OK, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I actually enjoyed being on
the SLT most of the time, but some dramatic life events taught me that
data, progression and status are not everything. My mother died within
weeks of being diagnosed with a terminal illness and I realised life is
for living. So I stepped away from the SLT and return to the classroom,
thinking that I would have space to pursue my interests and improve my
quality of life in the face of such sadness. I was in for a surprise.
I was certain that my move would buy me more time; no more endless
piles of admin, no more mind-numbing meetings until 7pm, no more grim
governors’ reports to write, no more dour disciplinary panels to attend.
But I had forgotten that the windows in the ivory tower are obscured by
pot plants so tall that you can’t see the stressed faces of the
teachers as they race past. If you do chance to look up from your
paperwork, your rose-tinted glasses made their lives look quite
romantic. Oh, how the students adored them! How much fun they had
together in their teams! I remembered those days …
I
had forgotten that my multitudinous leadership tasks were generously
accommodated by my timetable. Yes, I had a lot to do, but I was given a
lot of time to do it. How did I forget that it’s impossible to plan
adequate lessons in five non-contact periods a week? How did I forget
that as I reluctantly sat in meetings, angry that I had failed to see
any daylight for the majority of winter, my main-scale colleagues were
marking and planning in their classrooms or at their dining tables? How
did I think that I had it harder than them?
I had also forgotten how differently you are treated when you are not
on the SLT; new staff failed to acknowledge me on the first day in the
classroom and even the students seemed to think they could try it on now
that my power was diminished. As my fingers hover over reporting
Jimmy’s fifth instance of insolence in a week, I wonder if my former SLT
colleagues are going to pass the blame on to me, as they so often did
to others.
My mistake was not in giving it all up, but in forgetting how hard
all teachers work and allowing myself to be sucked in to the dark world
of judgment that the SLT inhabits.
Life in the tower is reminiscent of The Emperor’s New Clothes.
The headteacher would suggest a crazy idea and every single member of
the leadership team would nod in agreement and smile. Meanwhile, the
minor failures of main-scale teachers would be aired in evening
briefing, upon which each member would shake their heads and tut,
obstinately refusing to remember the difficulty of full-time teaching.
The doors close on accountability, too; as one of the accepted few
you become the judge, not the accused. Steely-eyed SLT members brandish
clipboards and conduct clinical learning walks and observations for
dissection later, but are only observed by each other, allowing weak
teaching to be dismissed by close colleagues. In fact, the only time the
SLT is truly accountable is when the inspectors call, and that’s when
the panic arises. But once they have gone, the “inadequate” teachers
only have themselves to blame and the “outstanding” ratings are all
thanks to us.
On reflection, I’m not sorry that I left. I never really managed to
bridge the gap that so obviously exists between the SLT and other staff.
The ridiculous and impossible demands on normal teachers’ time are an
enigma to most SLT members. Perhaps an enforced main-scale sabbatical
would teach many SLT members an important lesson? My own reminder has
certainly made me a better person, even if I am denied the time to be a
better teacher.
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