My dad didn’t come home from work today.
Two men in dark suits knocked our door,
and mum cried.
The newspapers said he was a hero.
They said he was brave, saved lives.
They said he should have a medal.
My teachers said he was a great man,
and that I should be proud of him.
I am proud.
But not for the reasons you think.
I don’t know your brave-heroic-medal-earner.
I’m proud because he was my dad.
Because he read me stories when I was little.
Because he put plasters on my scratches.
Because he tickled me till I screamed for mercy.
Because he never missed my school plays.
Because he let me wear make-up.
Because he never approved of my boyfriends.
Because he helped me with my homework.
Because he believed in me.
Because I always knew he loved me.
You can keep your brave hero.
I’ll keep my memories of the real man.
My Grandad died.
I only saw him last week.
The doctor said he was getting better.
His newspaper is still open on the table,
and the air still smells of his pipe tobacco.
It’s as if he’s just gone out of the room.
He’ll be back soon.
He was supposed to watch me grow up,
and go to university;
be at my wedding;
be Great-Grandad to my children.
I hate him for leaving us.
I was supposed to visit him the day he died,
but I was too busy.
If I’d gone, maybe I could have saved him.
Dad keeps crying.
He’s never cried before.
I don’t know what to do.
Mum just stares into space,
I want to talk to my Grandad about it.
But I can’t.
Over the last few weeks, my teaching colleagues up and down the country have been embarking on a marathon of report writing. Facebook statuses and Twitter feeds have been a countdown of how many reports they have left to write. They have been comparing, and congratulating or commiserating. I, on the other hand, spent my half term holiday enjoying the summer weather, tackling the pile of books I’d been wanting to read, and recharging my batteries, so that I could come back for the last half term feeling refreshed and ready to give my all for the remaining few weeks.
Now that we are back, some teachers are still rushing to get the last comments written before the deadline, whereas I have all the time in the world to concentrate on preparing my lessons for the real part of the job – teaching. Why would I ever want to change that?
Dear Mr Gove
I have read the stories in the news about the government’s proposal for a compulsory reading list for primary school children, and I am asking you to reconsider.
I have had a love of books and reading all my life. From the time I could crawl, I headed towards my dad’s bookshelves and sat happily turning the pages of books I was incapable of understanding. By the time I was two, I was able to read them, and I have been reading in every spare minute I have ever since.
I have read everything from War and Peace to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and from Ovid (in Latin) to JK Rowling. I’ve read Asimov and Zola, Oscar Wilde and Lee Child, The Lord of the Rings and Lord of the Flies. But I’ve never read Of Mice and Men. And I never will. I’ve been told it’s a classic. I’m told it’s a fantastic book. I will never know for sure. Why not? Because when I was at secondary school, my well-intentioned English teacher forced me to read The Red Pony and The Pearl, and I hated them and I’m never going to read John Steinbeck again for as long as I live.
If being forced to read something has given a child who loved to read such a hatred that it is still with her 30 years later, just think what effect it would have on the minds of children who are already reluctant to pick up a book.
I agree that most primary school children need to read more, but we need to encourage them, not dictate to them.
As a teacher I have succeeded in turning children on to books. I have tempted them with books as varied as Percy Jackson and Tom Sawyer. I haven’t done it by forcing them to read; I have done it by reading them little snippets from books I thought they might enjoy, and then allowing them to choose whether or not they read the book. I have been rewarded with comments such as, “Tom Sawyer is brilliant, Miss! Did this author write anything else?” and “I’ve finished all the Percy Jackson books. What else might I like?” Would I have achieved the same result by ordering them to read the books? I doubt it.
We’re all on the same side, and we all want our children to be better read. With this proposal the government can turn them into children who have read some books. Given the freedom to exercise our professional judgement, based on what we know of each individual child’s interests, we teachers can turn them into readers.