The Blame Game

Last week our eldest boy turned ten. It should have been a joyous day, a momentous arrival in the realm of double digits. Instead the birthday boy was subdued and when his Godfather rang from UK to wish him a happy birthday he commented to me that he sounded a bit down.

This was perceptive at the end of a telephone 5000 miles away and I congratulate my old friend on his levels of sensitivity. Right now, I could wish that our son’s teacher had even one fraction of that sensitivity but from where I stand, I might as well be wishing for a white Christmas.

On the eve of his birthday we received an email from the teacher. The missive contained a list of our son’s failings and the concluding paragraph stated, “With Calum turning ten tomorrow, it is an ideal time for him to take some extra responsibility by following instructions and showing how talented he is.”

Thus in full awareness of the date, our son’s teacher chose his birthday to make him turn over a new leaf. To this end he was kept in during first break and made to complete a homework task he had forgotten to hand in. During second break he was made to copy all the week’s homework assignments into his homework diary. Playing, having fun with friends and leaping for joy at turning ten were not on the agenda. “My worst day ever at school was my birthday.” he told me today with tears in his eyes.

Our eldest child is a bright, quirky lad with a delightful sense of humour. He is dreamy, disorganised, forgetful and infuriating at times, but no more, I believe than any other boy of his age. He is also chatty, curious and confident. Or was.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t like me Mummy.” What do I tell him? It could be for all of the above and more. It is a tough lesson for a young boy but one which we all have to face at some time. More worrying to my mind, is the problem the teacher is having in concealing his feelings from our son. Having been told by his teacher he is not capable of change our son has accepted this as fact and has, I fear, stopped caring. The lights have gone out and my wonderful inspirational boy has lost his way.

Our attempts to approach the teacher to discuss our son’s issues and learn how we might support both our son and his teacher have been rebuffed. Relationship building with either pupil or parents does not appear to be his forte. In desperation we approach a senior member of staff who tells us the teacher concerned has complained that our son is needy.

Needy.
Needy of some support and guidance in a new school several continents removed from his old one, perhaps?
Needy of some positive feedback for the concerted effort he is making to get things right?
Needy of a positive role model in his form teacher?
Or needy of some affirmation that despite the fact the bottom has fallen out of his small world, all will be well?

Yup, in his situation, I’d be needy too.

Our boy has not been handing in his homework. There are systems designed to help him do this, most of which involve check lists, ticks and signatures added along the way. We are so busy ticking, signing and checking that there is barely time to complete the homework itself which in the meantime assumes huge and scary proportions in my mind and presumably in that of my son. Who still forgets to hand it in. For this he gets into trouble. That much I understand. There is a reading record designed, I believe, to ensure that reluctant readers are working through 15 minutes of a book four times a week. Our book worm of a son is so busy reading that he forgets to record what he has read. For this he gets into more trouble. This I struggle with.

At a parent/teacher appointment last month which also happened to be my first face to face meeting with our son’s teacher he informed me that he believed our son to be an ADHD sufferer and that he had decided, henceforth, to treat him as a problem child. More check lists came home, more reminders to tick and sign. Besides being flabbergasted at the unprofessional presentation of this inaccurate diagnosis, I find myself frozen in the glare of the tick lists, stressed and anxious on our son’s behalf. He in turn is brave and stoical in the face of what has, to our minds reached unacceptable levels of unkindness. Our son is being bullied. By his teacher.

I won’t bore you with the details for they are many and repetitive. I’ll give just two examples of what my son is enduring in the name of the highest standards of education in a reputable international school.

Leaving your bag even slightly open is a class crime. Usually the class monitors patrol the pegs outside the classroom and point out to the criminal the error of his or her ways. Yesterday however, the teacher assumed the role of the bag police and brought just one bag into the class room. “Now who do you think this belongs to?” He asked of the pupils in tones heavily laced with sarcasm. My son identified the bag as his and was called to the front of the room. The teacher then asked the class if they could suggest ways to help his errant pupil to become more organised. In good faith every member of the class put up their hands and gave their ideas, two or three each. Once all the hands had been exhausted, the teacher asked again, just to make sure there weren’t any hesitant volunteers. More helpful suggestions were forthcoming. Shamed and humiliated my boy was allowed to return to his seat.

We can I suppose be thankful that he did in fact have a seat on that occasion for today it was removed. Our son was called to the front to apologise in front of the whole class for intentionally tripping up his teacher by leaving his chair too far out. His written work was finished on his knees on the floor at his desk.

I am in a tailspin, my thoughts as clear as the Kowloon horizon on a smoggy day. “Don’t complain, Mummy,” said our son to me on another jaw-dropping occasion. “He’ll only accuse me of playing the blame game.” Blame game? What in heaven’s name is that? Pupil guilty, teacher blameless, so don’t bother telling your parents?

We threw him a party at the weekend and under sunny blue skies took ten of his friends on a hike. We had a picnic lunch, searched for hidden treasure and played some hilarious games before returning home for tea and cake some four hours later. It was a joyful day and did, I hope, go some small way to restoring his faith not just in birthdays but in himself. I watched my ten year old son and I took in his delight at the books he received as birthday gifts. He is a phenomenal reader and his vocabulary is extraordinary. He is energetic and enthusiastic, well-mannered and good company. His conversation is probing and intelligent.

Later that evening we played together the complex strategy game he was given for his birthday. His concentration, understanding and grasp of the principles was remarkable. This is not a boy with attention deficit disorder. This is a boy who is uninspired by a formulaic and inflexible teacher; a boy who knows education can be better than this, who’d rather be reading a book than filling in yet another worksheet. This is a boy who when enthused and inspired will go to the ends of the earth for a teacher, a boy who just six months ago loved school.

How fragile is a boy’s love of learning and how quickly damaged it is. I find I am both saddened and angry. Sad that my boy is hurting so much. Angry with a teacher who has seemingly snuffed out my boy’s desire to please, who is down on him for forgetting to tick boxes or highlight words, and who has repeatedly reminded our son of his failings without ever once acknowledging his strengths.