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.
