Auld Lang Syne

I love New Year's Eve. There are very few worldwide events that I enjoy. As a Jew, Easter and Christmas have never really done much for me (other than the whole decorating aspect - I could so get into that aspect of Christ's little bday party!). After marrying a nice Christian boy, I discovered Christmas actually means painful get-togethers with people I would rather drown than drink with, which made it even worse. It's not only religious based events that repel me. Hubby always works on Cup Day and thus 'the race that stops the nation' just means babysitting duty for me. I loathe the Olympics and resent the bad television we miss in order to watch some eleven year old girl jumping around with a ribbon. How is that sport? I have thus far avoided planting trees on a specific day allocated by some committee, and refuse to help clean-up Australia. After all, where is everyone when it's time to clean-up my house? As a self-confessed shopaholic the one day of the year I abstain from this holiest of ventures is Boxing Day. As the flocks are bussed in to rifle through crap from fourteen years ago that has been ceremoniously dumped on the most convenient trestle table, I maintain my distance from Melbourne's shopping meccas and give my Visa a well-deserved rest.

But New Year's Eve is different. It is the one time you feel like the whole world has permission to PARTY. I like to think that even the most uptight, buttoned down, repressed individuals on the planet are gettin' down and filling their cars with cartons of their favourite beer. Good cheer? Christmas dinners with Great Aunt Fay complaining about "kids these days" and then falling asleep on the couch as cousin Tiffany accuses everyone at the table of conspiring to make her fat, simply can't compare with the chance New Year's Eve provides for us all, at least in some small way, to start again. This year, to celebrate what I believe is the world's greatest annual event, Hubby and I have decided to host a kid-friendly bash - complete with mirror balls (I can't resist party kitsch!), kids treasure hunt, ice-cream sundae bar and a resolution tree.

Now, Hubby and I differ enormously on the whole resolution thing. I see it as a potentially sacred event. He sees it as an opportunity to make incredibly humorous remarks like, "I promise to drink more beer in 2007". I truly believe the contemplation needed to decide on one's New Year's resolution promotes the kind of self-analysis everyone needs occasionally. New Year's Eve allows individuals to face their weaknesses and attempt to overcome them. It is an opportunity for self-reflection and momentary honesty about the person we are and the person we wish to become.

I have many weaknesses - many, many, many weaknesses. And to say I will address them all in this New Year would be unrealistic. There is however one aspect of my nature that I would like to, ahem, 'work on'. I'm not a great friend. I try to be, but the bottom line is, I'm not. I get easily sidetracked by other aspects of my life, as I think many of us do. Family, work, the house and let's not forget me, me and me. Now, up until recently this has never been a huge problem because until recently I was blessed (or cursed - not sure which) with rather average friends who pretty much operated the same way I do. I'll call you when I need you, which may or may not coincide with when you need me. They were, and too a large extent, still are, individuals who place themselves and their interests on a plane high above anybody else's and thus you feel comfortable and quite frankly, completely entitled to do likewise.

But over the last few years I have come to know a number of women who deserve far better than what I have been giving. They are honest and generous and I truly know I could call them at any time for any reason. I have shed many of my old friends, making room for those who accept me even without make-up. I can be honest with them when things aren't perfect, when the bank-balance isn't as healthy as I would like it to be. I can tell them when I feel down, or tired or when I'm just not coping with everything that life throws at us. I can go to them when I doubt myself for some much needed bolstering. Around them I don't always have to be confident and on top of it all. They see the fraying edges and love me despite them. They are who I now refer to as "Friends I Don't Have To Clean For".

So in 2010 I say to hell with Auld Lang Syne. In 2010 I resolve to be a better friend to those who I know and love now. I resolve to text less and call more, to resist the urge to lie and say all is great. I resolve to gossip less and be truthful more, to recognise that friends are of far greater value than what the boss thinks of you. I resolve to stop worrying about those who have proven time and time again that they are not good friends and instead focus on being a better friend myself.

Happy New Year.

The Look?

So here I am, minding my own business, enjoying a mid-morning cup of coffee and flicking through today's Sunday Life magazine. Since its revamp the Sunday Life has been a bit touch-and-go. It's having a little bit of trouble deciding on its new identity. Is it, as it proclaims to be The Sunday Age Magazine? Or is it perhaps The Sunday Age Magazine for Women Between the Ages of 25-40 Who Have an Enormous Disposable Income and Enjoy Being Patronised? Alternatively, it has crossed my mind that it is simply a 45 page advertising feature. Nonetheless, solid mindless fodder when your two-year-old has scribbled all over the Good Weekend's Samurai Sudoku.

According to one Ms Thelma McQuillan on page 35 of this week's Sunday Life, "one of summer's hottest trend is the new playsuit". Let me state this once and let me be VERY clear - unless you happen to be over six feet tall and a size 2-4 there is NOTHING remotely "hot" about a playsuit. As its very name suggest, a playsuit is appropriate for one thing and one thing only - playing. When you're three years old. If you ask me, the very idea of suggesting that grown-up women don clothing appropriate for toddlers playing in the sandpit is a little creepy.

I don't care of Ms McQuillan claims that this one-piece wonder is "super-versatile". For all of you out there contemplating the $395 Ginger & Smart disaster pictured, ask yourself is this is honestly what your life needs right now. McQuillan suggests adding "heels and jewels" to turn the "super-versatile" playsuit into instant evening wear. Is she serious? No item heralded as the fashion of tomorrow should require a woman to totally undress in order to sit on the toilet.

"The Look"? I think not.

Lights and Peanut Butter Crusts

I need to know.
I simply must know what makes men so incredibly and unbelievably stupid. Before my male readers take an oath never to read this blog again, you should be aware that this is a genuine attempt to help my very female self understand why it is that what seems so very basic to those of us born sans penis, our male counterparts struggle to comprehend.

Hubby is what I would consider to be an intelligent man. He can explain the minutia of Cold War relations and actually understands – as much as anyone can - Obama's plan for health care reform. However, despite having the intellect to be able to tell a good Brezhnev joke and know why it's funny, he cannot understand why leaving fourteen lights on when you leave the house is a bad thing. Nor can he get his head around the fact that, for the most part, if you want your two year-old daughter to put her peanut-butter sandwich crusts into the bin, you will have to TELL her to do so. Hubby also struggles to grasp the concept that Little Princess will often neglect to inform you that she has mashed those lovely sandwich crusts into the dining room carpet. He believes the highly complex excuse "I didn't see it" is sufficient to acquit him of all charges. Further, he truly believes it is I who am being unreasonable. Expecting him to look either up or down is clearly a mark of my always too high demands.

But Hubby truly excels himself every time his mother is in town. For some reason men who are for the most part, able to function on a normal (albeit male) level are thrown into a spin the moment a ditzy (dyed) blonde who happened to have given birth to them comes into the picture. Now it wouldn't be nice to refer to his mother as Useless-WASP-Who-Has-Never-Contributed-Anything-To-Society-Other-Than-Keeping-Her-Home-Dust-Free, so instead she shall be named Mommy Dearest. Mommy Dearest has never worked. In fact, she believes working is "demeaning" – her words. Mommy Dearest had two children 5 years apart because she couldn't possibly have coped with having more than one at home at a time. Hubby's memories of his childhood include washing his hands and watching Mommy Dearest vacuum – a lot. When our eldest son was born Hubby was astounded to discover that it was okay for children and their mothers to be seen in public and they in fact did not have to always be at home in the throws of domestic bliss. Mommy Dearest washes all the towels and linen in her home every day. In my honest opinion Mommy Dearest has some serious issues.

Mommy Dearest can also be a bit of a bitch. After two days in a car listening to endless rounds of Wiggles music, punctuated by the always loved "Are we there yet?", to visit MD and her new husband, who shall henceforth be known as Sleazoid Nazi (a whole other story), Mommy Dearest enquired what our plans were for dinner. Hubby was off to a Bucks Night to catch up with old school buddies and so it was just me and the kids (in a hotel room, because we couldn't possibly stay in her three bedroom, two bathroom, three living areas home – "Simply not enough room" she claimed, with a straight-face). When I said I had no plans as yet, MD helpfully informed me that there was a supermarket just down the road from where we were staying. Thanks. You're awesome.

But the part that really pisses me off is that MD has zero interest in seeing her grandchildren. She does of course, for precisely 90 minutes every time she comes to Melbourne. At some stage she must have been told that 90 minutes is the minimum amount of time you can visit family and then leave without seeming rude. But I know even these visits are not so much to see the kids, but more so she can report back to her parochial, gossiping friends that yes, she too has seen her grandchildren. All her friends are doing it, and the only thing worse that having to spend time with noisy, sticky children, would be not doing what all your friends are doing. Although she still can't for the life of her understand why my five year old human hurricane doesn't want to sit and have a cup of tea and a nice chat with his nanna. Go figure.

And yet, despite acknowledging that he doesn't like his mother, doesn't respect her, hates spending time with her and has to drink a double scotch just to get through a ten minute phone conversation with her, Hubby will still attempt to move heaven and earth to make sure Mommy Dearest gets what Mommy Dearest wants when she wants it. I, who have stood by him when we had nothing, ate two-minute noodles for months on end because that's all we could afford, carried and birthed him three beautiful children am declared unreasonable for suggesting that MD can simply go fuck herself.

So, I ask, what makes men think so differently to women? Why do they so fear telling the truth? They can start world wars from the safety of an office desk, but they seem unable to say, "Mum, why are you so selfish and self-absorbed? Would it be so hard to boil up some pasta for your daughter-in-law and grandkids?"

I know males aren't born that way – my eldest boy is, at the tender age of 8, far wiser than I am on a number of levels. So, what happens? Is it hormones? Is it societal roles that we just adapt to without even knowing it? Or is it the mothers themselves? Do mothers raise boys somehow differently, expecting more on some levels and infinitely less in regards to others? Or is it about the way some mothers represent themselves? Has Mommy Dearest knowingly raised a boy who has turned into a man who will never tell her the truth because she has marketed herself as fragile and unable to cope?

Whatever the reason I encourage male readers to make two solemn promises today. Promise the woman who continues to share your bed despite your flaws that you will always look up to see if the lights are on and look down to check for peanut-butter crusts.

Plastic Fantastic

I've got a friend. Actually, I had a friend. I now have someone who calls me asking to throw parties so she can sell her wares. This young woman - let's call her Plastic Fantastic, used to be a really good friend. We spent many a night watching bad movies, eating bowls of cookies n' cream ice-cream smothered in hot chocolate fudge and Baileys, drinking goblets of cheap red wine and gossiping and commiserating over one guy or another. She knew my husband and I before we were my husband and I, she has been auntie to my children. Then she met Mr You-Got-To-Spend-Money-To-Make-Money.

Mr You-Got-To-Spend-Money-To-Make-Money is constantly investing thousands of dollars, which by the way he does not have, in an attempt to make his fortune. He does not have the brains to realise that he has in fact already spent that fortune investing in the incredibly dodgy Fashion Slick who is taking him for all he's got - and a bit of what he doesn't have. Fashion Slick has convinced Mr YGTSMTMM to pay all his expenses while he lives overseas "designing" and "promoting" a range of the world's crappiest t-shirts - you know, the ones with skulls and graffiti font which Target sold in the late 1990s. Watching Mr YGTSMTMM around Fashion Slick is like watching the fat dork in the fourth grade who has been tossed a bone by the cool kids. "Oh my god! I'm sitting with the cool kids! This is soooo great. Okay, so I have to do their homework and give them my lunch money. But who cares? By sheer osmosis I will become cool by being near them, right?" Wrong.

Plastic Fantastic has changed considerably since meeting and marrying Mr YGTSMTMM. Mostly, she's become less financially secure as her beloved spends all her money. And her parents' money. And his own parents' money. She has decided that like her entrepreneurial hubby she doesn't want to work in the conventional sense. She's got a two year-old she believes would be irreparably harmed if he had to suffer through childcare with the rest of our pleb children. She doesn't want to rely on her mother-in-law to babysit while she's at work - although she seems happy to rely on her when she wants to shop, go out with friends, or when she just needs a break. In short - she's lazy. So, in lieu of the hum drum life of getting your arse to work to earn a buck, she's decided the best way to make up for the financial hole her husband is digging for them is to sell stuff.

Now, this in itself is not a bad thing. I have plenty of friends who have gone into business for themselves and I support all of them with my heart and soul. In fact, I am faintly jealous of those who have a marketable talent. However, none of these friends have ever asked me to sell stuff for them. Plastic Fantastic has gone from being a close friend who I could talk to for hours to the woman whose phone calls I now dread because they are always bound in what she wants me to do for her. She never calls to see how I am, to arrange to catch up for a drink or a coffee, she never wants to see a movie or go for a walk, she now wants to explain how she's calling on everyone she knows to support her during "challenge week".

I don't claim to be the world's greatest gal pal. I know I could be better at the whole "just calling to say..." thing. I recognise that often I become self-absorbed and forget about those around me - those who I love and cherish even if I'm unable to say it (but that's a whole other issue). However, I would like to think that I don't actively set out to take advantage of those who once relied on me for friendship. I would like to think that if I ever decided to abandon the classroom in favour of a new and not so exciting business venture I would seek my friends' emotional and mental support NOT their ability to sell my product of choice to their friends for me. I would like to think that I could attend a dinner party without talking non-stop about my new life as a plastic fantastic rep. I would like to think that I could call my friends and knowing it was me, they would still pick up the phone.

Parent Teacher Nightmare

Certainly one of the most dreaded evenings on any teacher's calendar is Parent Teacher Interview evenings. Well last night was that night, and what a night it was. Most of the interviews went quite smoothly, as I must admit they normally do. Sure you always get your crazies. Towards the top of my list was Anxious Mother #457 who spent 12 minutes telling me how her daughter is not fulfilling her potential, not doing enough work and is getting fat, but she can't understand why her daughter is experiencing so much pressure that she is developing insomnia. It's a mystery, really...

However, in terms of firsts for me, last night was a big one. Never before in my teaching career have I uttered the words, "I'm really sorry, there's absolutely nothing I can do for your son". And yet, here I was in front of a student I shall call Meathead (I think the name pretty much explains a large part of the problem), his parents, Meathead Snr and Disempowered Mum, blatantly dashing all hopes for any academic success. Now let me be clear. I teach many bright kids and, like most teachers I also teach my share of idiots, but Meathead is a special sort of idiot. Meathead can't understand why it might be inappropriate to cut up his coke can with a pair of scissors in the middle of my lesson. Equally, he finds it incomprehensible as to why he can't take phone calls in the middle of class, after all, what are mobiles for? In fact, he believes I should attempt to ensure less noise in the classroom if he is compelled to answer his iphone. Meathead felt personally taken aback by my suggestion that he actually do some homework. He feels this would adversely impact on his (and I quote) "right to enjoy my childhood". Is he fucking kidding? His right to enjoy his childhood? He's eighteen for Christ sake! Granted, intellectually he is probably more suited to the comedic genius of programs such as "Australia's Funniest Home Videos" rather than our current study of "Citizen Kane", but nonetheless - "childhood"?! I almost choked on my lukewarm coffee and stale shortbread biscuit left over from the last Parent Teacher Evening. Meathead feels that once he's at Uni he will then begin any academic endeavours that may appeal to his pint sized brain. The question of how he's going to get to Uni has not, at this stage, even occurred to this little Einstein.

Meathead Snr appeared close to punching the fruit of his loins in the head. Disempowered Mum had tears in her eye. The maths teacher they had seen before me had to explain how Meathead had recently drawn an enormous penis on the classroom floor. She expressed how offended she was by the image and I'm pretty sure it wasn't because of its poor artistic quality. Meathead couldn't understand why she was offended, as he so eloquently put it, "What's your problem? You didn't have to touch it."

The way I see it I currently have three available options.

Option 1 - I rely on Meathead self-reflecting and searching his soul, beginning to feel guilty about the hell he's putting his parents through and experiencing a change of heart and mind. But I think we all know what my chances are of that happening.

Option 2 - I keep Meathead after school every day until he starts to do some work. But the work is half-arsed at best, he hates me for what he perceives to be punishing him and he purposely fucks up the exam to get back at me.

Option 3 - Leave Meathead to enjoy his "childhood" and pray to god I never have to each the fruit of his loins.

Option 3 it is.

The Treadmill

A dear friend wrote a blog recently outlining the difficult position women - particularly mothers - are in today. She spoke of a dinner shared by three female friends all of whom are letting something go in order to simply stay on the 'treadmill' of life. Due to a lack of time and financial backing one is reluctant to pursue the opportunity to turn an amazing talent into a business, putting all her energy into the daily pressures of running a family and making sure the mortgage is paid by submitting to a dead-end job. Another is so determined that everything appear perfect - her house, her hair, her clothes, her children, that she is marching head first into a nervous breakdown that is right around the corner from her next manicure. The third woman, is smart, funny and generous. She manages to work, run her own business and take care of three children, but like most women, does not look after her own health. She is about to fall off the treadmill because she didn't listen to the advice of every airline steward; "Make sure your mask is securely fitted before you attempt to assist others."

Three women. All educated, all intelligent and articulate. All are married to comparatively great guys, men willing to do their share of the domestic tasks, men who are supportive husbands and active fathers. As an outsider looking in, I would say that while each of these women are currently facing a particular challenge, by and large, in the post-modern sense of the word, these three chicks have it "all". However, as one of these women I recognise the crippling effect of that continual self-doubt which nags away at us. Women brave it all. We wake up, get the kids dressed, give them breakfast, make sure their school bags are packed, make sure we're dressed, no baby-spit on the shoulder, speed the offspring to school and child-care, race down to work, smile and nod and pray everyone likes us. We hurry to the after-school pick up, make sure the kids eat, bathe, do their homework. We read them a story, tuck them into bed, and then we start whatever take-home work we have. In between of course, we feed the cat and the dog, do the dishes, pick up the cushions off floor, put the toys away so no one breaks their neck, chauffeur the kids to swimming, soccer, dance, parties, play dates and feel guilty for not spending enough time with them. We squeeze in romantic date nights in an attempt to make ourselves feel human. We rush to waxing appointments, facial appointments, manicures, pedicures. We pick up the dry-cleaning, pay the bills and fold the laundry. We have unsatisfying sex just so we can tick something else off our To-Do list. We do all this with a smile plastered across our face. A smile that proclaims to the world, "I'm okay. I've got everything under complete control." But under the smile, deep inside, the part of ourselves that only gets a voice late at night when we lay in the dark, our husbands obliviously snoring beside us, is breaking apart.

The cracks start small. The little failures that rationally we know have been forgotten by everyone else, haunt us on these dark nights. We magnify them. We begin to believe that's all that we are, our failures - no matter how small or how random. The confidence we display to the world disappears and we are twelve years old again, scared that the popular kids are going to mean to us and that we will have to spend lunchtime in a toilet cubicle to avoid the humiliation of being alone. We look at ourselves through a microscope, critique our flaws more harshly than any enemy would. We find reasons why our achievements are not REAL achievements, why we could have done more, done better, why we could be more, be better.

We're old enough to know that crying doesn't help. If we're lucky we have a select group of friends we feel comfortable sharing select moments of weakness with. Maybe the problem is the myth that was sold to us women who were born post-third wave feminism. We were told we could have it all. The reality is however, that we now have to be it all. For most of the women I know, we are caught between balancing any career aspirations we may have with the very sobering realisation that time is fast running out. That despite the push to move women into the public sphere, for most of us we are held back by the fact that like our grandmothers and great-grandmothers we still believe that we should be last in line. We continually put everyone else first. Our children, our partners, our parents, our friends, our colleagues. We could choose to fight it. We could tell the world to go get fucked and claim what should be ours. But we don't. Most of us simply acknowledge that life is unfair and we just need to suck it up and keep running on that damn treadmill.

Mr Pleather

A friend's husband, a man known in e-circles as The Great Pretender, commented the other day that from my infrequent rantings one would think that the only students to people the school I currently teach at are feral, unintelligent, rude neanderthals. I would like to clarify that this is not the case. I have taught, and continue to teach some students who are truly amazing individuals - they challenge me, open my mind to new ideas and concepts, and teach me about the world and often, about myself. When they leave my classroom, I am better for the time we spent together.

So, in order to balance the proverbial scales I am compelled to send out a hearty salute to all those moron teachers out there. You know the type - earring still in one ear, none the wiser that that particular fashion went out in 1987, haircut from about the same vintage and pleather jacket purchased from some dodgy Vic Market stall. A man whose singular ambition in his career is to make less work for himself, and if nothing else, THAT he is succeeding at. Well, Mr Pleather has managed to slither his way up the slippery pole of educational advancement and is now Head of a major faculty - and true to his cause he is doing his darnedest to make sure that all teachers in his department are losing whatever passion they used to have for educating young minds. He doesn't hold meetings with his colleagues, his 'team' as he insists on calling them (only one tiny step away from 'comrades'), he holds lectures. Opinions from other teachers? Viewpoints from those who have greater experience and might I suggest greater intelligence? Don't be ridiculous. What could there be that Mr Pleather doesn't know? He sends out emails with the subject heading: "Please print and retain" (yes, I'm serious), letting everyone know that his word is only second to god's.

And then to a man who believes his word is equal to god's. Sorry, that's insulting - greater than god's. It is the ever-rising corner office chaser. To those who think individuals who chase those middle management positions and the office furniture that comes with it only exist in the corporate world - think again. Only in education, instead of views of the city skyline, you get a big window that looks out onto the back of some crappy 70s building and kids walking by, giving each other the latest on who sucked what Saturday night. One particular corner office chaser has literally screwed up every job, every minute task he has been given. Every program he has meant to run has been such a debacle the school has been forced to hand it over, broken and in pieces, to someone else to fix. The peak of his professionalism, in my humble opinion, came in an email to an entire Senior School with an attached timetable and the note: "If you notice that there are clashes for you or your students, please fix them among yourselves" - awe inspiring. Does he get sacked? No. Demoted? Ney. Lose the precious corner office? Neyt. Does he continue to sit with that smarmy little grin, ruddy cheeks and yellowing teeth in that corner office? He certainly does. Does he strut around the place in hideous neon shirts with clashing ties, also circa 1987? Nod, nod, nod. Like in every other industry, in education, shit often rises to the top.

Just as I suffer through the infantile little shits who can sit at the desks in my classroom, there are brilliant young people being subjected to the likes of Mr Pleather and the corner office chaser. So, are the scales even? Sure. We're all being screwed.

In these harsh economic times...

I am not actually writing my blog at this moment. You THINK that's what I'm doing, but the reality is, I am just avoiding writing reports. I've written a few, two classes worth to be precise, but I'm struggling. I am struggling with finding new and hopefully less offensive ways of expressing my professional view that "your child is a complete waste of space, taking up much needed oxygen from those with more than one operating brain cell", or "your money would be better spent on a trip to Europe than to fork out one more cent in an attempt to educate the moronic, self-absorbed human being you insisted inflicting on this good earth".

I've been hearing lots these days about the supposed harsh economic times we currently find ourselves in. Between that and swine-flu it's all I can do to keep myself driving headlong into the "Dans Plants" sign whose lack of required apostrophe taunts me every day on my drive to work. So, it would make sense that in these times of gloom and doom parents having enough faith in their children to plonk down an obscene amount of money in an effort to make them better educated global citizens should fill me with warmth and optimism, right? Wrong.

I know I should feel good about the fact that parents are willing to make financial sacrifices for the education of their children, but the fact remains I don't. I am frightfully scared of the fact that in these harsh economic times those who will continue to gain from the bounties of private school education are going to increasingly be the children of the rich - and if I have learnt one thing from my time in the wonders of what 'A Current Affair' likes to call 'one of Melbourne's elite private schools', it is that, in most cases, the children of the rich have no idea what it's like to not be rich. Most assume they are entitled to everything the world has to give. Hard work? That's for someone else. Dedication? No need. Striving despite initial failure? Mummy and Daddy said I would never fail and a school system that continues to pass me despite my lack of ability and effort, simply because my parents pay the fees reinforces that notion quite nicely, thank you very much.

Those students whose parents hold down two jobs and who work tirelessly to take full advantage of the offerings of a private school, will unfortunately be the ones to go. They will be the ones who end up in State School High languishing in overcrowded, under-resourced classrooms with teachers who should have been sacked years ago, but can't be because they haven't molested anyone yet. Meanwhile the princesses who laugh in your face when you suggest they come in over their holidays to make up for the worked they missed will remain, far more enthralled with the images of themselves in their Mac's PhotoBooth than they are with anything you may have to teach them.

And so, in these harsh economic times, I beg of you, if you are lucky enough to have some spare cash floating around and you are honest enough with yourself to recognise that thanks to your poor parenting your child is one of those wasting p precious educational space and oxygen, do the world and yourself a favour. Take that trip to Europe. And take along that poor partial scholarship student whose father is scrubbing toilets in an effort to give his kid a future. That child might be able to see beyond themselves and their iPhone and take in the wonders the wide world has to offer. They might even appreciate it.

A Whore By Any Other Name

So, today at work I was called a whore. Yep, that's right, you heard. W-H-O-R-E. Now I know what you're thinking. There are not may places of business where a young man can get away with calling a young woman a whore without having a sexual harassment suit slapped on him. In most organisations, a man even thinking about this word would be brought up in-front of some otherwise redundant merit and equity board in a vain attempt to avoid a multi-million dollar payout and some overly made-up ex-employee crying her eyes out on that evening's episode of 'A Current Affair' And yet thankfully there does exist one last bastion of true personal freedom. One last place in which political correctness or even basic courtesy is more of a suggestion rather than an expectation. One last place in which people can feel safe in the knowledge that they can pretty much say and do whatever they please and as long as it is followed up by some sort of vague, mumbled apology, or even an "I won't do it again". Where is this place you ask? Where does the phrase 'freedom of speech' really mean all that it promises? I'll tell you where. A high school classroom.

Of course, it's only actually students who have the benefit of such wonderful liberties. If I, as a teacher were to indulge in such freedoms I would be declared unprofessional. If I as a teacher were to respond to this young man with something along the lines of, "Listen to me you pathetic little Zac Efron wannabe, the only thing less attractive than your poxy, acne riddled face, is your egotistical attitude, which by the way you have no right to. You're neither intelligent enough, good looking enough nor talented enough to warrant that titanic size chip on your puny little shoulder", I would be deemed unworthy of the title educator.

The government keeps crying out for more people to join the wonderful world of education. They debate higher pay-scales, refurbishing school buildings, modernising classrooms. They discuss making teacher training longer, shorter, more practical, more theoretical. Smaller class sizes, more support, less interference. Yet no one is discussing the real problem. It takes a special sort of person to get up every day knowing that the chances of being personally attacked and abused are pretty damn high.

When I told my husband about the incident, he declared it a 'learning experience' for the young man in question. I maintain little Zac Efron may have learnt more from a swift kick in the nuts.

Prince Lank Hair

I am a parent and a teacher. Don't ask me which one I am first and foremost. I honestly would not be able to tell you. Depends on the day. The one thing I can say for certain is that my experience in education has helped inform the parent I am. I have seen the 'other side'. I have seen seventeen year-old drop kicks whose parents are investing $20,000 a year for an elite private school education , but who don't find it necessary to support that particular investment by, I don't know, trying to make sure that their offspring develop a semblance of personal responsibility.

I am about to tell you a tale. A tale of a young man. Let's call him Lank Hair. Lank Hair is attempting his VCE this year. More precisely, he is enrolled in his VCE this year. He is attempting nothing. Sorry - he is making a valiant attempt to get back at his parents for whatever sins they may have committed against him, by throwing his current academic future down the proverbial toilet.

Lank Hair is not stupid. He is quite a perceptive young man. Overestimates his own ability just a tad, but hey, who doesn't? Given his academic ability and his recent decision to do poorly in order to make Mommy and Daddy Lank Hair suffer, his Head of House (elite private school speak for poor schmuck who has to deal with the social and emotional issues of the often spoilt-rotten little cretins who attend the wondrously elite institution) decides to call in the parentals to stage an intervention. Who needs a lunchtime when there is this sort of entertainment on offer?

So Mommy Lank Hair walks in - complete with see-through top and lacy bra showing. Nice. Classy. Head of House (HOH)? Check. Head of Boys? Check. Maths teacher? Check. English teacher? Check. Religion and Society teacher? Legal Studies teacher? Sorry - he's off having a fag. Thinly veiled attempt to finally get sacked. But that's a whole different story. Lank Hair sits on a chair, head down. Not shame, just boredom. Lank Hair proceeds to make excuses. "It's because I don't like maths", "But you used to love maths." protests mum. "Exactly." HOH nods thoughtfully. HOB nods thoughtfully. I stare. I'm happy to admit it, I just don't get it. I'm sorry, but what the hell does that mean??? He doesn't like maths because he used to like maths? That doesn't even make sense!

Lank Hair then proceeds to blame everyone in the world for his failings. Maths teacher has no control over her classroom, English teacher has too much control. Legal Studies doesn't care enough, R&S cares too much. Now, this in itself is not unusual. Teenagers are brilliant at finding reasons why they can't/didn't/shouldn't do what they need to do. But the real highlight in this story is this mother. Mommy Lank Hair with her tits spilling out all over the elite private school conference table, proceeds to "Mmmmm..." and "I totally understand where he's coming from."

I'll tell you where he's coming from. He's coming from an indulgent mother who provides her son with every excuse he needs to fail and blame everybody else in the world for it. He's coming from a mother who tells to a room full of educators that poor Prince Lank Hair is simply "misunderstood", instead of giving him the kick up the bum that he needs. He's coming from a household where his parents have probably bought his shit for years. They've probably helped him mold and create it. He's coming from a woman who has confused being able to pay private school fees with being able to parent.

So, if you are a parent contemplating spending upwards of $20,000 per annum on the education of your little precious, think carefully. Yes, you will get some of the most amazing educators teaching your child. Yes, you will get some incredible facilities for your child to enjoy during their schooling years. But when you decide to make this investment, make sure that you understand your part in all of this. $20,000 buys your kid an opportunity. It is you, as the parent, who needs to make sure that your child is brought up in a manner which will enable them to take advantage of this opportunity. Make sure your child has an understanding of personal responsibility. Make sure you never make excuses for them or allow them to make excuses for themselves. And for god's sake, if, despite all your efforts, you are called in to school, make sure you dress appropriately.

Four sleeps to go...

Four more sleeps till the end of Term. The only ones more excited than the students are us poor teachers.

Like many in the wonderful world of education I love my job and loathe my job. I adore the kids who challenge me every day and I want to wring their necks. My job makes me a better person but it also causes me to drink way too much. It makes me ponder the choices I have made thus far and be thankful and regretful. It helps me know how to be a better parent, but allows me far less patience when I walk through the door at night.

Perhaps most importantly however, it makes me want to kill people who utter the words, "It must be so great having all those holidays". It's not "great", it's necessary. Those precious non-instructional periods are what allow us teachers to continue on beating our heads against brick walls and pushing shit uphill. Note my use of the term 'non-instructional period'. Holidays are spent at the beach or lounging around the house. Holidays imply travel, excitement or at the very least, a moment of stress-free existence. Holidays are not about Year 12 students text messaging you the latest in a series of inane queries. Holidays are not about marking 60 Language Analysis essays, most of which make you want to read Andrew Bolt just so you can feel something again. Holidays are not about planning the next 10 weeks of work.

And so, I go to bed tonight desperately anticipating my 14 day non-instructional period in the vain hope that a couple of weeks away will make we want to kill the buggers just a little bit less.