With Love To Sir: 1960's Teaching in East End London

THE PROLOGUE

The North American times were electric with expectations and opportunity as '67 turned to '68.

Europe was liveable on $5 a day.

The continent stood in the shadow of WW II and in the mystery of the Cold War.

Paris still shone but in a post war depression that allowed a 21 year old to explore its artistic, historical and architectural past on a slim budget.

London was the ancient imperial capital that created awe in its still English and class conscious presentation. The buildings remained black from coal burning and the scars from the Battle of Britain were apparent from place to place.

THE SET-UP

Armed with a letter of introduction to the Ontario London mission from Premier Robarts, the name of a London primary school teacher - Diney Grimsdick, a university BA and 6 months as a host at Expo '67, I found myself 50 years ago broke and in need of a job.

On January 3, 1968, my 22 birthday, Diney came through with a substitute teacher's job in Hackney in the North East end of London- a district of poverty and a new racial mix which was the product of the collapse of Empire and resulting immigration.

It snowed that day and London slowed to a standstill. A Canadian, undeterred by a little snow, I made my way to Northwold Primary, built in 1909, to substitute for a teacher the children called 'kick donkey' who had a nervous breakdown supervising the chaos from 40 hyper-active and unruly black and white students, never to return to teaching. So desperate for teachers in the dark east End that after I met the most benign and dedicated Head Master, Mr Taylor, for a short minute, still dressed in a long winter coat, I was ushered into a rambunctious class of 11?year?olds – two to a desk outfitted with inkwells – with the invocation to 'do my best'.

All 11-year-old students were required to write the national test 'Eleven Plus'. Not one in this class had a chance to pass the test that would determine their academic stream – all would be off to a notorious secondary modern school. No grammar school for these pupils. They called me 'Sir' out of custom, not respect. The weapons of engagement were passion, curiosity, physical endurance and speed and the cane. Books and writing materials were in short supply, matching my teaching experience.

A few other limitations on day one: the students understood not a word I spoke, as their closest only experience of a North American accent was cowboys on the 'Tely'; my oral teaching repertoire was limited to geography, biology, lessons on mountains, buffalo, lakes and waterfalls; and my tricks to control classroom discipline were useless in the face of tiny, worldly insurrectionists who instinctively recognized fear and inexperience of their newest victim/teacher. As loss of control verged to chaos in the first hour, finally a break to explain to Mr. Taylor that 'it was a struggle in there'! 

The Northwold Headmaster was calm and appreciative of my 1-hour survival as there was no one else. Simple advice: 'if a child moves from his desk without permission, make a slap sound on a desk as you move toward him or her and they will retreat'. Easy enough, I thought.

As noon sauntered to the much anticipated relief of student lunch break, my 'hand hitting' technique on the desks, time after time, whilst initially successful, soon had a diminishing impact on the students and became a self-induced medical liability.

Into the lunch room I straggled, only to meet the assistant Head Master Phillip Allen, a brilliant teacher of students and ever steady supporter of other teachers (and one of England's finest musicians who, to this day, still plays for the American Ambassador and the Palace) gave generous tactical advice on survival, including the importance of music allowed me make it through the first day to a permanent job on day two.

The struggles, student capers, tears, education lessons, sports and discipline wrought of care and energy took incipient chaos to a stable classroom, always verging on trouble but leading to mutual recognition that kept the peace, leading to trust.

Three typical days in the lives of Sir and his new friends illustrate the progress, the pain and the passion.

In April 1968, Martin Luther King was murdered. The wind was high that day and the students typically were over excited. Without themselves understanding the tragedy, the black students were particularly on edge. There was no strategy for that day. Instinctively, I cleared the desks to the class perimeter, unknowingly creating a fire escape hazard, and told the 20 boys to put on boxing gloves and we would box, them against me until the final person was left standing. The girls largely ignored Sir and the boys, while they entertained and competed among themselves in complex combinations. Head Master passed the class room in the middle of the round 8 of the boxing match and the chaos of the other struggles in the room. Seeing the fire danger and the situation seemingly out of control, he turned a blind eye and walked on with an amused shake of his head. The wind died away, calm was restored but the hidden hurt touched their security and left them feeling more alone.

The second story is that of the weapons of control: the cane, the broom stick, speed combined with savvy energy and nails. 'He has no father, he is a bad boy, you cane him'. This was the voice of an anxious and determined mother. I never used the cane but its existence was a fact of school life. It seems impossible even then but it was a feature of yesteryear that continued into the late '60's. With the loss of effectiveness of my hand on desk sound, I borrowed a series of broomsticks hordes from my eccentric landlady on Roland Gardens in South Kensington. The slap became a rifle shot in an echo chamber of a large wooden storage box. When that failed to garner attention, nails on the chalk board elicited painful cries: 'don't do it Sir don't do it'. When Billy B threatened to cut a female student on her face, I took after Billy on foot, caught him and rendered a passionate lecture that made what was surely an idle threat never to be repeated. And thus control was slowly was exerted and maintained until acceptance moved to trust and distance to caring. Education could now begin.

On my last day at Northwold Primary, I ushered my full class into the stage of the auditorium. This was the first performance of my class ever. They were the impossibles. Now they were invited to be performers. They sang a simple anthem, consistent with my musical talent, aided by Phillip Allen. 'Kumbaya, my lord, Kumbaya'. The class sang. I led the choir. The school clapped. The class received their first recognition that the Head Master has said would lighten their way with pride and self-confidence.

Sir had had a time that was fleeting. Sir moved on. Northwold Primary and my young charges have warmed my soul over these 5 decades, with love to Sir.

John Campion

April 2018

The Epilogue

Thinking back, and having read your account of it, it was quite extraordinary that you didn't just turn round and leave - others had done so before you!  To describe the teaching situation there as "challenging" doesn't begin to address the reality, and yet there you were, in your trapper’s fur hat and snow boots, with no teacher-training (all one needed in those days was a university degree) literally thrown in at the deep end! Classes were rigorously streamed according to ability then, and you had the fourth stream - i.e. the bottom stream. I had been appointed to the school two years previously as "Senior Master" (I wasn't yet a Deputy Head), but with only five years teaching experience myself. It was huge school - one of the largest in London - around 600 juniors and a further 400 infants on the ground floor. Under those conditions the staff turnover was chronic: the class you were given had had more than a dozen teachers in the previous term!  Some had lasted only a few days, the better ones a few weeks, and one or two only a matter of hours. I was teaching in the room above you, and I well remember the slamming of the broomstick on that cupboard echoing up through the ceiling, and yes, I do remember Billy B. who was so insecure that he would never take his coat off! I regarded the tools that a teacher needed to survive then were a strong sense of humour and perhaps a touch of insanity! To balance all that, I regarded Mr Taylor as a great headmaster - easily the best I have worked for, before or since. He was unfailingly kind and polite, completely unflappable, immensely able, but with such inner resolve that he could be completely relied on in a crisis - and there were plenty of those over the following couple of years.

He gave me a brilliant testimonial in 1970 when I left to take up a Deputy Headship in a similarly large school in Westminster. I remember him saying to me that the challenges at Northwold at that time were unlikely to be surpassed at any school in the country - so I genuinely think you can take some pride in achieving what you did. And we did have some laughs….

Phil Allen

April, 2018