You shouldn’t start crying in front of the class. Never shout, “I’m here before you!” And you should never, ever act tough. Three heartfelt pieces of advice from my 15-year-old son. I ask him what he means by acting tough. Tomorrow morning I will be teaching Dutch for the first time for a bridge class and a 5 and 6 pre-university class. ‘You shouldn’t start talking in slang: fakka niffo, kifesh, pattas, fatoe, kaolo. You know, right.’
Yes, I do know. Yesterday I met the mentor of my new seventh grade in the copy room and he taught me another lesson: teachers don’t smile until Christmas† Christmas has been behind us for a while, but I get its message. As a new teacher, you have to be firm and strict during the first four months and not give students space, otherwise they will tear the tent down.
‘What do you think I should do then?’ I ask my son. ‘Just, nice teaching, and if something happens you don’t care. There is always someone in a class who throws a chair, you experience that at least once.’
Call it an emergency. Halfway through the year two Dutch teachers left a secondary school in Haarlem and it was impossible to find a replacement in the short term. ‘We have reached the bottom of the pit,’ said the vice principal when she asked me if I would temporarily like to teach Dutch in the school community with gymnasium, atheneum, havo and vmbo-t. I leave the name out of consideration, it is not about a specific school but a national problem. Due to the shortage of teachers, there are more and more unqualified people in the classroom: in secondary education this is about four percent (Trendrapportage Arbeidsmarkt Leraren, 2020), but the figures will increase sharply. More than a third of vacancies in secondary education are currently difficult to fill. In eight years’ time, the Trend Report estimates that there will be a shortage of 1,700 additional full-time teachers in secondary schools. School leaders must more often carry out emergency measures by involving lateral entrants, teacher training students or completely unauthorized persons.
The law allows the appointment of a teacher who does not (yet) meet the correct competence requirements. The deployment of these unauthorized persons is only permitted for a limited period of time and under certain conditions. For example, a completely unqualified teacher like me can teach for a maximum of one year for a vacancy that is difficult to fill. It then comes down to competence, substantive professional knowledge gained through work.
‘You certainly are skilled,’ said the vice principal, and in my naivety I thought so too. For over ten years I have been lecturing at secondary schools about my novels that are on book lists. I told thousands of students about my research and travels and even the biggest book hater hung on my every word. I rarely have order problems and if there is a bug in between, I have him or her recite to the group from my novel.
Don’t Laugh Until Christmas
Within two weeks, after a crash course (how does the Magister administrative program work, where can I find the digital textbooks) I will be in front of the class. I ignore the advice ‘teachers don’t smile until Christmas’ the first hour. With a smile I greet my first grade with 27 students on Wednesday morning and two students who follow online class with corona complaints. We meet, they ask questions. Do you have any children? Do they find you strict at home? I joke that my kids think I can’t even raise the dog.
The first lesson is cheerfully messy and that same day I get the seventh grade for a second hour. We have to get to work, next week a test is scheduled. They open their laptops and the trouble begins.
Empty batteries, forgotten passwords, stuck jobs. I prepared the lesson down to the last detail, but now it comes down to ICT skills – which I don’t have. Halfway through the hour, Ivo smashes his screen. “Why did you do that?” I ask. “My laptop crashed,” he replies. When there is finally something of silence I walk past the rows. Rosa watches a video on YouTube and clicks it away just too late. Some children practice French words. Soon they will have a test, is the explanation. I say that from now on everyone takes their book with them. Fingers go up indignantly. A computer and all textbooks do not fit in their backpack, the commentary reads.
‘Cunt, what the fuck’, Jamila says for the third time. Two students take paracetamol for headaches and ask if they can fetch water. At the back of the class there is an argument about a mouse, batteries fly through the room.
I warn it must be quiet and write the names of four troublemakers on the board. “If you continue, I’ll put a line behind your name and that means report to the department manager.” A smartass brings me up to speed on the penal system. “You can’t be expelled from the class until two lines are crossed.” A finger goes up. “You have chewing gum in your mouth, that’s not allowed.” My reply – ‘I can do anything’ – is faint, but my smile is hard to find.
Ivo, tearing down his screen, lifts his table like a weightlifter. I put a red line behind his name and that of his smiling neighbor. Ivo packs his things slowly and widens as he walks past me even more slowly. I recognize the bokito behavior of my own boys, but they are a bit older. This snot nose is only 12.
During dinner I let off steam. 5 and 6 vwo went fine, but that first year class was unbearable. Cunts, I hear myself say. My sons (15 and 19) and daughter (21) are not impressed. They tell grinning about teachers who ran away crying or had angry outbursts. I know the stories, but only now sympathize with these teachers.
In the evening I decide to look at the student list with details. I wanted to start unbiased, but it might help if I know more about their backgrounds. The list of eighteen names includes five students who play sports at a high level and are therefore allowed to miss lessons. Thirteen students have personal problems, dyslexia or struggle with disorders such as add, adhd and ppd-nos. I am looking for information about ass and pdd-nos and read about autism. I also delve into dysgraphia and dyspraxia, never heard of it. A teacher, I realize, must be half a psychologist.
I call a colleague and ask if it is normal that so many students in a class have a disorder or serious personal problems. Yes, she says. ‘The appropriate education means that more and more children need extra support. The corona crisis has exposed the problems that have been going on for much longer and has also caused backlogs.’
‘But extra supervision is not possible with such large classes,’ I ask.
‘That’s impossible,’ she agrees. ‘It causes a lot of stress.’
Suitable education
I continue reading about the Appropriate Education Act, introduced in 2014 with the idea that more students can go to a regular school that suits their abilities, so that they do not have to go to special education. Educational institutions have been pointing out for years that the law was a vulgar austerity measure that failed in most schools. Even the Ministry of Education concluded two years ago that appropriate education has not worked out so well.
The bottom line: teachers don’t have time to help each child individually. Classes are too big, with an average of 26 students in secondary education. The red tape has increased enormously and that for a moderate salary. No wonder there is an increasing shortage of teachers.
The next morning I share my first experiences at the coffee machine. ‘Remember that we mainly have children from the well-to-do middle class here. My son teaches in Amsterdam and has students living in a homeless shelter.’
Moments later I am standing at the back of the class with my back against the wall. What madness. I am not concerned with the content, but act as a living program to stop the use of social media on the screens of the students. I look over the shoulder of a student who writes ‘viets’ and ‘crooks’. Lisa is not on the list of details, she has probably incurred learning delays due to the corona pandemic. I see language errors in many more first-year students that no longer belong in secondary education. Where to start with clearing rubble?
I let the students read from their book and stand in front of the group again. I look at Bas sternly, who is grumbling. “Your name is almost on the board,” I threaten. Upon entering, he proudly showed me a dragonfly made by hand. I suspect that Bas is an excellent student in a small class of fifteen children, but now he is unbearable. Bass does not sit still for a second. The slightest sound distracts him.
A row away, Jamila is doing maths sums. “Get your reading book now,” I warn. ‘What the fuck’, she sighs and closes her notebook indignantly. Both students are on the special list with a disorder.
There’s no time to put myself in them, because Ivo is lifting weights with his table again, Otis complains of a headache and Javier and Lucas are fraternally punching each other. They are strategically placed by the mentor between four quiet girls, who read imperturbably. Javier and Lucas are nice lads, but especially annoying in a large group.
The detail list flashes through my head. Javier has had no contact with his father since the divorce. I suddenly feel deeply sorry for the quiet children who are constantly disturbed and for the busy people who are visibly overstimulated. As I reluctantly write two names on the board and get a headache like Otis, I think: what am I doing here?
I quit after two weeks of teaching. “I have come to the conclusion that I do not consider myself capable of doing this job,” I write in my letter of resignation. It feels like failure. “What really kicks me down is the system. Not that of the school, but the way it is set up in the Netherlands. I am standing in front of a first year class of which thirteen students have a disorder or are struggling with other problems. These students demand individual attention that I cannot offer them. Almost thirty children is just half too many. A teacher who can manage that and also teach them something, must come from very good houses. Fortunately, such teachers work for you, but I lack the knowledge, experience and time to make it happen.’
The messages from colleagues are both encouraging and disturbing. “Praiseworthy that you tried.” But also: ‘We take everything from the government, when it is really no longer possible to do it. We should make ourselves heard more.’
Smaller classes
Teachers and education clubs have been suggesting for years that a small class is the solution. They realize that more teachers will then be needed and that they are not available now. But they also point out that the large class is an important reason why teachers leave the profession. The work pressure is too high. Students from second-degree teacher training programs also often drop out above average (Berenschot 2021). A smaller class reduces the workload, which means fewer teachers leave and the profession becomes more attractive. In the future, unauthorized people like me will also be prevented from standing in front of the class more often.
The question is why politicians do not heed the call for smaller classes. D66 even advocates this in its election programme. I grant Dennis Wiersma, Minister for Primary and Secondary Education, a week of teaching an average class with 26 students. Very curious how he explains (unauthorized) verb spelling, while about seven children jump out of the wheelbarrow like overstimulated frogs and in the meantime operate the interactive whiteboard, answer questions online, fix jammed Chromebooks and keep up with the digital administration between lessons. Bet that enough millions will finally be released to tackle the problems structurally?
The names of the students have been changed for privacy.