens so we feel awful inside.” Tricia’s tears begin to fall.

Chung holds his back, trusting what he’s admitted won’t be thrown back to him in mocking laughter.

“Do you cry yourself to sleep Richard?”, asks Chung. I’m totally thrown, though why should I?
“No, that’s not my way. I get depressed and sometimes can’t bear to face the day in front of me.”
Paddy’s Morse coding his briefcase.
“Let’s have a break shall we.”

I need an adult to talk to and approach Carol. I’m overwhelmed by the revelations I’m hearing and could cry at my students honesty. I don’t feel like going on. Dean comes in to the staff room crying Chung’s punched him on the chest. World War Three’s exploded its second thermo-nuclear device.

“I'll make a pot of tea”, I tell them, “we’ll talk and sort things out. Sunil, Lee, can you help me please. I’ve no sugar and only powdered milk.”
“That’s fine.”

We ease ourselves gently recapture where we broke off, talking generally about life, asserting no one wants to end their life prematurely. Ruhina begins on the difficulties of her life. Sunil, returning to normal, butterflies his fingers over her head as she speaks, but quickly stops when told to show respect. As we wind down, relaxing over the tea, students express a doubt, “Teachers aren’t supposed to be like this are they?”, they tell me.

“But don’t you think it’s important to talk like adults? We’re not at school anymore, are we? Shouldn’t we tell the truth about our lives? Most of us spend the time hiding from the truth not admitting the pain and sorrow. It takes real guts, real bravery, to talk the way we have.”
“I feel much better”, adds Ruhina, and Tricia laughs.

“Let’s lighten the mood. Let’s talk about the funniest thing that’s happened to us.” We spend twenty minutes in pure flippancy, until, as we’re about to close, Ruhina seriously informs the group, “Everything’s my fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything goes wrong because of me. I cause all the problems.”
“What problems?”
“The problems today.”
“But you were fantastic. You really helped us to be honest.”
She shuts down to hide behind silence. Tricia and Chung are holding each other firmly and crying. We split and I seek further solace in colleagues.