I stumbled across this no doubt worthy* blog just now, and contrasted what it depicts with my own primary school childhood in the late 50's and early 60's.
Today, teachers seem to think in terms of personal targets, curriculum targets, achievements and goals, traffic light models for problem solving, celebrating diversity and so on: words that make me think of dull grey porridge.
The teacher who inspired me with a lifelong love for learning was a lovely Welsh lady called Miss Jones in Class 2 at Oakfield Junior School, Windsor. I don't remember any targets or learning models: just her beautiful black hair and lilting voice; the way she taught me to write in elegant italics (a tricky task as I am left-handed and had to use a special nib with a 60 degree angle); and best of all - sitting outside under the school cherry trees in the summer, listening to her reading a story about a Mongolian boy and his horse living on the steppes. I was transported to a faraway land for that half hour at the end of every school day, and started a habit of reading for pleasure that has lasted me ever since.
I hope today's children will have similar memories to treasure in middle age: their schools are undoubtedly much brighter, cleaner and safer than the dark Victorian buildings I started in, but a bit of imagination and inspiration can make up for an awful lot!
(* worthy in intent - but not in its standards of written English, which is depressingly slipshod in places. One might hope that teachers would set a good example to the parents who presumably read this?)
09/02/07 @ 19:30