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More than code

andrewjhammond

We are more than code. Accepted, one might argue we are entirely made from DNA code, but my point is we are made of something more than the lines of code found inside the AI-driven machine learners now assisting us. 

As an educator, one might say I have a vested interest in highlighting the differences between us and the artificial us. If knowledge retention and recall continue to dominate the school agenda and define our output, then my job in teaching, like many others’, risks becoming obsolete – because it is precisely this type of cognitive ability or computational capacity that has already been bettered by the digital devices in our hands; and yet still we measure, sort and rank generations of freshly-minted humans using a reductive metric unchanged since Forster’s Act. ‘Read, write and remember when you’re in class, and ignore the inconvenient truth that beyond the classroom the artificial you is doing the same in a fraction of the time and on behalf of all of us.’ 

How long must we go on pretending? We all know that schools are doing wonderful things to develop well-rounded, creative and caring school leavers, but this is overshadowed, and for some, dismantled, by the two-dimensional list of grades nervously removed from that brown envelope in August. The curriculum can be enriched and broadened all your like, but it will always be reduced to data come results day.  

Speaking at a conference I attended many years ago, philosopher A C Grayling told the Wellington College audience that education is not only about the acquisition of knowledge, but the acquisition of understanding, and that’s different. 

Understanding, for me at least, is a synthesis of learned knowledge and assimilated experience. The two are often pitched against one another: deductive versus inductive, a priori versus a posterior, or that which we reason pitched against that which we feel. We all know propositional knowledge is as valuable as empirical, and polarising these is pointless. 

We comprehend through a blend of deductive reasoning and empirical evidence drawn from our senses, but there is another definition for understanding, far beyond that of comprehension, that offers up a mandate for the paradigm shift we need in the school agenda. 

To understand is to sympathise, to empathise, to imagine, to accept and embrace difference, to forgive, to feel and to know what it feels like.

It is this aspect of understanding that reaches far beyond code, to the deep-down things that make us human. And as educators, we have a significant part to play in guiding and leading our students towards enlightenment.

American educationalist, Eric Jensen, tells us, ‘How we feel is what is real; it is the link to what we think.’ And yet so much academic learning in school seems abstract, stripped of emotion, which is reserved for the playground. To be ‘sensitive’ is to be weak. I’ve never quite understood how the term has become a criticism levelled at those who feel too deeply or allow their emotions to dominate their cognitive skills. Jensen is right, how we feel does indeed seem real. If you have a gut feeling it’s because you have 500 million neurons in your gastrointestinal tract; we don’t just think with our brains. 

The late, great, Sir Ken Robinson reminded us all that education should be an aesthetic experience but it has become an anaesthetic one. 

How we feel has a bearing on who we are, what we achieve, what we think and, crucially, how we come to understand ourselves and others. Such understanding brings discernment so that we can identify what is worth knowing and what isn’t, what is truthful, what is harmful and what is beneficial.  

And yet our ability to feel, to imagine and to discern, is not visible through a traditional school data lens and so it does not allow us to show pupil progress like a cognitive ability test does. Consequently, if it cannot be assessed, it will always remain peripheral to the school agenda. These capacities are not recognised or celebrated inside that envelope in August. 

We are, and will always remain, more than code. With the march of machine learning, now is our last chance to create an education system that, whilst still championing the wonder of knowledge and the beauty of reason, welcomes in a new curriculum that celebrates both the magnificent fragility and the incalculable power of human emotion. We need to recognise that understanding encompasses more than a grasp of knowledge; it calls for intuition, empathy, discernment, social responsibility, care, hope, health and resilience. These qualities should be rescued from the fringes of the playground and the lunch hall, where they currently reside, so they may be harnessed and used to inform a new agenda for how we educate children for life. When we let go of our reliance on quantitative assessment data to verify that our pupils are ‘being taught properly’ and have ‘passed or failed their education’, we will finally unlock their unique potential and equip them with the toolkit they need to live alongside AI, and live well. 

Our capacity to understand ourselves and each other is irrefutable proof that we are more than code. 

A Sense of Belonging

andrewjhammond

For the past three years I’ve had the great privilege of leading Hall School Wimbledon, an inclusive, non-selective school in South West London for pupils aged 9 to 18. I have seen first-hand the great benefits of establishing an inclusive, kind and nurturing environment for all children – one in which the hackneyed question, ‘How smart are you?’ is replaced with a better one: ‘How are you smart?’. At my school, we know very well that intelligence and talent come in myriad different forms, few of which are truly measurable, being impervious to the sorting and ranking lens.  

Leading an inclusive culture is so much more exciting. Inclusion, of course, is not the end, it is only the beginning; the real aim, in our school, and right across the Chatsworth Schools group in which I am lucky to serve, is to give all children a sense of belonging. 

How powerful it is when a child feels they belong! How heartening when a student can bring their settled-self to school, safe in the knowledge that they are known, welcomed and celebrated for who they are. 

And perhaps this is the secret to creating a sense of belonging – knowing your students. We all have learning differences, preferred ways of learning, and some of us have learning diagnoses – the sharp rise in diagnosed educational needs over the many years I’ve been teaching has been extraordinary to witness. We are better equipped now more than ever to understand how to tailor our teaching to enable every child to flourish. New insights into the nature of SEND have revolutionised the way we teach and the way we interact with pupils in school. But for me, knowing each child as well as their parents know them is the key to unlocking their potential and helping them, dare I say, enjoy school. When a child is truly known – and feels there is a unique space for them in school, one that flexes and grows as they grow – they feel brave enough to try, invested enough to care and daring enough to take risks.  

When we belong, we relax into ourselves, free of judgement and possessing a self-assuredness that brings the confidence to have a go. At Hall School Wimbledon we have a mantra – self-worth leads to self-discipline. And the very best way to instil self-worth in our cherished pupils is to seize every opportunity to help them feel welcomed. This is why I still insist on being on the gate every morning, to say hello and catch up with everyone. Fifteen-year-old students are not always as chatty as I am in the mornings, and that’s fine, but they still know – really know – how pleased my colleagues and I are to see them, and how thrilled we are to have them on our team. 

Headship viewed from a distance

andrewjhammond

Oh, for a sense of perspective during term time! I don’t know about you, but it is only after a few days of downtime during a much-needed holiday – and even then it doesn’t usually come until the final day – that I am able to sift through the daily hullabaloo of school leadership and see from a distance what is important, what is urgent, what can wait and what, quite frankly, I should not be getting involved in.   

The thing about school leadership is that everything appears important and everything seems to require an immediate decision from me. I begin every term in strategic stance, focused on the long view, guided by our School Development Plan and SEF. I quickly descend into short-sighted operational mode – unable to see the wood for the trees and trying, often to the detriment of my health, to solve every problem that is thrown through my office door and which lands on my desk with a thud.

This is not to say that my operational mode is in anyway tainted by a messianic complex. I do not believe, and never have done, that I am indispensable, that I am the drive wheel of my school and without which all progress will grind to a halt. Of course it won’t! But if you give the impression of being a pro-active leader, across everything and everyone, then don’t be surprised if colleagues are happy to ‘leave it with you’ after every meeting or chance conversation in a corridor.

Years ago (and I realise I’m showing my age) I enjoyed watching Crackerjack. At the end of the show a hapless contestant would see how many prizes they could hold whilst being hurled cabbages for every wrong answer they gave. Cabbages came and they had to catch them without dropping the more valuable stuff in their hands.

I’m not doing that any more. If someone wants to throw a cabbage (problem) at me, I shall steel myself and be bold enough to say that I already have my hands full. I shall cross the Rubicon and – I shudder to even say the word – delegate.

Someone once told me that the Head should only do what only the Head can do. I have always scoffed at that maxim, preferring to lead by example: if a toilet has needed unblocking, I’ve done it; if a duty has been missed, I’ve done it; and if a lesson has lacked a teacher I have tried to cover it myself. Again, not in messianic mood – the Head to the rescue – just trying to do what’s best for the school and be a team player.

But, with the luxury of perspective, afforded by some rare downtime right now, I have concluded that if I always pick up the dropped ball because I think no one else will, then no one else ever will.

I have resolved to start the new term looking after myself and limiting the number of cabbages I carry. I need to retain a clear view of the long road ahead. After all, who else is driving?

I will continue to chop vegetables when the chef is off sick, or litter-pick the playground because frankly I enjoy those moments of reflection. But I will try hard to bounce a couple of cabbages back if the thrower appears to be carrying less than me. Investing in staff – empowering them to make a decision, take an action and solve something themselves – should, I hope, show that I trust them and I believe in them, which I do. I would rather a colleague took the initiative and in the end got it slightly wrong than felt unable to tackle any problem and bring them all to me for a decision.

Self-care in leadership is not a self-indulgence. We are not super-human and we have exactly the same needs as everyone else – we need headspace, time to crack on with our own to-do list and, most importantly, an entitlement to the same work-life balance as everyone else. We are paid a leadership salary not simply because we work longer hours than everyone else, or carry more cabbages, but because we have the experience and the expertise to drive the bus and because our neck is on the line if it breaks down. ‘Don’t distract me while I’m driving’ should be a sign I wear around my neck, though I doubt that would be received well in some quarters.    

I am lucky indeed. I have committed and hard-working staff. They show tremendous care for the children and they work hard on their own to-do lists every day. But I must try my hardest to avoid the mantle of ‘officer in charge of decisions’; to be so is to micro-manage staff and to push my own ever-growing to-do list into the late evenings and weekends – and my family does not deserve that. I may be dispensable at work but I still believe I am indispensable at home.  

Here goes. Good luck everyone.

Self-care is not self-indulgence

andrewjhammond

American educator and author, Dr Todd Whitaker tells us, ‘The best part about teaching is that it matters. The hardest part about teaching is that it matters everyday.’

This is so true. During my twenty-one years in teaching and school leadership, the greatest motivation for me was knowing (or hoping) that I was moving the dial, making a difference, improving the life chances of my pupils. This is both a privilege and a burden of responsibility everyday. You can’t have a day in teaching when you go easy on yourself – take a few extra coffee breaks, catch up with some quiet paper work. Finish early.

Whatever you do, whatever you say, and especially how you say it, matters; and it matters because you are acting as model learner for the young people in front of you, demonstrating positive attitudes and behaviours for effective learning, for life itself. As educators we project unshakeable belief in our pupils and we never miss an opportunity to help them feel better about themselves. It is, as so often said, all about the children.

But it is precisely this mantra that often leads us to neglect our own health and wellbeing. In term time, self-care seems a self-indulgence, doesn’t it. We wait until the holidays to ‘come up for air’ and re-discovery some equilibrium, before the school submarine dives once again for another term.

But it’s not a self-indulgence to look after ourselves. If we are drawn to putting the children first, then we owe it to them to ensure they have the best version of us in front of them; just as we owe it to our families and partners too.  

When I was teaching, I still managed to go on occasional family holidays with my wife and our four children. I know I was there, because I can see my face in the family photos, on the campsite, along the promenade, sitting on a dockside with a crabbing net. But can I remember each actual holiday itself? My recollections are patchy. I was there in body, but I was forever thinking about school: the children, the curriculum, the staff meetings, the never-ending assessments. Our Hippocratic oath is to act in loco parentis. We love our pupils and that is a difficult thing to switch off when term ends.

If I were starting again as a newly-qualified teacher, or starting a new leadership post, I like to think I would not be beset with the same guilt if I neglected the books for one evening, or didn’t try to respond to every email before the end of the day.

I would value my own health and wellbeing a little bit more. And I don’t think I would be alone in this. More people are talking about how we traverse the emotional landscape as adults, how we manage our wellbeing, how we stay positive.

Of course, you wouldn’t know this from reading the new Early Career Framework or ITT Core Content for trainees. You would be forgiven for still believing it’s all about knowledge and skills in teaching. If you’re struggling it’s because you need to boost your professional capital or professional currency. I don’t like these terms; they have their origins in the world of finance – they are measurable, accountable. But the craft of teaching runs so much deeper than this. It is not just what you know that counts, it is also what you can do with what you know, and that is inextricably linked to how you feel. Educationalist Eric Jensen says, ‘How we feel is what’s real, it’s the link to what we think.’

I celebrate the new initiatives and services that are being devised to support teachers in their early careers. But the apparent lack of recognition of the ‘whole person’ behind the professional skills is lamentable. For any training to be truly sustainable – and it needs to be if teachers are going to stay in this important profession for more than a couple of years – it needs to reach beyond this relentless focus on evidence-based exemplary practice, and start equipping and permitting teachers to manage their own health, wellbeing and motivation. Being a better teacher – with advanced skills and excellent classroom management – almost certainly helps you to stay more positive and achieve greater self-efficacy, that’s true. But to be a skilled practitioner is only half the story; to be a happy, motivated and optimistic teacher, one needs to feel like a whole person too.

As we look towards the end of term – still some weeks to go for many, of course – I hope that teachers are able to shake off the common misconception that they are not as good at this job as they ought to be and that they are defined more by their professional skills than their character, their optimism or their joie de vivre. Immeasurable and invisible perhaps, but no less important.

Teaching is a craft, an art form, with skills that can be honed and perfected. The ECF, the ITT Core Content and the new NPQs will certainly help you to become that skilled practitioner you think everyone else already is. But staying in teaching and, dare I say, flourishing in the job, requires self-care, self-regulation and the resolve to say ‘I matter as much as my pupils do.’  

Photo by Emma Bauso from Pexels

I don’t scoff at routines like I used to

andrewjhammond

Ok, so it may just be my age, but for someone who spent years avoiding predictable paths and wriggling out of routines, I have found myself drawn to daily rituals of late.

It is impossible to calculate the impact of 2020 on all our lives and all our futures, so I won’t attempt to do so in a short blog. Suffice to say this past year has brought disruption and worry, even existential threats the like of which none of us have seen before. We have all been at sea, albeit in very different sized boats, swept by the changing and inequitable tides and at the mercy of elements beyond our own control. When the shore looms into view, we unexpectedly tack and find ourselves staring at the horizon again. It’s been a test of endurance and patience.  Certainty and control – those two elements schools so badly need in order to function, just like financial institutions depend on them – have been in short supply.  

Perhaps this is why I am drawn to those reassuring rituals that I once saw as unnecessary roadblocks to my free-flowing creativity and joie de vie. These same routines fill a dearth in certainty and control. As a former teacher and school leader, I have always recognised the importance of regular routines and diarised days, of course, but I have never really felt comfortable with predictable activity. Timetables demotivate me.  

But this has changed of late. I am searching for things I can rely on, and things I can control. I am anchored by the knowledge that every morning I will stir my porridge and pour it into my favourite bowl. I will have an espresso in my favourite coffee cup. I will exercise. I will listen to Radio 4 and feel frustrated when interviewers interrupt and politicians prevaricate. I will fill my drinking bottle with peach squash, pack my brief case and drive to work, listening to Thought for the Day sat in traffic.

I will look forward to my cup of Empress Grey around eleven and treat myself to a reduced sugar forest fruit crispy slice. I will go for a walk in the park at lunchtime. Rock and roll, I hear you cry. A wild life.

But the value of these anchoring points is now revealed to me. They punctuate moments of frustration and disappointment, pleasant surprises, unexpected doubts and demotivations, the highs and lows of work. Things I think will go well may not, while other meetings I’m dreading will run without hiccup. Hopes will be dashed, while other fears will be rendered futile after all. Exciting events will be planned and then postponed and then cancelled altogether. Other unexpected opportunities will drift by and excite me. It’s harder to predict now.

I can’t say I have the adrenalin that I once had; sitting on zoom all day is a poor substitute for the thrill of racing to the tube for a face-to-face meeting across London, or standing on a conference stage, or shaking hands with colleagues and clients in a bar somewhere. But I find satisfaction in other ways: clearing the inbox, completing an article, sharing attendees’ insightful comments on a webinar.

There will be countless other people, front-line workers, whose daily challenges bring far more stress and heartache than mine. They will feel the lack of certainty and control more acutely than me, but they just march on. I admire these people enormously. I salute them. I do not have a monopoly on stress or loneliness in this virtual world; many others will be suffering too and longing for real time events with real people. It has taken just a year to change our work practices, but it takes a million years to change our species, so I’m learning to be kinder on myself if I struggle to adapt to a new paradigm as quickly as I would like. My neck aches in every zoom.      

What I can say, with some degree of certainty, is that whatever happens today, whether unexpected or planned, exciting or worrying, or just plain dull and monotonous, tomorrow morning will find me stirring my porridge at the usual time. And I’m comfortable with that.

So what anchors you?