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- Herausgeber: Independent Thinking Press
- Kategorie: Bildung
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
Literacy is important. This book is about getting it right. Its author is an expert in teaching children how to speak and write well, and has transformed the oral and written communication skills of many thousands of students. In How to Teach: Literacy he shares how he does it and what he knows about this most important of all skills and reveals what every teacher needs to know in order to radically transform literacy standards across the curriculum. The stories, anecdotes and insights into the many practical activities in this book are, in turn, and often in the same sentence, heart breaking, inspiring, shocking and, as ever, funnier and more readable than those in an education book have any right to be. Contains everything teachers need to know to teach literacy effectively, regardless of their subject specialism or phase. If you want to make sure that every child leaves your class knowing the rules and how to use them, this is the book for you. If you think that literacy is difficult, or boring, or not your responsibility, be ready to be proved wrong. Discover practical activities, spelling strategies, tips for teaching punctuation and grammar guides that are anything but didactic and dull.
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To my eldest genetic son, Leonard Joseph Beadle, who is the human on this planet I most wanted to meet, who I waited thirty-six years for, whose birth was the most transcendent moment of my life, who has never disappointed me, and whom I love as much as breathing.
And to Kevin McKellar, my first role model as a teacher, of whom not one of the thousands of children whose lives he touched would remember him as anything other than the kindest of saints, and who was taken when he still had decades of brilliance left. A better man than me. RIP.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I have been lucky enough to meet so many absolutely wonderful people in the more recent years of my career; I think it would be remiss not to take the opportunity to thank them humbly for the friendship, the wine, the iconoclasm, the laughs, the cuddles and the truly excellent swearing.
The list of great people includes Paul Brown (an aesthete and a gent), Cris Campbell, Tait Coles, Rob Cooper (my best mate in England), David Didau (who, for a supposed apprentice, seems to be doing a scarily convincing impersonation of a master), Paul ‘dog with two’ Dix (proper respectable geezer), Ian Gilbert (mustard in a rumble), Nina Jackson (a sweetheart), Ben Kempka, all at Knox Grammar English department, Caroline Lenton (another sweetheart), Glen Maclachlan (my best mate in the Southern Hemisphere), Chris McPhee, Tony Minall, Tony O’Donohue, Martin Robinson (middle aged Cockney drama teachers in quality knitwear: be afraid world), Kevin Rowland, Steve Ruddy (Eaaagles!), Mr James Stafford, Ian Whitwham and the ribald high-priestess herself, Ros Wilson.
Special props must also go to my editor, Emma Tuck, who is the funniest person I have never met. And, most of all, I acknowledge the continued forbearance of the uberbabe, Jennifer Eirlys, without whose love I would have been someone else: someone far worse.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
At many points in this tome, you’ll find there are instances when I have not obeyed my own advice; this is entirely deliberate. You’ll find, for instance, that there are countless occasions on which I’ve deliberately put an adverb before a verb. In these cases I’ve judiciously weighed it up, and definitely felt I could probably cope with the slight jarring effect it clearly produces on the psyches of both reader and author. I also guide teachers not to allow their students to use capitals to display volume when there are a good few examples in the book of me doing the exact thing I’m briefing against. The reason for this is that, unlike your students, I am a partially functioning, independent adult who makes a meagre part of his living from writing. I am not seeking to impress examiners; I seek to entertain. My examiner is the reader, and if you have read one of my books before, you will know pretty well what you are going to get: an array of borderline inappropriate knob jokes stretched over an obviously spindly structural device, somehow fleshed out into a borderline cohesive narrative by the bludgeoning weight of the humour, that somehow, against the odds, teaches you loads of stuff you didn’t know. I don’t have to follow my own advice for teaching children how to write as I am not a child, and if I didn’t already know all of the things in this book I wouldn’t have been able to write it. I think there are also a couple of occasions where I use three exclamations together!!! I am allowed to do this because it is clear I am taking the mick. Children are not allowed to do this. You have to be in late middle age to get away with it.
I also need to warn you, as if you needed warning, about the ‘appropriateness’ (or not) of some of the humour. I am 49 years of age, have no interest whatsoever in the vagaries of social nicety and speak in my own voice, not some anthropologically esoteric academic code. Try not to be offended. If you are of the mind to try on that particular coat, and if anything in this book offends you to the point that you cannot take the information in it seriously, chuck it in the bin.
And let us now bring up a perspective about writing, and about the rules, that one must have some cognizance of in order to do it with any degree of skill: sometimes you’ve just got to go with the feel. That isn’t to say that you should use going with the feel as an excuse for your ignorance of the rules. But once you have some command of them, then you can start subverting the rules deliberately to create interesting effects, both rhythmic and semantic. Rules are important, of course, and this book exists to help you understand them and then teach them to the young people who need access to them, but don’t make a theocracy out of them. They exist to provide the structure within which we might play.
On a related tangent, it would be foolish of me to ignore the possibility that this book might be chanced upon in a branch of Oxfam by some petty grammarian who regards ‘proper’ grammar as having some moral aspect. Such people are responsible, as A. A. Gill – a writer who did not let his dyslexia hide his brilliance – notes, for, “The dullest, most pompous letters a paper gets … from the grammar Stasi agent who has been reading Eats, Shoots and [sic] Leaves on the bog.”1 If you are one of those people and you spot the mistakes the proofreader has made in the proofing of this book – it’s her fault, not mine, shoot her! – then any assertion that the author of this book is a symptom of what he is trying to cure has an interesting self-referential surrealism, but is really needless nit picking. Go back to your Daily Mail.
I am for the working class being held worthy of intellectual respect, and I am also for teaching children the stuff they need to know to attain this. I don’t always get things right, as I am self-taught. My teachers didn’t know this stuff, your teachers didn’t know this stuff, and that is why this book is necessary. Ultimately, what it stands for is democracy: democratisation of expression, democratisation of some minor elegance in the written and spoken word, democratisation of having a voice. And it is a book that, while overly proud of its own anger, is also in possession of a pair of truisms that, for me, are not ever shouted loudly enough or with enough steel or violence of intent.
The first of these is the statement that literacy is political, and the second, built on the first, is that equipping children from the lower social orders with heavyweight skills of expression, when combined with teaching them their place in the hierarchy, is the most potently subversive political act available to any human.
It is my perspective that the most important thing you learn in school is how to communicate; and it is also my perspective that, systemically, we – the educators responsible for growing future generations that might use their literacy to fight the manifold punitive orthodoxies inflicted upon them – do not teach this very well. As a result, the rich children who are educated separately from ours are allowed to grow up with the sense that they alone have the erudition, the mastery and the skills of articulation to properly engage with any political arena. Furthermore, the elites have been indoctrinated to believe that they (somehow) have ownership of the language.
I will leave it to A. A. Gill, whose view of social class is radically different to that one might expect from a columnist in one of the ‘top people’s’ papers, to point this out from the left bank of the inside. Speaking of the English language as an unstoppable river, he writes, “Nobody can alter its path of its destination, it belongs to whoever finds it in their mouth. It washes away dictionaries and lexicons and fun licking grammars. It is global and as free as breathing and the only truly democratic thing we own. Don’t let anyone tell you that it’s more theirs than yours because they don’t dangle participles.”2Use this book to teach children to speak, to write, to read well. Use it to alter their destinies. Use it to teach them that there are rules, and they are worth learning. But, I repeat, don’t make a theocracy out of them. And don’t forget: to be properly nourishing, and to properly inspire, the line betwixt work and play should not always be immediately visible.
1 A. A. Gill, ‘Table Talk: Brasserie Chavot, London, W1’, Sunday Times Magazine (2 June 2013). See page 59 for how sic works.
2 Gill, ‘Table Talk’.
English always has been in a state of flux; there was no golden age when words and meaning matched, and the language stood firm and grand like mortarless rocks: words are born, live, decay and die – it’s just the linguistic universe doing its stuff.
Julian Barnes, Levels of Life (2013)
INTRODUCTION
Once upon a time Kofi Annan delivered an inspirational speech about the importance of literacy. It was a good speech, and because it was a good speech people who had been paid to pontificate about reading and writing liked to quote it on occasion. Generally, when they did so, they’d edit out the ugly clang of statistics, so that, down to sixty-nine (or so) words, the meaning sang out as sweetly as an Al Green heartbreaker. And the chorus, it went:
Literacy is a bridge from misery to hope … a bulwark against poverty … Literacy is a platform for democratization … It is an agent of family health and nutrition. For everyone, everywhere, literacy is, along with education in general, a basic human right. … Literacy is, finally, the road to human progress and the means through which every man, woman and child can realize his or her full potential.1
The problem with hook-line laden inspirational words delivered from behind a dais is that the form dictates that the audience is entertained, as inspirational words are only ever delivered for an audience, and are generally performed for either money or some other form of personal advancement. If we were to Ofsted Kofi Annan’s view of literacy we might condense it to a checklist:
Breathtakingly audacious metaphors: tick.
Establishment of import of the subject: tick.
Reference to poor people to further establish importance of the subject and to emphasise the speaker’s altruism: tick.
Appearing to really, really care about other’s poverty while taking a tycoon’s salary and dining regularly on lobster: tick.
Tick, tick, tick.
But do they really mean anything? Where does truth live here?
In 2007, I spent six months devoted almost entirely – except for a bestial week suffering food poisoning from having been force-fed a dog turd in a Belgian restaurant/sewagery2 – filming a television series for Channel 4 called Can’t Read: Can’t Write that not even my mother watched.
The premise (or conceit) of the programme was that an idiot with a borderline personality disorder would take nine adult learners, all of whom had serious difficulties with literacy, and attempt to solve these with six months of blundering phonics lessons. Reality television permits little that is morally complicated or ambiguous – heroes, they save; villains, they rob – and, unambiguously, the heroes of this programme were the learners: inspiring people, whom I grew to admire, to like and to respect.
The teacher–student transaction is meant to be edifying for the student, but I took vastly more from these gentle people than I gave (and in some cases I taught them to read, which is not nothing). I learned from them.
I learned that Kofi Annan’s words were not merely the empty rhetorical flourish of a career diplomat with an exalted position to protect; I learned that being born into my own family’s compassion and work ethic was, comparatively, a position of privilege; and, also, I learned … that literacy is a bulwark against poverty.
This became apparent during an afternoon spent on a council estate at the very edge of West London, Feltham, on which two of the learners lived. After visiting Kelly, her spindly hall table groaning to the point of collapse beneath the weight of unopened bills piled upon it (there was no point in her opening them; she couldn’t really read what they were asking her for), we filmed an inevitably narcissistic piece to camera on one of the few scrubby, litter strewn bits of green on the estate. “It’s not the path to riches, low level literacy,” I declaimed sadly, inarticulately and inadequately, an impotent epiphany dawning …
The male learners on the course all worked for a living, and, with the exception of one, who (and very successfully) ran his own business, they all had the same job. A question for you, reader: what job can you do if you are male and you cannot read at all?3
A further thing I’ve noticed, from travelling around the country, is that often when you ask a cab driver outside of London for something they are unable to provide it. If, for instance, you ask a Birmingham cabbie to drive you to Birmingham University, or to a school that is on the same road as the cab rank, they won’t have the first idea of how to get there,4 and then when you request a receipt, they will often ask you to write it out yourself. In London, this practice is all about a bare-faced, though tacit, agreement between cabbie and punter that all tax is a ruling class scam, and that if we can both nick fifty pence off Her Majesty while she’s looking the other way, then it’s all good. Outside of the capital, the faces are often more shamed than they are bare: they will ask you to write it out yourself as they are unable to do so. Why do “working class kids get working class jobs”?5
Literacy is a bulwark against poverty.
I learned … that literacy is a platform for democratisation. The most interesting person I worked with on the series was Linda: an articulate woman with a lively mind who ran several successful businesses, lived in a beautifully appointed mews house near an Oxfordshire canal and who could read the words ‘and’, ‘a’ and ‘it’, but few others. The fact that her reading vocabulary had such little useful function did not stop her from being infatuated with literature to the extent that she kept a tended corner of her lovely front room as a library. It was populated predominantly by classics, and most days she would sit or kneel in that corner at some point, book open on her lap, inhaling deeply, poring over Shakespeare’s sonnets, admiring the patterns, adoring the typeface, shedding heartbroken tears that she was unable to access their secrets. “What are they not telling me?” she asked on our first meeting, before etching the air with a voice that trembled with a deep, unrequited passion, and coughing out, “Like you need to breathe, I need to read!”6
One of the many fascinating insights that Linda shared was when, naively, I asked her why she thought the government did not pour a particularly impressive amount of hedge fund managers’ tax cuts into resolving adult illiteracy. “It’s obvious,” she said. “We can’t vote.”
If you think with any stunted insight at all about the democratic process, you will realise it requires you to be literate to register a functional protest against the government that left you illiterate. If you cannot read, you will not be able to tell the difference between the words ‘Labour’ and ‘Conservative’ on the ballot paper. If you cannot read, then you cannot even begin on the first tentative steps towards understanding what propaganda is, and that more or less everything you have ever been told is a lie designed to keep you cowed, obedient and controlled.
Literacy is a platform for democratisation.
I learned … that literacy is an agent of family health and nutrition. One of the ladies on the course was called Teresa: she was (and is) a beautiful soul who’d brought up ten children, not all of whom were her own; and the kind of deeply empathetic person who is better than the rest of us, and who could not stand to see the suffering of a child (and she’d seen a lot of things no one should see and no child should ever experience) without doing something about it. Teresa was used to a full house, and to doing a lot of food shopping but, because she could not read, there were aspects of her weekly shop, aside from the obvious and really quite serious fiscal limits, that were difficult: if there wasn’t a picture of the product on the tin, she couldn’t buy it, as she wouldn’t know what it was. This might seem small beer to you, but imagine having ten kids and only being able to purchase products that did not rely on you being able to read the label. It seems, perhaps, to you, like a passing bore. To someone who can’t read, who has ten kids to feed, it was a weekly torture and a constant reminder of her own inabilities.
Literacy is an agent of family health and nutrition.
I learned … that literacy is the road to human progress and the means through which every man, woman and child can realise his or her full potential.
I have been nervous about writing this book, and that is one of the reasons I have delighted to hear the charming swooshing sound of the deadline, as it has flown by on three, four, five separate occasions. The nervousness has existed for several reasons: because, despite the rigorous process of editing, there is an inevitability that there will be a typo or a grammatical error at some point in a book about literacy, and because I am going to have to tell the following story, and it is undeniably self-indulgent.
I understand if you want to skip this bit; but I was duty bound to write it because, as a functional metaphor for the transformative powers of literacy, there is no story I know better than my own: a mildly mythologised version of which might shed some light on what your commitment to improving the literacy skills of your students might achieve. It is the story of my mother, and the unintended consequences of a single teacher’s actions.
My mother grew up in a town called Naas. It is twenty-five miles southwest of Dublin, in a county called Kildare. She has shown me the house in which she and her five siblings grew up: eight people lived behind its slanted front door and beneath the fractured roof that covered its paltry rooms. My grandfather was a part-time hospital porter at Naas General Hospital and, on occasion, a barman at the Curragh: a servant. Not, as the criminally underrated Irish writer Cathal Coughlan would have it, “just one more skill-free wetback with a liking for drink”,7 but a man whose qualities – those of extreme gentleness, a loving nature and a sense of humour at once both wicked and charming – were not necessarily those that were being asked for when decent remuneration was being handed out. The post-war Irish working class were poor in a way that we no longer properly understand the word, and my mother grew up in poverty without any real knowledge that she was doing so. The only time there was any spare money in the house was when the rich English people came over to spend theirs drinking and betting on horses, and would occasionally condescend to giving Granddad a tip for his work behind the bar.
Mum has since shown me the branches in which she would occasionally find stray chicken eggs, delighting her own mother when she brought them home. She has talked of the time when she stopped Granddad shooting a rabbit, thereby condemning the family to an evening without meat. And has talked to me, without any tangible regret, about a happy childhood in which hunger existed as something more concrete and more gnawing than as a plausible metaphor for ambition.
Granddad lost his job at the hospital and could not find other work. His eldest son, my Uncle Christie, had already left Naas’ wet, grey skies for the adulterated promise of England, so Granddad, leaving his wife and five of his kids back in Kildare, travelled to England to find whatever employment was available to him. He promised them that if he hadn’t sent for them in three weeks, then he’d return home, and was as good as his word. He obtained a job as a porter in Bethlem Royal Hospital, and the family settled in an unpromising area of South London. There my mother met my father: they married in their teens, and the week before Mum was twenty, she gave birth to the child who has written this book.
My siblings and I grew up on what is now an expensive and sought after estate of small houses, but was then only ever perceived as being a first step on the ladder. It was, and is, called the Alexandra Estate, and, until recently, carried a brass plaque from when it was built which described the estate as providing housing – these are the exact words, “For the hard-working poor.”8
My story is the story of a teacher’s intervention.
In what is now known as Year 10, but was then the fourth year, I was sitting wasting time in the DT block, when a teacher who I very much respected saw me reading The Sun, and was made angry by it. This teacher had, I think, noticed that my accent was not the same as the other boys’ in the top set, and had, I think, seen past my flippancy. I felt his anger like an emotional assault, and was partially broken by it: he was a gentle (though strong) man not given to needless displays of rage. But seeing the child I was (am) reading The Sun inflamed something inside of him, and, whilst still very much controlled, he gave voice to a political rage that he usually carried in a more silent way. “You are a clever boy, Phil,” he said kindly, but not without menace. “Why are you reading that?”
I liked this teacher. I respected him. I was a little scared of him. I stuttered in reply, “Because of the football, Sir. Crystal Palace. South-east London. Football, Sir. Not ladies’ bosoms, Sir. No, not at all, not bosoms, Sir. Football, Sir. Crystal Palace: the Eagles. Selhurst.” I can’t remember exactly what I said. But I do remember the crippling teenage embarrassment at having been rumbled.
“You are too clever to be reading that,” he said from behind an elegantly cropped goatee beard, his one stud earring signalling something half profound and a quarter important. “Tomorrow, I will bring you in a newspaper. Do you promise you’ll read it?”
I promised.
The next day he brought me in one of the big newspapers that posh people read. I’d seen one of these before. Nicholas, who I knew then as the school swot and as a pariah in a community in which football eclipsed learning, ambition or kindness, and who I now realise was probably the best of us, had once shown me his copy of The Times. It had a section entitled ‘Broadcasting Guide’ where the ‘TV Guide’ should have been, and I had therefore, quite rationally, written the organ off as being irredeemably pretentious. I was aware that posh people read big newspapers, but didn’t really know there were different varieties. The one my teacher gave me was called The Guardian, which is a silly name for a paper (until you think about it).
As I respected the teacher, I did read the newspaper he gave to me the next morning. I didn’t understand all of it, and focused predominantly on the sports pages, but I did read it. The day after he asked me what I thought.
“There’s a lot more writing in the posh people’s papers, isn’t there, Sir? If you look at The Sun, there’s more pictures. It’s almost as if the people who make The Sun think their readers are a bit stupid.”
“Yes …”
“And I read that paper every day. Does that make me stupid?”
“…”
“Does it? Do the people who write it want us to be stupid, Sir? Is that what it’s for? To keep people like me stupid?”
“Shall I bring The Guardian in for you tomorrow?”
“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir. I’ll read it again.”
And he did. And I read it. And this teacher with the earring, who probably does not remember that he ever taught me, and who would not even remember my name if he heard it, brought in this newspaper sometimes.
It was an infinitesimally small gesture from a teacher – a gesture that cost him little, if anything (as I realise now he was just dumping his old copy on me, as the crosswords were always half done) – towards developing the literacy of a working class half male. But that long forgotten act from decades ago has ricocheted off the walls as I’ve stumbled through life; it sits on my shoulder this evening, smiling benignly, as I tap away at my ninth book; and it smiles in a vastly more sanguine and mature manner than it used to do when it was wetting itself with glee for the nine years I spent filing columns on government education policy for the very newspaper my teacher once offered me as a toehold into a world I might, one day, possibly, understand.
It does me little credit hoisting my own upbringing as a flag for working class achievement, I know (and I am genuinely apologetic here), but I think there is the shadow of a kernel of a half metaphor here that is sufficiently worthwhile to make you, dear teacher, angry enough to get rigorous about literacy. Without the intervention of that teacher I might have been a labourer, an electrician, a failed bantamweight, a pub bore, a minor larcenist, an insurance clerk in an office above a second class pizza establishment on a suburban high street. With their help I have, instead, been a minor irritant to a series of education secretaries; I have authored several partially readable books which have remained partially readable when translated into Slovenian, Chinese, Polish, Latvian, etc.; I have met Kim from How Clean Is Your House and, indeed, Aggie too; I have walked into bars in rural Australia and been told by the barman that I looked a bit like Phil Beadle (only much older); I have found myself in a hotel room with David Soul at 3.30 a.m. drinking rank sherry that leered at us from a crystal decanter, discussing what a good King Lear he would make; and, finally and most importantly, I have taken my mother back to Ireland, for my first ever visit, at the age of 42, to the land of half of my culture and half of my heritage.
And here is the denouement: my first ever time in my mother’s home country was not as a barman, a hospital porter, nor as any kind of servant. No. My first time in my mother’s home country was for a speaking engagement at the castle in the centre of Dublin, as a warm-up act for the President of Ireland, Mary McAleese, who was aware of my work, had requested my presence and to whom my Mum was introduced.
And I have stood, the next day, at my grandfather’s graveside in Bawdenstown, and witnessed Mum talking to his gravestone: “You used to ask me, ‘What, in God’s name, are you educatin’ that boy for?’ You know now, Daddy. You know now.”
Literacy is the road to human progress and the means through which every man, woman and child can realise his or her full potential.
The way out of the ghetto is not boxing, nor indeed any form of violence, and it is not football, nor indeed any form of codified violence. These will keep you in the ghetto, and these will keep you stupid. The way out of whatever ghetto you have been raised in, be it a “council estate of the mind”, be it a physical ghetto or be it philosophical, is reading; and the way out of the ghetto is writing. And if you can get really good at reading and writing, then you have a voice. And when you have a voice you can use it. You can sculpt missiles of metaphorical spit into unruly perfection before hurling them at the milky visages of the “heifer-faced Etonians and Ivy Leaguers”9 whose tribe profit from keeping you in the ghetto. You can tell them you see through the methods of institutionalised social control (the newspapers, the pub, football and the Church) that are used to keep you, and the likes of you, not only stupid and poor but grateful for being stupid and poor. And what is more, you can challenge them in the language they claim to own, thereby proving that they don’t, and that their claim to intellectual superiority is a work of fantasy worthy of the mind of Lewis Carroll, and you can prove that their right to rule is a temporary historical glitch. If you can read and write you no longer have to be deferent to your oppressors. If you can read and write you don’t have to beg any more; you can take what you want from life.
Literacy, for working class people, is a matter of life and death: it is the path away from the black economy and the hand-to-mouth existence that condemns millions of decent people to lives of misery and debt. With literacy, you can fight the policy makers who have never seen close up what poverty can do to humans, who legislate to increase it, who seek to put its victims under a pathologising microscope and then blame them for some innate, probably genetic, failing; when the failing has been inflicted upon them by politics and by circumstance.
With literacy you can articulate your anger.
As such, and out of respect for it being the path to human progress, I would argue that it is a political and moral responsibility to equip children with it as well as you are able. If you are going to teach children to write, then teach them how to write as well as it is possible to do it. They will respond to your expectations. (Write yourself, and get better at it by doing it regularly. Report what you have learned about the craft of it in the next lesson.) If you are not going to do this with the degree of political seriousness it requires, then don’t bother doing it at all. Get a job in the dry cleaners instead. We need better than you.
One of Kofi Annan’s statements about literacy is that it is a “basic human right”. If we take a look at Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, literacy can get you all of them (except breathing and excretion, which tend to happen without the aid of improving books). It can be the basis of supplying most of your physiological needs: it can get you food, water and sometimes (often) sex; it can win you sleep in a comfortable bed; it can keep you safe and win you love; it can earn you the respect of others and respect for yourself; it can enter you into the realms of political and moral understanding in which you might play, exercise the muscles in your head and become … all of the things you could, one day, with effort, possibly be.
If we are to acknowledge its importance, its primal and transcendental nature, its transformational powers, then we must ask a question, which comes with a qualification. “Alright, I can acknowledge this stuff is important. But whose job is it? Surely it’s not mine. I teach DT for God’s sake.”
It’s your job.
My friend Tony, a Nigerian man, who is degree level qualified as an accountant, but who, because of the casual racism endemic in this country, is a cab driver, and who, for his imagined sins, spends a greater proportion of his life than he would like driving people around who are nowhere near as intelligent, hardworking nor as moral as he, has a series of homespun Nigerian phrases which he is prone to trotting out on an early morning when the light will not be up for three hours and the cold bites harsh, and – yes! – we’re off to Bury St Edmunds. The best of these, should you ask him how far he is from paying off his mortgage, is the glumly expressed, dismissive monotone of, “Frog has no tail.” He delivers this grumpily from beneath tired eyebrows, and it remains impenetrable even after he’s explained it. “You don’t ask a frog about his tail; frog hasn’t got a tail. Don’t ask me about paying off the mortgage; frog has no tail.” He also tells me, “When a tiger comes into the village and eats a leper, everyone says, ‘Thank God. Evil has left the village.’ But when, the next day, a tiger comes into the village and eats the king’s son, people say, ‘My God! Evil has come to the village.’” I don’t understand this either, but it doesn’t stop me liking it.
Another of Tony’s favourite mutterings on the subject of villages is, “It is the village that educates the child.” I think the meaning here is that kids’ education is the corporate responsibility of a whole community.
If we can start with the basic assumption that literacy is, in Annan’s words, a basic human right, and that it is the village’s responsibility to ensure that all children have access to this basic human right, then whose job is it? It is everyone’s, of course: the parents’, the cleaners’, the maths teachers’ and the English teachers’ too.
Whilst you can certainly understand a maths teacher thinking that making spurious links to literacy during a lesson on algebra is a waste of their time, effort and skills, as they have their own literacy – numeracy: literacy in a whole other language – and whilst you can empathise with teachers in other subject areas who might feel that maintaining the integrity of their subject related content is the most important part of their job, and who probably don’t get the amount of hours on the timetable that they feel they need to cover the syllabus, the fact remains that literacy is the only subject that is perceived as being a human right. It is the subject that infiltrates all other subjects. It is the basic skill on which nigh all other skills in the curriculum are dependent, or as I read in the first teaching book I ever encountered, “a quicksilver among metals – mobile, living and elusive”.10
