Eric

As I am talking to the class I am aware that Eric is multi-tasking, fiddling around in his pencil case. He is trying to balance pens up on their end, or slicing a rubber with a blade unscrewed from his pencil sharpener, or exploiting the endless distractions provided by a compass with its scratchy needle and its arms that arc through 180 degrees to mesmerizingly meet and then back again and again. When that spell is broken the miniature nut and bolt separate to allow the compass to be divided into its constituent parts – from which state Eric will either reassemble them into a – wobbly – compass or transform them into a whole new structure incorporating any other stray components - damaged protractors, paperclips, springs - looking for a new home. Yes, Eric is clearing out his pencil case. When I say clearing out I don’t mean the kind of neat arranging of new felt tips, furry pen and matching pink ruler routine that Julia is fond of before she is able to put pen to paper, Eric’s decluttering is a league away from such tidiness and order. When he has finished sorting, all items – working or not - are jammed back in to the pencil case, alongside every last pencil sharpening and empty cartridge. The pencil case itself has been accidentally fashioned into a kind of punk statement  - rips and tears, a zip that has lost its raison d’etre since it became unstitched providing a useful gap to squeeze pens through. In fact I have witnessed him search for his only working pen by laboriously hawking the contents of the pencil case individually through the gap rather than the more conventional method of unzipping then rummaging.

Time is of no consequence to Eric. He inhabits a number of worlds from day-to-day occasionally surfacing to make a contribution from the deep thought of Planet Eric or taking a break from the private world of Eric and Mark, his partner in obscure humour. Such involvement in the lesson is usually prompted by a question from me; the question itself is often irrelevant, certainly to Eric and quite often to me, but it’s nice to know that we can connect, at some level, from time-to-time.

Eric does not function at macro level. Every task is subdivided into a series of micro tasks each with their fair share of barriers and entertaining diversions all of which contribute to the failure to reach the desired outcome as outlined by me. If writing a story were a computer game Eric would be much faster at learning how to complete each level but as it is he is still stuck at ‘Stage 1: finding his English book’ which is easier said than done when – to put it into context – you think of his school bag as being a scaled up version of his pencil case, booby-trapped with small games and toys, books that look like an English book but turn out to be a Geography book and fragments of what appear  to have been, in some previous era, a packed lunch.

Without seeing the ‘bigger picture’, that is when faced with Eric’s activities on a case by case basis it is almost instinctual to start thinking that he is taking advantage of your good nature in order to simply waste time. He is a bright lad, chatty and quick to quip - how can it take so long to just get organized?  Gut reaction might have you thinking that a stern word will be enough to get him to buck up his ideas or perhaps a spell in at break time will wake him up to reality. The sad fact is that punitive actions will most likely be of no consequence -if you want him to focus, to produce anything like what you have set the class to do, you need to cut through the organization for him. Provide him with his book and a pen – preferably open to the correct page. Or, even better, teach him how to be organized, spend that break time detention helping him streamline the contents of his bag, show him how to fill in his planner – it will all pay off in the long run.

And it is a long run! And a difficult one. And when Eric finally brings his story to me my heart sinks. Spidery scrawl is positively legible compared to Eric’s handwriting. I know that it will take forever to decipher, fear that it will crush his spirit every time I have to ask ‘What’s that word Eric?’ (which would be every other word) while his peers queue up behind him and his self-conscious voice becomes softer and less audible. In addition to that I know that while I am battling my way through, Dylan and Kirky will start a small skirmish that will escalate into a full on grapple and even the most patient pupils, quietly waiting, will invariably begin an inoffensive, quiet chat which will soon build, spread and corrupt the hard won atmosphere of diligence! And it’s not difficult to somehow feel resentful that Eric is at the root of this disorder with his reluctance to get started and his impenetrable writing holding everything up.

Early in the autumn term – having held Eric back while I deal with a few other students, whose work can be rapidly scanned and responded to – I take a look at his page. The words are as closely crammed as commuters on the Northern Line at rush hour. He appears  to have saved energy by not actually lifting his pen away from the paper but weaving a continuous line of blue ink circling and looping into loosely-formed letters. It seems that he has taken my September ‘lecture’ - on not using a new page for every new piece of work and using the space in your book wisely - a little too literally and you could be forgiven for thinking that I had suggested that an English book should last not for a year but an entire school career. For an inexperienced NQT it is tempting to pretend to read the story, say something like ‘What a great idea Eric!’, plant a huge tick on the page to acknowledge his efforts and send him off to choose a game as a reward, safe in the knowledge that Mrs Fairchild will sort him out in his Extra English session. I have, after all, 24 others who don’t get 1:1s. But even as an NQT under pressure I can’t bring my self to do that and in a flash of exasperation and - as it turns out - inspiration I take a deep breath, smile and say ‘Read it to me then Eric!’

Eric looks a little taken aback. The deal is that he hands over the work and stands impassively, enjoying a bit of downtime while I edit furiously, humming the words under my breath. The standard practice is that while I get busy with the green pen the author has a moment to gaze around the room silently nodding, winking and smiling at peers like a bride arriving at church. The more indecipherable the writing the more time the author gets to chill out. The longer the queue of children the more likely the writer is to be packed back off quickly. Eric, who has done his best on both accounts, is expecting me to keep my half of the bargain and is already mentally selecting his game. He has not banked on today’s special - a new strategy of reading your work aloud.

As Eric starts reading I have half an eye on Dylan and Kirky and half an ear on some gossiping going on in the corner so it takes a while for my brain to catch up with the words then try to match them to the chaotic prose on the page. Sheer poetry is flooding through Eric’s lips with a lilt and a rhythm and some well timed pauses which are not at all indicated by the two full stops and one comma which have managed to gain a place in the one and only paragraph.  The variation of verbs would put my ‘best students’ to shame and the way Eric has built a sense of tension is enthralling. I look at the book again, suspecting that Eric is employing the creativity of toddlers who play ‘let’s pretend I can read’ and tell a story with great authority, using the pictures in a book as cues and turning the pages with an assured air of confidence.  To double-check, and because I feel guilty that I was only vaguely paying attention I ask Eric to read it again. I receive a well-deserved, irritated sigh and then Eric begins to read his piece again to me...and then again to the class.

I cannot believe that I have stumbled upon such a genius strategy - so simple but so effective on many levels. Children reading their work aloud are engaged with it and able to spot their own mistakes and hear for themselves where punctuation is needed. Teachers listening to work hear how a piece is intended to sound with intonation and dramatic pauses. Children hearing each other, learn to develop their own style, understand what level they should be aiming at and have the pleasure of listening to lots of work rather than just reading that of their closest friends. We all get to indulge in the joy of listening to stories.

Over the rest of the year Eric gains a new respect from all members of the class, a new-found celebrity amongst the older children in Writing Club and his voice develops a more purposeful, slightly more confident edge. In school he becomes less shadowy.

Eric’s parents only seem mildly impressed that Eric has been invited to the Writing group for ‘Gifted and Talented’ writers. Dad says ‘But he writes like a six-year-old!’ and mum tells me that Imogen is the bright one in the family ‘Wait until you get her’. Eric doesn’t appear to have heard these remarks, he is focussed - or pretending to be - on detaching a torch key fob from its silver ring. In fact Mr & Mrs Lamb seem more interested in running me through their day, their respective visits to the doctors and their ever-growing list of ailments. Eric stands by abstractly jiggling and flickering the torch, his face pale against his dark spiky hair, his demeanor timid but not cowed.

By chance I do get to teach Imogen some years later at another school when she is in Year 10.  She is bright, top set and sits looking loftily at tiresome boys, her eyes heavily lined with smoky kohl. By contrast, her younger sister who I have picked up in Y8 struggles but has lots to say. Her first writing chronicles the medication and conditions suffered by every member of the family - including dogs, cats and rabbits - and, as her TA points out to me, in spite of her reading difficulties, she has no problem with the complicated pharmaceutical names of the remedies. Suddenly I gain a retrospective insight into the life of Eric: bobbing about in a sea of indifference; lost; taking refuge in his own world; building his own boundaries. 


‘I used to teach your brother...’ I tell Imogen, ‘...he was an amazing writer!’ She looks surprised. ‘Was he?’ she replies.