On Being Easily Moved

I happened to catch the end of 'Goodbye Mr Chips' recently. (The 1969 version starring Peter O'Toole.) I found the closing speech where the socially inept Mr Chips puts into words his feelings for the boys surprisingly moving. Maybe it struck a cord, me being a schoolmaster for a considerable number of years. If nothing else it made me examine aspects of my being that seldom surface in the busy, brusque, often insensitive world we live in.
I was brought up in a time after the war where the term 'cry baby' often figured. A 'cry baby' was dismissed as inferior, weak and certainly unmanly. Which is probably why on at least two occasions I limped home, metaphorically and literally with broken bones. My efforts at competing with the 'bigger boys' might well often end in failure but, good heavens, you didn't let it show, broken bones or no broken bones. And I remember arriving home at the age of thirteen to be told my mother had died. Then, amazingly, I went out and did my paper round. I report this merely as fact, not a matter of pride. No tears, nothing but unbridled sorrow and bewilderment.
Experiences in life teach us, mould us, change us, for better or worse and make the finished article, however flawed. Girls cry, boys have a stiff upper lip, or so we were taught. (The British Empire and all that.) Fortunately times change, thank goodness.

I once saw an elderly male teacher cry with the frustrations of the job. I was embarrassed to see a man crying; I was wrong. But bit by bit the joys of marriage, children softened me and the steely male front has slipped away. Not totally, but at least to a degree. I know this must be so. I would never at one time been moved by Mr Chips, never mind a celluloid version of life's sensibilities.

I cry nowadays, not too often but enough. I howled as I watched both the Liverpool Heysel (1985) and Hillsborough (1989) tragedies unfold on the television. In frustration, sympathy. (I am an ardent football fan) Similarly the Bradford City fire (1985) brought my to tears as I watched the tragedy unfold, again on the television. Indeed, you would have to be a strangely unemotional individual not to be moved by such tragic events. I am not a 'touchy feely' sort of person and that is not particularly good. My daughters are into 'hugs' (many of the younger generation tend to be so and I am mightily impressed.) But I can be moved nowadays and I am pleased. The feeling experienced at Wembley Stadium when Derby County won an important match had to be experienced to be believed. (play off versus WBA 2007.) That something as unimportant as a football match could move me so much is amazing in a way. But only a football fan could experience the elation involved.

Emotional development is important. What is a person without emotional development. You tell me. A psychopath, perhaps? And I believe at least in part it is taught by example.

I have read John Steinbeck's 'Of Mice and Men' many, many times. It was a regular choice of mine when teaching English literature to adolescents. We would read it out loud together, no looking at a film and pretending we had read the book. (How old fashioned it all sounds now.)

You would have to be bereft of any feeling whatsoever not to be moved by the end of the tragic giant Lennie at the hand of his friend George. But to see teenagers, sometimes hardened teenagers with tears in their eyes shows the power of the written word. It also suggests there is perhaps hope for all. (Two teenagers were sentenced this week for the shotgun murder of another teenager in a park less than a mile from my home. The victims offence, he 'dissed' the mother of one of the assailants. Perhaps I am totally wrong and there is no hope. My lovely grandchildren suggest otherwise.)

I had not intended this piece of writing to go in the direction it has. But the murder on my doorstep makes me wonder at the emotional development or otherwise of some of today's more deprived youngsters. Where is it all going wrong, a world where a teenager will dispatch a fellow being to eternity with little thought or compulsion. Surely a person without feelings is a person without hope.

A non too serious test of my readers emotional development. My favourite recording is 'Old Shep' by Walter Brennan. Trite, sentimental it still moves me on a good day. What do you reckon. And what brings a lump to your throat in this hard, often unsentimental world? Plus a promise, my next blog will be cheerful in the extreme. Now there's a thought!

Here Endeth the Lesson

I personally thought the Royle Family were the stars of TV Christmas but then I must admit I'm somewhat biased.

My youngest daughter teaches in a reasonably sedate infant and junior school with no male staff. The other teachers maintained there are no families remotely like the Royle Family, my daughter Alison put them right. "You haven't met my dad" she announced in a staffroom discussion and I must admit, reluctantly I can see what she means. For, like Jim Royale, I too am bearded, not over involved with domesticity and 'carried' to a large extent by my long suffering, though usually willing wife. But it was Jim's wife Barbara who particularly caught my eye, and ear this Christmas. Definitely aspiring to better things, her appreciation of Denise's 'fire retarded settee' was a brilliant observation of the limitations of so many of the working class in Britain today. (No accusations of snobbery etc, please, I too consider myself working class and speak with a northern accent, but try not to speak in grunts or lace every other sentence with f*** this or f*** that.)

I spent many years trying to teach secondary school pupils many skills, including a grasp of basic English. Make no mistake, for some education and a reasonable vocabulary were the means of escape from a hum-drum, low paid, monotonous existence. Surely an admirable goal and we had many successes I am pleased to say. But boy, was it hard work.

For mastering the English language figured low on the list priorities of many Noel Baker Comprehensive pupils.

Try teaching the delights of English Literature on a Monday morning when fifteen year olds Marge and Belinda are more interested in their sexual adventures in step-mum's caravan at Mablethorpe or step-dad's blue movies over the weekend. So much of life in school was not designed to widen a pupils grasp and appreciation of the English language in all its glory.

I suppose letters from home telling us that Adam was off school because 'Mum has been under the doctor again' was at least understandable. (It was difficult to talk to mum on Parents Evening when you have this image in mind.) At least she attended the meeting. Likewise the mother who wrote 'I think Mary's had the flu, even her dad was hot last night.' Though I never did meet the lady who wrote me an indignant letter after I suggested Brenda was apathetic. "How dare you suggest there is madness in our family" she lamented. This from a generation that could sometimes be excused as many missed out on a decent education.

Many of the children I taught were not particulary privileged. Monosyllables at home were often the order of the day plus a fair bit of cussing. I managed to raise the tone a little by banning swearing in the classroom, myself included. Which I suspect increased the swearing in the yard at break fourfold.

We looked at Shakespeare, John Donne and Roger McGough. We cried at Of Mice and Men and laughed at the Reverend Spooner. 'Let us glase our asses and toast the queer dean.'

I tried not to patronise the pupils and we had weekly sessions where words we had come across had to be deciphered as homeworks. Not all had access to dictionaries at home therefore the results varied. Alice suggested a pessimist was something her mother bought from the chemist whilst Thomas decided that an enigma was something you put up your bottom. (Were they both told answers by adults.)

If it was difficult then, I feel for modern teachers. There was no texting in my day, surely a large part of the problem. Who needs a vocabulary; why bother with spelling 'wen U don't nede 2.' Alas, I fear the problem will get worse. A general fall in standards is at best a shame, at worst a crime. Barbara, sail on in blissful ignorance. I'm off to practice 'Yer what' and 'Yer know' in case I ever meet any of my footballing heroes. Hundred thousand a week and not a GCSE in sight. Who's the mug, lads. Spare a quid or two for your old teacher.

( Some of you might like blog dated 25th April, Happy Days but not for Everyone. The material for Early Retirement was based on seventeen years teaching at Noel Baker.)