The Dude Abides

The Dude is a character from the film ‘The Big Lebowski’: a man mountain, a chilled and peaceful guy who likes bowling.

We couldn’t be more different. I don’t have a beard, for a start.

As I sit here thinking about the next 1, 3, 6 or 20 years and all the things that will or won’t happen, what could go wrong, what could go well, waking up at 3am and wondering if the DFE will ever learn to not release things over our holidays, The Dude would be chilling, drinking White Russians and telling me not to stress.  

Over the last 18 months, I’ve observed the way those I admire, look up to, work with, and support me, act. I’ve watched and listened to how they interact with others and the way they appear so calm in some of the most challenging or stressful situations. These are the people that you find quietly beavering away, running the most challenging schools, working in some of the difficult jobs in education, or have vast swathes of experience acquired from many, many years of hard work.

While still very much finding my feet and always trying to improve the way I work, I have noticed some themes.

Reflecting

Even when things haven’t gone to plan, they look at what they would do differently. They accept failure is a part of the process and don’t beat themselves up publicly. They tend to take the positives and negatives in equal measure and collectively ask how things could be done in a better way.

They don’t play the ‘what if…’ game

They deal with what’s in front of them. The curve ball is seen as a challenge, not a set-back. They don’t lay awake wondering ‘what if…’ and they don’t worry about something if it hasn’t happened yet.  

Everything is best practice

If they do something, they do it to the best of their ability. They refine and dig deeper, they check things over and over again, making small tweaks to improve their practice, and have an ability to take their foot off the gas and chill in order to ensure it’s having an impact before making any drastic decisions. They will pool their best experiences and listen to those around them, they don’t always think ‘they know best.’

They are always on hand to support

Despite the crazy, busy jobs we all have in education in one form or another, they always find time to help others. They share their experiences, offer decent advice, point me in the direction of someone who could help, or simply tell me not to worry.  These little acts of kindness have had a huge impact on me personally, probably without them realising.

They laugh, a lot - at themselves, with others, but never at people

We work in the most ridiculously wonderful places. No day is the same, everyone is unique and you’ll be collecting the stories and experiences that you’ll be repeating over dinner for years to come. They’ll regale you with a wonderful tapestry of disaster, joy or triumph, even in the darkest of days.  But, that’s just my opinion, man.

So, as we enter 2019, and we look at where we were last year and how the next 12 months of our life stories will play out, I’ll be drinking a White Russian, with my new rug that pulls the room together, because really, we should all be a bit more Dude.

No man is an Island

"We don’t do that anymore."

"We don’t go there anymore."

"They don’t visit anymore."

These are some phrases I've heard, repeated over and over again.  The closing of the door, the raising of the drawbridge.  The ease of the insular. The closing of the gates. Beauty and the Beast, Edward Scissorhands, The Secret Garden all demonstrate this beautifully. 

Shying away, feeling ugly, withdrawing from society.

A struggling school has the ability to go off the grid. Hide away and lick its metaphorical wounds for a while. But what if it wants to hide away forever? 

With small, timid steps, asking for help and opening the doors can be transformative.  In the early weeks of being SLT, a volunteer (and staff member from years ago) turned up at our office. “She wanted to know if she could come back, she heard we needed a hand,” someone said. 

My instant reaction was “Yes! Of course.” 

The church warden called. “Did we want to start using the church again for some services?”

“Yes. Of course.”

 A local Headteacher called and asked, “Do you fancy a coffee and a chat about arranging some cluster moderations?”

“Yes. Of course!” 

For months, the school had become an island. No meetings, no visitors, no workshops, no help. When you feel like the failure, like the one letting everyone down, it’s so easy to become your very own elephant in the room; everyone knows you’re there, but no-one wants to talk about ‘it’.

Slowly, the light was filtering in, and suddenly, it didn’t feel so lonely. We didn’t feel like an island.

I’ve always been the person that asks the questions, seeks the information. I'm probably far too open and honest at the best of times, but asking for help? It's something I've learned to do, and wow… there are some wonderful people in our profession, ready with resources, advice, tips, tricks and hard lessons learned, never to repeat again.

Our school is lucky to be in a very close academy group. Friendly, supportive Heads and staff, who want us to succeed, to share good practice, to celebrate achievements. Over the last 18 months, I’ve seen many, many schools, visited lots of people for advice, attended workshops, conferences and have welcomed lots of visitors to the school. The doors are firmly open for anyone to visit us at any time; we are proud of the school we have become and hope to repay those that have helped us.

So, open the windows and lower the bridge. People are there to help, to support and to encourage.

Let the light in.

The children in the shadows

There's the child that holds the door open, while their (usually) louder friend goes first; there's the child, whose name is always on the tip of your tongue before calling on them; then there's the quiet and reserved ones, often polite, often trailing just behind their friends. The children in the shadows.

We need to bring these children into the light. They practically do our jobs for us. They pacify, listen, nurture, reason, and offer a hand of support to those that struggle.  They can be found bringing a hurt child in from the playground, checking why a classmate isn't in school today, asking you, the adult, if you had a nice weekend.

I've noticed recently that while we are all busy dealing with the children struggling, the children that have the loudest voices, the children who need extra support and nurture, we are guilty of forgetting about the children that always do the right thing.

They are on time, in the correct uniform, polite, hard working, reflective and have their heads down. There has been recent discussions on social media around rewarding children for attendance. I think there needs to be some thought towards why we can't celebrate these children.

Yes, we praise and lift those that may struggle, we offer pastoral support to families with medical need and family difficulties, in order to ensure they are getting the education they deserve, and we will continue to do so. Ultimately, we have a  whole school vision and goal as leaders, and we have to reward (not even for material gain, in most circumstances) those children that are bringing our vision to life.

We must bring the shadow children, into the light. They should be praised for doing what we have been fighting to achieve. We should sometimes look over the head of the child who is vying for attention and gently check in. A quick hello, a smile and a 'how are you doing today?' is powerful. It reminds us and them, that they matter, that they are noticed and most of all, they are valued as part of our whole community.

As a school, we celebrate our 'good to be green' children. These are pupils that have been consistently 'Green' for an entire term. They aren't boastful, and they aren't large material rewards. Sometimes it's smoothies and board games, sometimes it's a forest school session. However we celebrate, we are chatting about their day, finding out more about them, embracing the stolen moments in a laid-back way.  Just spending time together, and sometimes, time is all they need.

The sound of silence

Today, during the remembrance service, there was silence.

It was a joy to behold.

Having worked as the Head of School for 18 months with the starting point of 'Special Measures', silence was a rarity. In between staff managing low level behaviour (the whispering, the clicking, the rocking, the silly noises, the calling out, and so on) and the teachers filling the air with constant (and relentless) positive  praise, it had become a wall of sound. A place in which silence meant something was wrong. The sharp intake of breath that meant something awful had happened, the split second of fearful calm, before the inevitable storm.

Our team have worked incredibly hard to consistently and calmly implement a robust and simple behaviour plan. The drip, drip, drip of the same routines, the same structure, the same outcomes. Boring? Yes. Repetitive? Yes. Effective? Yes.  Our aim is to make every child feel like an equal, based on mutual respect and fairness. Children that struggled? We provided them the tools and strategies to meet our expectations.

Today, the silence wasn't just a school that was participating in an order of service to remember and respect our soldiers, both past and present. It was a school full of pupils that could finally give respect to themselves and others, willingly.  Pupils that could finally understand that silence isn't just about conformity, but an opportunity to reflect, embrace, consolidate and give space to their own thoughts.