Playground Duty

By Ned Manning

In the baking heat of February 1973, wearing a purple body shirt and an expression of confidence that belied his nerves, Ned Manning faced a classroom of children in remote New South Wales. It was the start of many years of teaching, by turns exhilarating, nerve-fraying, and inspiring. Packed with stories of students both recalcitrant and driven, lesson plans, staff rooms, and drama, this book roams from high schools in dusty country towns to the edgy Newtown High School of the Performing Arts in Sydney's inner city and a crucible of creativity at the Eora Aboriginal Education Center. Through the challenges he inevitably faces, Manning finds the common thread of possibility and hope that runs through his profession. A funny and disarmingly honest memoir of a full life of teaching, this account has the power to rekindle a spark of glee and optimism about teachers, kids, and even schools.

• Language: English
• Publisher: NewSouth
• Release date: Mar 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781742241265

Book preview

quids.

Prologue: Duty of care

I’m standing at Sydney Airport, preparing for a flight to China. The nervous tension that precedes any overseas trip is coursing through my veins. Have I got the tickets? Have I got my passport? Have I filled in my departure card? There is something else though, which adds a certain frisson to the whole experience: I’m not travelling alone. I’m travelling with 200 teenagers from the Sydney region. We’re embarking on a cultural exchange starting in Shanghai and then moving on to Yangzhou, Nanjing, Zhengzhou and Dengfeng. We’ll be performing pieces of music, drama and dance. We’ll be playing in arts centres, theatres and schools. It’s a tour and it’s a biggie. It’s referred to as the ‘Expanding Horizons’ project. ‘Exploding Horizons’ might be more accurate.

One hundred of these teenagers are from the school where I teach drama, Newtown High School of the Performing Arts. Eighty of them are music students and make up choirs, orchestras, string quartets, percussion groups and assorted bands. The other 20 are drama students. My drama students. We’re going to perform a piece we’ve devised which can be best described as an impressionistic history of Australia in 15 minutes. And we’re going to be performing it to people who have, at most, barely heard of Australia and almost certainly know nothing about Australian history.

So here I am with a bunch of teenagers ranging in age from 14 to 17 for whom I’m going to be responsible over the next fortnight. Personally responsible. Touring China. Twenty teenagers. Twenty-four/seven, as they say. I notice my heart is beating a little faster than usual and I’m feeling a bit queasy in the stomach.

What was I thinking? On my last trip to Shanghai I discovered I was barely able to look after myself. On that occasion I accepted a generous offer from two ‘students’ for a guided tour of the city. Little did I realise that they were after a bit more than an opportunity to practise their English. I escaped intact and fortunately no one here knows about that.

My charges are an interesting mix. The bulk of them are in Year 11. They are 16 or 17, full of energy and on the lookout for a good time. A good time that might not be limited to walking around museums. To say many of them are party animals would not be an exaggeration. The others – the Year 10s and 9s – are variously excited, nervous or already homesick. One of them won’t stop talking from the moment we leave to the moment we return. These guys are under my ‘duty of care’.

‘Duty of care’ is one of those wonderful departmental phrases that are trotted out to remind teachers of their responsibilities. When you forget to do PGD (playground duty) you are abrogating your ‘duty of care’. And if some kid falls over and scratches his knee you can be sued because you have failed in your ‘duty of care’.

Being a bit old-school, I’ve never been into the jargon that has insinuated itself into every aspect of teaching, or ‘pedagogy’ as we now like to call it. We’ve gone from using simple language to describe what we are doing to using phrases that are, at best, bizarre. For instance, ‘value adding’. I sat in a staff meeting where I was told we were ‘value adding’ the kids. Value adding? I thought we were teaching them.

Anyway, I’m standing at the check-in counter with 20 high-octane teenagers ready to rock and roll in China. The ratio was meant to be 1 to 15, that is, one teacher for every 15 kids. Someone in the department had worked that out. It probably took them a year and several hundred meetings/conferences to come up with 1 to 15 as the most appropriate ratio for ‘duty of care’. Fortunately my boss – our school principal – or someone else in charge has agreed that, as I have 20 in my performance group, I may as well be responsible for them all. To be honest, the full implications of this trip haven’t quite dawned on me yet. But they soon will.

I start counting heads. Roll call has never been my strong point. Truants can have a field day in my classes if they want to. It’s not that I don’t understand the need for roll call, it’s just that I tend to get into it – the teaching – before I remember to call the roll. And any teacher worth their salt will soon work out who’s likely to truant and who isn’t. But this is different. I need to know that all my charges are ‘present and accounted for’. Fortunately, I can count to 20 so I gather them around me and count heads. There should be 20, but there are only 19. Bugger. Great start! I try again. Still 19. Who’s missing?

‘Call the roll, sir.’

‘Thanks for that, Kevin.’

Kevin’s the one who never stops asking questions, giving advice or stating the bleeding obvious. I love him, but …

I call the roll. Kate’s not here. Kate? One of the smartest and most reliable kids I’ve ever taught.

‘Where’s Kate?’

Everyone starts panicking. Teenagers love panicking – it’s part of the teen DNA. I try to exude calm but, to be honest, I’m getting a bit toey. Time is ticking away. I’ve lost one of the kids I’m responsible for and we haven’t even gone through the departure gate.

It’s starting to dawn on me that this isn’t going to be like the overseas travelling I’ve grown to love so much. Just as I’m beginning to wonder what I’ve got myself in for I see Kate pushing her way through the crowd, parents in tow. She’s looking pretty shamefaced.

‘Slept in.’

Kate’s an interesting mix of teenager and adult. Mature beyond her years but a teenager all the same, she’s got a wicked sense of humour and, I’m soon to discover, is not exactly the shrinking violet she pretends to be.

We’re called to the departure gate. Time for goodbyes. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks: I’m responsible for 20 apples of adoring parents’ eyes. Some of the parents are teary. A few fix me with looks that leave nothing to the imagination.

You’d better look after my precious jewel.

Others look at me quizzically as they shake my hand.

Are you up to this?

Paranoia kicks in. Am I? Then the thought, ‘Maybe they don’t trust me.’ Maybe I don’t trust myself …

One last roll call before we go through the gate. A flash of genius! I think it’s mine, but it might be from one of the kids, probably Kevin. We’ll number off like they do in those American war movies. I allocate numbers. One to 20. We try it out – disaster. Half of them forget their numbers. I smile pathetically as the parents look on. We try again. It almost works, like a barely oiled machine. I’m really filling these parents with confidence. They wave anxious goodbyes as we make our way to the gate.

Once we’re through the gate there is Customs to negotiate. Customs is always a pain but when you’ve got 20 in your family it’s something else again. I watch different kids fumbling for passports, dropping boarding passes, finding themselves in the wrong queue and the penny starts to drop: this is going to be one hell of a trip!

We make it to the departure lounge and I grab a coffee. The kids are like lambs let loose in a paddock for the first time. They’re already kicking up their heels. Their collective demeanour has transformed. Gone is the bored ‘over it’ disposition they put on for mum and dad. Now there is no masking their sheer excitement. This is what they have been waiting for. To get away, to be free, to be themselves.

It’s always bemused me how different kids are when you see them with their parents. Parent–teacher nights are a classic example. The vibrant, enthusiastic student I’ve come to know and love suddenly becomes withdrawn and long-suffering when in the presence of an inquiring parent. They squirm. They roll their eyes. They look like they’re having their teeth pulled. It makes you realise what a privilege it is to see them as they really are. Or at least one aspect of what they really are. One thing is for sure, we teachers see the best of kids. Admittedly, sometimes the worst as well, but the best outstrips the worst, by a huge margin. It’s why teaching is such a great job.

Parents are interesting in this context too. Some of them regress to become the students they once were. Or wish they were. Or pray their kids will become. They’re all perfect manners and respectful nods. Like most things about teaching, it’s slightly schizophrenic. Good friends have taken to calling me ‘Mr Manning’ when we meet at parent–teacher night. These are people I’ve partied with till all hours. Schools have a very strange effect on everyone, not just on those who work in them. Then there are parents who inquire:

‘How on earth do you put up with her?’

Sitting in front of me is a kid I’d trust with my life and her mum or dad asks me a question like that. Put up with her? What are they talking about? She’s a champion human being. This is what I mean about us seeing the best of kids. I never get attitude from this girl. Never.

Of course there are other parents, the ones who turn up a little bit stoned, half-pissed or even totally off their face. They sit down, eyes barely open or, depending on their poison, darting in a thousand directions. It’s quite disconcerting. So is the breath of the parent who has downed six schooners on the way.

But these parents are doing their best; it mightn’t be very good, but at least they’re there. And you come to understand why their kid might be struggling or, on the other hand, to marvel at how on earth they’ve been doing so well. Of course if the kid happens to be there too, which is rare, they give you a ‘Can you believe it?’ look or spend the whole interview staring at the floor.

The worst type of parent, though, is the one who believes their child is a genius/prodigy/saint/potential national hero or some other figment of their overly fertile imagination. They are impossible. Of course they think I’m an idiot/bludger/narcissist/imposter if I don’t agree. Maybe they’re right.

Back in the departure lounge we’re finally called to board. We seem to have been waiting for hours. Waiting – something we’re going to get used to on this trip.

The flight is uneventful. In-flight movies, iPods, books, magazines, cards, endless chatter and occasional sleep variously occupy the kids. It’s a long flight and there has been a delay, which means we’re running a bit late for our connecting flight from Guangzhou to Shanghai. Our tour guide for this leg is a fairly excitable Chinese national called Wally, who talks incredibly quickly and waves his hands around when things look like veering off course. Wally’s starting to panic about the connecting flight. I’m not too fussed – what can you do about situations you have no control over?

‘Go with the flow,’ I say to the kids. They grin. It’s all part of the ride to them.

To tell the truth, ‘panic’ may be understating Wally’s response to things that don’t go exactly to plan. I’m not sure if a word has been invented to adequately capture his, let’s say, excitability. In any case it appears someone told him that the louder you yell the quicker a problem will be solved. So by the time we arrive in Guangzhou, once know as Canton, Wally is beside himself. He tears around the airport waving his arms furiously, shouting at the top of his lungs and pointing a lot. This tactic is both amusing and surprisingly effective. We’re ushered through gates and literally run to the luggage carts specially commandeered to transport us to the connecting flight. For the local Chinese it must be quite a sight. A hundred Western kids and their teachers sprinting after their hyped-up tour guide. The kids are loving it. Not only are we saved a considerable hike to the gate but we get to career around the terminal on carts. It’s like a joyride at a theme park.

Wally’s obviously got influence because the flight is held just for us. This mightn’t endear us to the other passengers but no one complains. I can’t imagine a domestic flight in Australia being held for a group of visiting Chinese kids. We’re being afforded special treatment.

I figure that a friendship with Wally might be worth cultivating. I sit next to him in the vain hope of getting some special privileges. Like cold beer. We chat away and he tells me the government are very supportive of this tour. The Chinese government? Maybe this isn’t just any old school trip.

He also tells me it’s the Festival of the Moon, a celebration dating back 3000 years. He explains its significance. It strikes me how genuinely proud he is of his culture. We are served moon cakes on the flight as a special treat. The kids aren’t all that keen on them, although once we explain their significance, they do their best to pretend to enjoy them. Kate offers me her second one and watches while I diplomatically scoff it down. Wally is delighted. He asks if I’d like more. How can I refuse?

The excitement is mounting as we fasten our seat belts for the descent into Shanghai. The plane touches down and there is a collective cheer. And clapping. On some flights this might be seen as congratulating the flight crew but I suspect our kids are cheering because they’re ready to rip. Even though it’s been a long day, they aren’t showing any signs of flagging. Quite the opposite, in fact.

We disembark and make our way to Customs. It’s clear a good percentage of this trip will involve queuing and counting. We do a head count; that is, we number off. We’re getting the hang of it now. And we – they – have added a little beat to the routine. Not just any beat, it’s a funky little beat. And it involves a bit of a dance step as well. We are a performing arts high school after all. Roll call as performance art – that’s my kind of roll call. We attract a bit of attention as we start the clapping; everyone within earshot looks around to see what’s going on. The kids have named us ‘Team Ned’. Any members of Team Ned who might have strayed hear the beat and rush back to join us. In theory anyway. The beat becomes our signature tune. Later on the music kids will try to emulate us – as if! We’re drama! We’re the best! Not that it’s a competition.

Heads counted, we pass through Customs into another queue to collect our bags. Then another queue for the bus. This is what I’m here for: to corral kids into queues for this and that and everything. Thank God I’ve got experience in this sort of thing. I’m a farm boy, it reminds me of counting sheep through a gate. Shepherding my flock.

The bus trip to the hotel is fantastic. Even though I’ve been to Shanghai before, seeing it through the eyes of a teenager is another thing entirely. We’re all pretty pumped. It’s an amazing city, especially at night. Everyone is straining to see what’s going on. Cameras and iPhones record every moment. The bus is buzzing. It strikes me that the kids are interested. Really interested. Because it’s the Festival of the Moon the place is lit up like a Christmas tree. There are lanterns everywhere. It’s quite a sight.

‘Look at that!’

They rush to one side of the bus to take it all in.

‘Hey guys, look at this, that old guy’s carrying a fridge on the back of his bike!’

They rush to the other side.

We get to the hotel and unload. Not just bags but musical instruments as well. Instruments for 80 musicians. There seems to be every instrument imaginable. It turns out some of them have been damaged. Badly. This could be a disastrous beginning to the trip. Some of the kids are really upset; their instruments aren’t cheap and they value them personally. They’re worried their parents will be angry with them or they won’t be able to play. The music teachers show enormous sensitivity in handling a potentially explosive situation.

‘It’s okay, we’ll find replacements,’ says Dylan, the Welsh violin wizard.

How? It’s well after midnight and none of us speaks Chinese. Dylan is in earnest discussion with Gavin, Wally’s replacement for this leg. Gavin’s a bit calmer than Wally.

The hotel foyer is abuzz. Some kids are lining up to get their room keys, others are trying to exchange money. The hotel receptionists don’t speak English. One of our kids is Chinese and suddenly becomes very popular. Us teachers are collecting and checking passports. We’re counting heads. We’re answering a thousand questions coming from all directions.

Some of the younger kids are starting to fade. The older ones look like they’re ready to party. The hotel’s tiny shop is jam packed with kids. Everyone is talking at once. Over in a corner Gavin is on the phone. He’s nodding patiently. We start shepherding the kids to their rooms. The lift is struggling. It takes about ten at a time. With the amount of luggage some of them have brought, it takes about five. They’ve all bought enough luggage for a world tour. On a ship. A container ship. This is going to take hours. At this rate we’ll never get to bed. Some of the kids decide to lug their bags up the stairs. The stairs aren’t carpeted.

Ker-clunk, ker-clunk, ker-clunk.

About 50 take the stairs option. You’d want your money back if you booked in for a quiet night. I hope no one’s in the honeymoon suite. This isn’t a tour, it’s an invasion.

Finally we get the kids to their rooms. Check-in has taken a couple of hours and we’re exhausted. Dylan and I settle down for a well-earned night cap. Bernie, another musical maestro, joins us. Gavin comes over. Somehow at this time of night he has arranged replacement instruments for tomorrow’s concert. The music staff have been politely insistent, but insistent all the same; they know how important this is to their kids. This is the first of many insights I get into the resourcefulness of the music department. They are, quite simply, powerhouses. They never stop. They seem to have no concern for their own comfort. Their entire focus is on getting what is best for their kids, or the best sound out of their kids. To have them performing at the highest level possible.

That’s the thing about 90 per cent of teachers: they want their kids to do the best they possibly can. Some might seem like fascists, some might be mean-spirited, some might not be great at being warm and fuzzy, but the vast majority of them want what’s best for their kids. I have yet to meet a teacher who wants their kids to fail. Teachers employ as many different methods as they have personalities to get the desired result for their kids. This is something that is completely missed in the wider education debate.

How do you define a good teacher? You won’t find the answer on a mark sheet, or in a league table, or on a roll of honour. Or in a newspaper headline. You’ll find it when you see them doing everything in their power to get hold of a tuba at 1.30 in the morning in a foreign city where they don’t speak the language. And not giving up till they do.

It’s now 3.30 and we’re ready to call it a night. We’ve taken turns to check the corridors and all seems in order. Most lights are out. There’s a bit of chat from some rooms but it’s pretty innocent and to be expected.

Dylan volunteers to do one last run-around to check all is well. As we wearily collect our bags he returns looking concerned. He signals for me to follow him. There’s been some smoking. What should we do? It’s the first night – we could go in hard and threaten to send them home. We could scream and shout and report them to higher authorities. We could have them stripped of their privileges and tell them they’re not performing tomorrow.

We could, but we don’t. We decide