Tag: schools

Culture is Everything: thoughts on schools and websites

Apparently a court case is taking place at the moment on the question of independent schools. More on that, perhaps, another time. In a dreamy moment of holiday-time distraction, I found myself reflecting today on the UK independent schools I’ve known well (6 as an employee, 3 as a pupil). Quite different places entirely, in my experience of them, even as they’re lumped together in the media under the simple umbrella term ‘private schools’.

There are, of course, independent schools and independent schools: some highly academic, some less so, some day, some boarding, some urban, some rural, some big, some small, some famous, some not-so-much.

But what really matters most, I think, when forming an assessment of a given school is something very simple: is it a happy place to be? Do human beings flourish within its walls? Or, at least, do the vast majority flourish (since, I guess, it would be unrealistic to imagine every single person could do so at a given point in time)?Everything else flows from that point of principle. Pupils thrive when they’re happy, genuinely so, and able to be themselves, find challenge, find recognition. And, as a wise colleague once commented to me: ‘everything in a school hinges on positive culture. Everything’.

This is where school websites can make things difficult. Every school website puts its own best foot forward. Glossy photos, lovely grounds, impressive-sounding achievements. But what school league table measures ‘culture’? What objective measure could there be of something so inherently nebulous? And why trust any website with the gall to champion anything so intangible? Positive culture, it is fair to say, must simply be lived out – and if it translates onto a website, then so be it.

But clues as to the presence of a really positive school culture may just be traceable, I believe, for those with eyes keen enough to do so. That, at least, is my argument here. So then: how might one identify a flourishing school culture, using a website alone?

Well, for one: does the website give a clear sense of a flourishing human community? All school websites single out exceptional achievements and events, as well as noteworthy occasions in the school calendar. But the best websites – and the best schools – do more. They give a sense of whole communities being enriched. Pupils from across different year groups joining together in shared activities and initiatives; staff linking up with students to join together in positive endeavours; elements of teamwork, creativity and fun being in clear evidence. And, above all, a sense that everyone is in some way involved: not just a small group, but a whole community. Culture, after all, is born of community.

Another (perhaps more-self centred) clue: does the website convey key information about subject teachers: who they are, what they’re about? Many school websites do little to nothing here. If the website is the public face of a school, why should it be interested in giving you only a small list of names, or – in some cases – the name of the headteacher, alone? Senior leaders spend relatively little time teaching and – although they are unquestionably important figures – most contact time for pupils will happen with subject teachers. If a school website doesn’t take the trouble to disclose the identities of its staff, it’s in my view a strange omission. The best websites give a sense of who the staff throughout the school are, and of what they’re contributing to the life of the place.

A further point. Does the website give a flavour of how pupils spend their time each day and week? Of what sort of life a pupil will lead in the school? Of how the school day is organised? Of how much time will be spent in lessons? Of what else will form part of the daily experience? Taking the trouble to spell this all out shows that careful thought has gone into what’s being delivered, and how, and that clarity about how things work, and clarity of communication with the world at large, counts. Those are good indicators of a positive culture.

Point number 4. Does the website pay more than mere lip-service to the idea that the school wants pupils to develop in the round, not just in terms of their capacity to pass public exams? What extra-curricular offerings are there? What sorts of choices do pupils have? How are they encouraged/celebrated in their non-academic pursuits? And what trouble is the school taking to ensure that each individual is known, nurtured and developed into a rounded human being? Good websites (and good schools) manage to convey answers to these questions, not simply a platitude or two about ‘wide-ranging extra-curriculars’.

A fifth point – and it seems strange to write it, but this feels an acutely important one. How is the school striving to develop individuals who think freely and openly? Does a sense come through on the website that individuality, and uniqueness of thought and perspective, and, for that matter, creativity, really matter? Schools have to do with human beings. They should therefore aim to excel in finding, nurturing and celebrating what makes human beings human – and, for that matter, humane. If, then, a school website resembles that of a bluechip corporation (on one hand), or that of an organisation for chippy activism (on the other), or some odd combination of both, then it’s perhaps questionable whether humanity, individuality, and liberality hold pride of place within that school’s walls. Doubtless there is a case for seeming businesslike, and a case for seeming alert to injustice. But if these things turn into a dominating ethos, which takes pride of place above (or to the exclusion of) academic values, the cart is preceding the horse.

And, perhaps more subtly, if the only place for the ‘Arts’ on a school website is as a sort of adornment, or occasional activity, then this too might provoke a sense of caution. The one time I went to see the Head to air a slightly critical thought in one of my previous jobs (at an excellent school) was to share the view that all pupils passing through the school ought to gain some experience of what it feels like to act on stage, at some point in their school career. It saddened me that that wasn’t (at that point) happening for a fair number. A school which recognises the vitality of the Arts for human flourishing is likely to be a flourishing place more generally, I think.

So, that’s it in this instalment of the dreamy ramblings of a career educator. I wonder what others will make of the above. Doubtless it betrays not a few prejudices. I am glad to report, though, that I write as a member of staff in a school which ticks all of the above boxes.

Mrs Hall and Mr Smith

Armand D’Angour published an interesting short post yesterday (link here) on the topic of education. The post touched on a couple of points which ring familiar and true – the sense that some pupils (the very best, at any rate) don’t require a great deal of instruction; the notion that the best sort of education involves the (successful) cultivation of habits of mind, rather than the imparting of specific information.

The first point clashes with some of the familiar depictions of education in popular culture: as Armand writes, ‘popular films like Dead Poets’ Society, The History Boys, and most recently The Holdovers present the experiences of schoolteacher and students, emphasising the effect of instructors (inspiring or otherwise) on young minds’. In some of these settings, educators are depicted as heroes, as figures of inspiration, who command the wonder of their students. This is something, perhaps, which good teachers might consciously guard against.

That they should is something which is explicitly flagged, for instance, by one of the great pioneers of girls’ education in the Victorian period – Frances Mary Buss. Although she aimed to have an energising impact on her pupils, Buss was entirely opposed to ‘hero-worship’ (something she thought might nevertheless happen naturally enough in children). To this end she offered the following common sense advice to a young teacher who was struggling to deal with being idolised by a pupil: ‘the quickest way to stop that sort of behaviour’, she counselled, ‘is to let the girls get to know you. Once they see you as you really are, they will stop idolising you’. Pupils don’t need idols, one might surmise. What they do benefit from, though, is real life, down-to-earth role models who can help them imagine themselves into the adult world.

The sense that, as an educator, you are providing not just an academic training but a training in what it is (and might soon be, for pupils) to live as an adult was something that struck me powerfully (and that surprised me) when I first started working in schools. The ‘socialising’ role of the educator had been something I had more or less overlooked. Perhaps I had been entirely taken in by the utilitarian spirit of our age, in that my governing assumption had been that teachers – and lecturers – are there to impart skills and information. I had not given much thought to the question how, if at all, they might accomplish these tasks in a way much dissimilar from how a robot might.

As the years have gone by, I have become a bit more reflective. I have thought a lot – in particular – about some of my own teachers. Most recently, I have thought especially about two of my Sixth Form teachers – Gill Hall, who was Head of Classics at my school as well as my Sixth Form tutor, and Rupert Smith, who came in to replace her when she was diagnosed with (what turned out to be terminal) cancer. My mind has turned to these figures precisely because of the tragedies they both faced when I knew them in the classroom – and of how, in each case, their handling of this provided a certain sort of quiet inspiration.

It cannot have been at all easy, in Mrs Hall’s case, to come in to teach a full timetable of classes when facing a serious cancer diagnosis. The summer before she stopped teaching our Latin class, she was busy happily commending to our small A level set the pleasures and rewards of studying Classics at university. I was particularly moved that she saw potential in me that year, as I had notably underperformed in our summer exams across the board, having succumbed to the temptations of football, football and more football outside school in the weeks before the exam. I had given my teachers very little evidence that I was a high calibre student. Mrs Hall nonetheless thrust a copy of an Oxford prospectus into my hand, and even signed me up for an open day at the college she herself had attended, while telling me that I had the makings of a good Classicist. She had seen something in me that I had not seen in myself. And she was, without doubt, the only teacher who showed any optimism whatsoever about my academic potential that summer. That faith galvanised me – and I worked very hard over the next year (and beyond) to try to repay it. Alas, though, her illness worsened, and she tragically passed away later that very year at a terribly young age. It was an awful loss for all who knew her. I remember being speechless with grief and shock on hearing the news. Because of her untimely passing, I was never able to thank her for her belief in me at a particularly low academic ebb. But I have thought often of our interactions that summer – and of how, in the midst of what was certainly a time of increasingly acute suffering for her, she was still looking to bring the best out of others, including me – and to show faith in the potential of those who might not deserve it all that much.

When Mr Smith came in to replace Mrs Hall the following term, he immediately struck a chord. Immaculately turned out, with a polished and polite demeanour, he came across more as country gent than seasoned classroom practitioner. I still remember his brown suede boots: I had not seen another teacher in our ex-grammar wear shoes like those. Mr Smith was a part-time fixed term appointment, and I knew nothing about the circumstances of his being at the school – save one: he was now the sole parent of a young daughter, as he had recently lost his wife. Mr Smith’s job was to teach us to translate Latin prose authors – especially Caesar – and he did it with a smooth confidence and gentleness. He was utterly unflappable, in fact, and when the typical mischief of missed or incomplete homework surfaced in our lessons, he was smilingly pragmatic about what to do about it. I believe he went on to work at a nearby school in Winchester, and I heard reports of his being much loved there.

I have thought a lot about Mrs Hall and Mr Smith – their bravery, their devotion to their subject, their smiles in the classroom even in times of horrific adversity – in recent months. Both of them have been with me as silent companions as I have taught my own classes at a time of grave personal loss and turmoil. They are not ‘heroes’ in the sense of being awe-inspiring educational gurus, though both were excellent teachers – but as quiet yet resplendent role models for their humanity.

In a noisy and often rather shallow world, where ‘impacts’ and ‘objective measures’ are the order for the day in educational settings, it is the unmeasurable humanity of real teachers, simply acting as good human beings in (for instance) their handling of adversity, moving ahead with their lives in spite of the presence of darkness, which can give a sense of what can matter most in an educational encounter. The best schools, I think, know this, and know that they have to try to fill their classrooms with the likes of Mrs Hall and Mr Smith.