It was only going to be for a year or two, so I told myself. I'd teach until something interesting came up, perhaps I would be in a band, or travel the world or even write a great novel. Every September as I looked around the staff room I would tell myself that this would be the last time, that next year it would all be different. And now twenty one years later I am still there and I know that I have been lying to myself and that I am trapped.
My first teaching job was in a small inner city comprehensive. To call myself naive would be to underestimate the oceans of water that collected behind my ears. My years PGCE had not prepared me for the onslaught that I faced and I thank God that there was no OFSTED then as I struggled terribly. Some of the pupils were genuinely interested in me and what I had to bring but for the majority I was a Southern Poofter who didn't iron his shirts and who didn't realise that blue shirts don't match with brown trousers. I was not prepared for this as I had been led to believe by many comfortable liberal dramas that unconventional teacher with whacky dress sense would soon win over, after a little resistance, deprived kids.
It wasn't, at least at first, to be. I learnt to conform, firstly by buying an iron and secondly by copying the hard man persona that more successful male teachers at that time had. I hadn't realised how much dislike there was within many of the pupils that I taught for difference. It was something to be stamped out, it was weakness and needed eradicating.
Ironically, many of the staff felt the same way. It was suspect to discuss good books, and to genuinely love your subject. I quickly avoided doing this in order not to feel like a Big Head, sadly it was like being back at school though now I was a member of staff not a pupil. The only thing that mattered was being seen to be good with the kids. So again I learnt to clip my wings, conform and the iron mask tightened around my face clasp by clasp.
