Languages 2014

As a teacher trained in secondary languages, I often find myself blustering through the primary curriculum followed by a trail of self-doubt and insecurity. I might be able to blag my way through English and humanities, but what on Earth gives me the right to teach maths or P.E.?

Most of the time, I remind myself that teaching skills are transferable. Yes, you need to adapt, but the fundamentals are the same; good progress, pupil talk, higher order thinking skills, VAK approach. I'm constantly learning (or deepening my knowledge), particularly in specific curriculum areas, and have made a lot of progress in the time I've been working with my lovely Y3 class, but I'm still in awe of the skills demonstrated by my primary trained colleagues.

However, in various staffroom discussions, I began to realise that the way I feel about primary teaching is how most of my co-workers feel about teaching languages. Many of them currently avoid it, using excuses like, "we couldn't fit it in" (in fairness, we do have abnormally short afternoons which are taken up with so many other subjects) amongst other things, and consoling themselves with the knowledge that my MFL club constitutes access to language learning.

But September 2014 is coming, and with it comes the new curriculum.

I am by no means an expert, and definitely not in Spanish (the chosen foreign language of my school). I was a French and German specialist, but I have a vague idea of what Ofsted are looking for in a language classroom, thanks to the constant threat of HMI in previous schools.

So, the standard 80:20 pupil:teacher talk ratio, rapid progess, at least 50% target language (including pupil talk), normal classroom commands and questions done in target language, learner autonomy in communication, application of grammatical concepts...

How do you create learner autonomy and promote language use in a classroom where the teacher is not confident or willing in using target language themselves? There are only two teachers in the school (myself not included) who speak some rusty Spanish and they only teach it under protest.

The first task, evidently, is to raise confidence in staff. Yes, you could employ a native speaker or language specialist to get the job done, but if you are going to integrate the principles of language learning throughout the curriculum (as suggested), then the rest of the staff need to get confident too. 

Schools simply don't have the money, resources or time to spend on sending every member of staff on a course. What needs to be done is ready to go lesson plans, with target language included, for every member of staff. Linked with that needs to be target language sheets for pupils so that they can ask to go to the toilet, if they can borrow a rubber, if they can get a drink (rather like most secondary schools already do).

Yes, it's time consuming, but it's worth it. You simply cannot get the required percentage of target language without the right scaffolding, support and confidence on both sides. It's not enough to have enthusiastic learners, or just enthusiastic teachers, you need both. And you need to give them the tools.

As for 80:20, why is it that primary teachers go into a blind panic about this? They are amazing at planning literacy lessons or numeracy lessons that are pupil centred. But ask most of them to do the same thing in a foreign language, and they lose the ability to think straight. That treasure hunt that you did for science? Yeah, that works for French too. And the Tarsia activity you did in history? Perfect for German! You know how you use chunking grids for practising with different connectives? Use that too!

For me, the area it gets really tricky is rapid progress. I've seen so many lessons at primary level focused on greetings, with no progression over the half term, just repetition. It's fine for playing with language and getting used to some of the sounds, but for the new curriculum, it will need a complete overhaul.

In my class, I have girl whose mother is a native speaker. I have been given all sorts of advice from my colleagues, such as "She'll enjoy the games, leave her to it" and "Use her as a translator, it shows progress in a different skill", but I'm not convinced by any of these.

If I leave this girl to the games, she shows no progress at all (except, perhaps, in her enjoyment of language). If I use her as a translator, then how do I prove her progress in Spanish? How is her skill measurable in interpreting single words and short exchanges for her peers?

On the other hand, this girl has not done much written work in Spanish. She currently tries to write things phonetically, using English rules (which works sometimes, but not with ll, y or v) and she rarely uses connectives. She gets her tenses mixed up too when writing, which shows a whole area where we could differentiate appropriately, stretch her and show good progress.

But how many members of staff in primary schools have the skills and ability to do this? I'm currently struggling, and get by through my knowledge of language teaching and my networks that I've developed over the years. Ideally, schools would be able to access this sort of expertise through their local secondary schools, but in cases where the primary curriculum is in a different language to that taught at KS3, this is not necessarily going to work either.

The new curriculum for language teaching has the potential to work. But only if the curriculum is directed by someone with the time and skills to support everyone appropriately, and if there are suitable links in place. Teachers need to stop seeing foreign language as a scary, unteachable concept, and realise that they already have most of the skills in place. Above all, for this to work, we need to co-operate, network and be a little more confident.

The Right School

"Wow, it's been four months since I first interviewed you... It's just flown by!" my boss (who isn't really my boss and it's complicated, but I still call him my boss because he's awesome) told me.

This was a staff night out on the last day of term. Quite sedate really, but the first staff night out I've been on since I lived in Dunstable (and those were merely after-school pub sessions or nights in the school hall), because I've never been counted as one of the staff before, no matter how long I've worked at a school.

In some ways, he's right. This term has flown by quickly, before I even realised it was happening. But, on the other hand, it feels like I've been at that school for years, like I'm as much part of the furniture as everyone else. I love it so much and it's been such an integral part of my healing process and personal journey.

Before starting at that place, I'd all but given up hope with teaching. I felt like I was useless, had nothing to offer, and like the detractors who blamed me for my experience of violence (and accused me of being unfit to work with young people) were probably right. I had no self-esteem, no confidence in my abilities.

Mr Boss Man once asked why I was so worried about a lesson observation, when I had been so chilled at interview... The truth was that I never expected to get a job. I couldn't for one second believe that anyone would actually want me, so I wasn't overly worried about rejection when I expected it anyway.

Being at this school has taught me so much. Firstly, that I do have the organisational skills to cope with this job, though it does take an awful lot more effort for me to keep on top of things than for some people! And that I'm not the messiest / most disorganised person in the school. It's a close run thing, but knowing that scatty people can get far in this profession keeps me sane!

It's taught me that I do have strengths in this job. I am good at languages and music (obviously), but my language work has given me a head start in teaching English. I've discovered that I adapt quickly, that I learn from training and work to meet my targets. I've also learnt where I can give extra to the school, in terms of clubs and things. I've found that I'm good at scaffolding and differentiation. It's not something I thought I was very good at, but it seems to come easily, as do pupil-led lessons.

I've learnt that I'm stronger than I think I am. With so many children from difficult backgrounds, I was bound to come into contact with stories similar to mine. I didn't think I'd cope with that, but I did, I am, I can. It's really empowering to know that my experience gives me perspective, strength and empathy, rather than the weakness and hindrance that I thought it would.

And, most importantly (possibly), is that I've found out how to love a job and commit to it - throw myself in entirely - without sacrificing myself and my emotions. Too often, in the past, the only time I would really work as hard as I could was to escape the pain and flashbacks. Now, I throw myself in because I want the children to learn and have fun, I want to do my best for them and for the school.

I've still got a long way to go. Observations seem to cause severe allergic reactions (well, nervous breakdowns) and I need to get the hang of this work-life balance thing... but I've discovered how much I can do with the support and input of the right school.

And, for the first time in forever, I feel truly happy.



This didn't really fit in anywhere above, but I wanted to say it anyway... the people I work with are amazing and supportive. The school is the wonderful, nurturing environment that it is because of the fantastic men and women working in there are so compassionate. I have wonderful TAs in my classroom, reassuring me constantly, a beautiful colleague in the other Year 3 class who has coped so well with a newbie, a brilliant senior leadership team and, just generally, the best colleagues a girl could ask for. The school wouldn't be what it is without them, and I wouldn't be who I am without them either!

Encounter

"Hello," the man greeted, as I trotted down the corridor. "Is there a big event on this weekend?"

I turned to face him and felt it. "It" was a strange combination of emotion and physical reaction that caught me completely off-guard; the stomach lurch, the sudden urge to vomit as my gag reflex kicked in, dizziness and itchy feet. I don't know if you've ever had real itchy feet (not just the metaphorical "it's time for a holiday" type) - the urge to run for the hills that is so overwhelming that you can't physically stand still...

It wasn't the first time I had seen him over the weekend. When I arrived last Friday night, he was on his way out of the gym. But it had been nice and easy that time - I kept my head down and scurried on by as he left. This was a little different.

Who was he? He was the man who raped me last year. I knew there was a chance that he would be around. Though it was a hotel, he was a gym member and it did make sense that he'd be around at some point. But I had rationalised that the probability of encountering him was low; I would have to be passing that same part of the corridor at the same moment. Unless I decided to chill out in the gym, it was highly unlikely. I didn't think I'd see him multiple times.

Part of me wanted to run as fast as I could. Perhaps I would have done, but I was wearing my crew badge on my lanyard, and I knew I was representing the company. So I forced myself to stop, take a breath and smiled back at him.

I'm kinda good at that now, the composing myself to look like I'm comfortable. Between meetings with male colleagues, kids' dads and other things, I'm fairly used to being alone with men (though still dislike it), and have developed a series of barriers that allow me to fake it - big smile, straight back, confident, professional attitude and an awareness of my potential escape route. And breathing. Breathing's quite important, as is holding my hands in front of me so no-one can see them shake. It's become so automatic, that I barely have to think about it on a day to day basis.

But I did last Saturday...

"Yes," I told him, my hands gripped tightly together. I told him the name of the company and explained, "It's a signing event."

He nodded. "I've heard of that one before. Are you staff or just here for fun?"

I explained that I was crew and answered his questions patiently and politely, whilst silently praying for him to leave me the hell alone.

Afterwards, it took me a while to verbalise what upset me about the encounter. "Of course you were upset - he raped you" doesn't actually cover the whole reaction and range of feelings. It was more than that. It was more than fear of him, or sorrow at what I went through, or anger at what he did or a sense of isolation....

It was absolute rage and indignation. Because not only did he turn my world upside down last summer, just when I thought I was finding my feet, but he had the gall to talk to me like I was just another person.  And that's when I realised that - to him - I was just another person.

He changed my life, had a great impact on it. But I had no impact on his. I was nothing more than a body to him and I never would be. He didn't feel any remorse or guilt or anything, because he couldn't remember me or my face, even though he spent all that time hurting me in the most vile, intimate and personal manner. He will never remember my face, but I will never forget his.

I am NOT a statistic

91% of rapes are committed by people known to the victim.

'Only' 9% of rapes are committed by strangers.

One of the weirdest concepts for me is that I am on both sides of this statistic that Nottingham Rape Crisis Centre tweets quite frequently. And, possibly odder than that, both make me bristle equally.

91%? Are we not outraged by this figure, that so many men in our lives are taking advantage and abusing us in the most horrific way imaginable? 91%, so my case is nothing unusual, nothing special, I'm just another woman, another number, another nameless, faceless victim?

I hate that 91% statistic, because it trivialises what I've experienced, what hundreds and thousands of women have experienced, and it reduces us all to a "one size fits all". Organisations like NRCC spend so much time and money trying to educate people that we are all different, that our reactions and stories are unique, that this universal statement feels like it's undermining that.

On the other hand is the 9% comment. Because it's aiming to dispel the myths that all rapes are committed by strangers, aiming to reassure those women who think "I must be over-reacting; it's just rough sex", but it does far more than that. It takes an already isolating situation, where a woman can feel like no-one could possibly understand, and reinforces that. Been raped by a stranger? Then you're a freak, you're alone.

There's also the "97% of callers to our helpline knew their attacker" tweet, which is even more uncomfortable than the previous one. I think I was so distressed that I laughed and jeered, "Well, aren't I ******* special, then?!" at my computer screen.

And despite this, I applaud NRCC's work to raise awareness of the truth behind rape. I love that they're breaking taboos, talking about difficult subjects and getting discussions going. I just wish there was a way to do it that didn't dehumanise the brave and passionate women that they work with.

Occasionally, I get a little embarrassed that these tweets elicit such an emotional reaction. After all, I'm quite capable of switching off, removing myself from attachment from the statistics, of working alongside people on difficult topics and advocating. 

Then I remember that my emotions are what make me human. Yes, they're all over the place, unpredictable and sometimes a little disproportional, but they're mine. MINE.

And where does that leave me? Because now I feel a little guilty about my feelings, and unable to raise the questions or challenge the wording, but then I'm pleased that I reacted because it's a reminder that I'm human (and proves that these tweets actually have an impact!) and still indignant that people are being swept under the carpet.

Actually, it leaves me silent. I've been watching this for several months now, not quite sure how to phrase my discomfort, until I saw a brave woman stand up and challenge today. And I'm grateful for it. Incredibly so.

I think what I'm trying to say is that rape makes me angry. It makes me absolutely furious. I don't care whether it's a stranger, husband, friend, someone I met in the pub... because it is a man who has committed a completely unforgivable act of sexual and psychological violence. 

Yes, we need to know the statistics and strong, emotional reactions to them mean that they are taking effect, but for every statistic, can we look at the human impact? For every number, can we have a reminder that every single woman is unique, important and loved? And can we please, please get rid of "only" and language that reduces us to some sort of caged animal, a curiosity in the corner?

Back To Nine

I still remember my first visit to Nottingham Women's Centre. I was surprised by how bright, warm and friendly the welcome area was, and how everyone else seemed...normal.

I sat down nervously on one of the sofas, not quite sure if I was supposed to make my own way up to the Rape Crisis Centre, or if someone would come down to fetch me. Or if people would make assumptions if I asked the way. I wasn't quite ready to acknowledge that out loud.

There was a blonde woman in the kitchen area, who looked up and asked if I needed help. Without any sort of judgement, she asked if I was going up to NRCC and told me to follow her. As we walked, she explained how she had been for counselling there, how it does get better, that life becomes bearable and how that place gets under your skin... you don't just walk away from the women's centre.

I didn't believe her back then. I couldn't see a way that I could live without the hurt, or that other things could be at the centre of my life out of choice and happiness rather than forcing them into the spotlight in order to hide from the horrors I was avoiding. I couldn't quite grasp how I could move on without forgetting, deal with what I remembered, be happy...

And if I didn't believe her then, I believed her even less as counselling continued. As we explored feelings and delved into the problems that I faced, everything seemed more hopeless than ever. How was I supposed to heal from something that was ripped open every time we spoke?

I began to go camping again, do the things that I loved. It gave me confidence that other things could take priority in my life, and that I was still the girl that I was before all this, even though I had changed a bit. I took opportunities and did things that pushed me, such as Roverway in Finland and the Stop The Violence seminar in Belgium. I began to learn that I had a voice. Not just any voice, but a powerful, authentic voice.

Progress isn't measured in perfection, but in the little victories. Camping in the wilderness of Evo, speaking at a feminist event, going back to the scene of the violence. It's measured in the nights without nightmares, going out without panicking, working every day with children the same age as my daughter would have been. Progress is a journey.

I was first raped on 26th February 2005. Every year, I avoid the world in any way possible on that date. Whether it is pretending to be ill or booking a day off work, I barely ever leave the house, choosing instead to curl up in a nest of cuddly toys and watch a film. The only real exception was in 2011, when I was forced to attend a first aid training day and did so whilst suffering panic attacks and flashbacks the whole time.

Last year, I was very aware of the date. I didn't work, but also never panicked or cried. I said at counselling that night that it felt like any other day. I'm not sure it did, to be honest. Not looking back on that now.

This Wednesday was the 26th February. I got up, headed to work, ate my porridge and did my preparations. I taught my first couple of sessions, got my morning hugs from the usual suspects in year three, made a few lewd jokes with my boss. I went for a meeting in his office - just me and him - to discuss a couple of issues, then headed back. And I wrote the date on the board...

"Oh..." I stopped and clutched my head, just for a second. I'd seen it and felt dizzy. Just for a second, because it had caught me completely unaware. The 26th February really was just like any other day, and all of a sudden it caught up with me; how I was stood in that place, teaching, meeting with male colleagues, acting like anyone else.

I suddenly realised exactly what that woman had meant. I hadn't forgotten what happened to me, I hadn't forgotten what day it happened on or anything else, but somehow it was manageable. Somehow, I was able to get up, go to work and just do my normal thing.

After that brief moment, I continued for the rest of the day. And when I got home, remembering the date, I put all my cuddly toys on my bed, and did my annual tradition of nesting with a Disney film. Not because I needed it, not because I was hiding, but because it's part of me - I love my Disney and I deserve it after a tough day.

My past is always going to be a part of me. In some ways, because of the writing that I do and the campaigns I'm involved in, it will be quite an integral part of me and something that I'm not necessarily willing to cast aside. But it's something that I work with, giving myself time to heal, grieve, celebrate and love, as I need it.

These days, I find that I'm the woman talking of experience and how we can heal. I'm the woman that praises the women's centre and NRCC and the amazing work they do with women of all backgrounds. I'm the one that's never really left, still doing things and feeling like the women at the centre are extended family. And I find myself thanking those women from that very first visit for welcoming into their community.

In This Place

In this place,
I feel the ghosts of my past
flickering in and out of existence.
I feel what was and what could have been
drowning out the present, colliding.

In this place,
I can  see my journey around me;
the panic ridden start and the call to action.
I see the women whose lives I touched
and the ones I never will.

In this place,
the emotions clamour to be heard;
wanting acknowledgement
and yet now - just as months ago -
I feel myself holding back the tide.

In this place,
I witness the growth;
the blossoming of awareness and my relationship with myself.
I witness the areas of need
and hold myself accountable to self-care.

In this place,
I promise myself truth -
just as I did back then.
I promise myself love and patience,
to allow myself to grieve.

This was written as part of Nottingham Women's Centre's "Writing For Healing" session, which I stumbled upon. It will be performed at their Silence The Violence event later in March.

News Headlines

This article was written as part of the Special Contributions Team for the EVB Campaign. For more information, please visit their website.

Every day, we are faced with a myriad of victim-blaming stories. A brief visit to three of the major news outlets uncovered no fewer than twelve inappropriate headlines or by-lines. From placing emphasis on a victim’s alcohol consumption to casting their abuse into doubt through misplaced quotation marks, each tells a stark tale of the media’s attitude towards those experiencing violence.

“Ethopian teenager who says she was raped by seven men…”

“155% rise in children groomed by sex gangs.”

“A beautician was left scarred for life after a fellow clubber glassed her when she refused to dance with him, it is claimed…”

“The woman was attacked while drunk…”

“Left demands answers from senior Labour trio over links to child sex group”

“Drama teacher charged with having sex with schoolboy she met while directing production of hit musical”

Though the last refers to the female abuse of a male, it is still an important example of how sub-editors choose to represent the sexual assault and violence towards children, young people and minors who are legally unable to consent to sexual activity.

In fact, victim blaming happens so often in today’s media that many people are increasingly immune to it. In creating a hierarchy of “worst examples”, are the ones at the top of the list those that shock, or the ones so subtle that they infiltrate the public consciousness at an unnoticed level? In fact, is it healthy to create a hierarchy at all, or should we challenge each and every instance?

Every single article, headline or comment that involves victim blaming is important. Each and every instance damages confidence in society, encourages self-doubt and self-blame. Each case reinforces society’s belief that male perpetrators and their reputations should be protected. There is a tendency to assume “innocent until proven guilty” which neglects to respect the needs of the victim.

In a society where over 90% of sexual assaults are thought to go unreported, it is imperative that women are believed and treated with the dignity that they deserve, so that they feel valued as members of the community and so that they have the confidence to work with authorities in the knowledge that they will be supported if or when they feel that they want to take further action.

Why does so much victim blaming exist in the media, particularly with regard to sexual assault and court cases? It is largely, as we know, both a symptom and cause of the gender inequality that exists, and created by the personal contexts of the journalists and editors. But more than that, the culture of legal action in which we live, where the press is held accountable for every comment and by-line printed about public figures, it is understandable that they would be wary about false accusations and anything that could cost the company. Unfortunately – and wrongly, of course – many editors find it far easier to side with the well-known personality, than to go with an anonymous member of the public who has little method of recourse.

However, there are ways to avoid litigation without blaming the victims of abuse and without holding them accountable for their own experience. There is language that can be used to report cries and allegations that allow women to retain confidence in the system.

Many instances of victim-blaming in recent headlines have been linked to three areas. But it is essential that sub-editors and journalists are not just challenged, but offered alternatives.

Firstly, all reports concerning children and minors who have been victims need to be referred to as instances of rape or sexual abuse. It is not sex, they are not having relationships with their abusers. If a young person is under the age of consent, then they cannot consent. Lack of consent is called rape.

If a person is in a position of responsibility, they are the ones who should ensure that any infatuation, signs of sexualised behaviour towards them (which can in itself be a warning sign of other abuse) or other unusual activity is referred up the chain, to the designated child protection officer. All persons working with young people receive extensive safeguarding training, from those involved in youth organisations such as Girlguiding or The Scout Association, to those working in schools. People in positions of care must not be mitigated by apparent flirtation – they are the abusers when acting in these cases, not the young person.

In cases purporting to allegations of sexual assault, it is imperative that the language used validates the information given by the victim whilst maintaining the legal boundaries. For example, terms such as ‘claims’, in addition to quantifiers such as ‘apparent’ and various quotation marks that lay doubt on the case should be replaced by neutral terms such as reports, allegations and – most preferably in a legal situation – charges. It is too easy for a journalist’s need for synonyms to open up connotations about the plausibility of the case.

Thirdly, a better understanding of this country’s legal system needs to be conveyed in writing. Not guilty does not mean innocent. A perpetrator can only be convicted if the crime can be proven beyond reasonable doubt which, in cases where the crimes may have been twenty or thirty years in the past, can be extremely difficult. Even more so when the people to be convinced are a jury made up of those exposed to victim-blaming on a daily basis.

Inconclusive evidence does not make someone innocent, and it certainly doesn’t make their allegations a “flight of fancy”, as they have been referred to in some parts of the media. Not guilty simply means that the jury wasn’t absolutely, 100% certain of the crime.

Subeditors need to be cautious when using the word innocent, or commenting on the victims in these cases of male violence against women. They must be accurate – speak of guilty or not guilty, or even not proven, but the word innocent is not an alternative for this, nor is the assumption that the victims in these cases have been “inventing” the trauma that they have experienced.

Headlines and by-lines needn’t be less “sensational”. They needn’t abandon the principles of snappy sound-bites and high sales. They needn’t be wordier nor must they risk legal action for reporting unsubstantiated or unproven claims. But editors, sub-editors and journalists must respect the basic human rights and dignity of victims and adopt a stance of neutrality that ensures those experiencing abuse feel supported rather than distrusted.

[This piece was written prior to the media reports about a 14yo child charged with rape of his mother and so the associated headlines are not included in this analysis.]