Twitter has been an uncomfortable place over the last few days. The slow motion car crash of an author simply not understanding the offence her language has caused and the surrounding pain and outrage has been hard to watch. Until now, I have not commented. This is partly because I am, like the author – a middle aged, middle class white woman of power and privilege; but also, someone who needs to be reminded how my privilege and unconscious bias has an impact on others. I too am a teacher and some of the children I work with are vulnerable and need my protection. Actually, as I think about it, all of the children I teach are in some ways vulnerable; the very status of childhood makes them so. However, I too sometimes write about my students. I have always written about my own children and, more recently, my parents who are compromised by dementia – and I’ve gone through a tricky internal process this week, wondering if any of this is ethical.
Writing is for an audience is the ultimate indulgence. For a start, to write, I have to cut myself off from the usual human interactions and then I have to have the arrogance to assume that anyone is going to be interested in anything I have to say. I write to amuse myself and to receive the gratification of knowing I’m amusing others. That’s before I’ve even started: it’s selfish egotistical stuff. I do it because I want people to like me. And my guess is that most writers have a similar, nonaltruistic impulse.
It’s easy for me to say I cannot imagine how a well intentioned but seriously misjudged piece of work has gone through the process of drafting, editing, publishing, review and scrutiny by the panel of a literary competition without anyone saying ‘… wait a second …’ because I don’t want to sound like a sanctimonious arsehole who thinks she gets it right. I don’t. I know I don’t. But even saying that makes me look as if I’m up my own arse.
Social media has opened up discussion, so that people like me, within the whiteness of North Cumbria, can hear voices from many sources. There have been times when the more uncomfortable the discourse, the more defensive my own reaction, is when I’m aware that my own view most needs challenging. I’m learning my role as a white feminist is not a straightforward one. It has been the very act of reading responses like the ones I’ve encountered this week, that have allowed me to shift my own lens and accept that whatever my good intentions are, the impact is not positive (I know, I told you I was going to avoid sounding like an arsehole here and I’m failing miserably).
I’ve written for publication for a long time but only started writing about education in the last few years. This is partly because (arsehole alert coming up), it’s important my students and their families trust me. No one wants to sit through a lesson or a meeting thinking I’m saving up some juicy anecdote to write about. It took me a while to work out a way to do it – and I am sure that I don’t get it right. However, writing about my own two – Tom and Jessie (now adults) – was a good grounding. They found their experiences being turned into entertaining prose tiresome and at times intrusive. We established a rule: the kids had absolute power of veto, even – especially – when they were six and seven. If they didn’t want me to publish it, I didn’t submit it. Tom has said many times, ‘it’s only your version’. And that’s true. And I know it’s exasperating, especially when I get carried away with the giddy joy of telling a funny story about someone else being a bit of a dick.
Recently, I’ve written about my parents’ dementia. When they lived at home, I ran my columns past them before submission, but lately they don’t have capacity to give permission. Sometimes, the things they do or say are very funny. Would they want me to share this? Honestly, knowing them, I think they would. My dad, in particular, was often the butt of his own haphazard joke. Still, writing and delivering my mother’s eulogy was a massive responsibility – constructing her narrative in her absence and on behalf of those who mourned her was huge task. Above all, this has been my biggest lesson; the job of telling another’s story needs to be done as far as possible without ego. Let’s face it, that’s always going to be a work in progress.
Sadly, though, the recent debacle is part of a wider issue. We have a culture of exposing and categorising children through our own lens. I felt uneasy about the ‘Educating …’ series on Channel 4, even though it revealed some positive life-affirming stories. I have heard teachers complaining they have a class where ‘half the kids have different surnames from their mothers …’ or where a colleague has told me a child is ‘damaged’ or comes from a ‘rough background’ and I worry about the day to day judgments and pigeonholes we create.
I’ve seen teachers on Twitter snigger at the way a child spells a name, or announcing a child with a specific forename is bound to be trouble. There’s a parody account I’ve blocked where a fictional student named ‘Chantelle’ is regularly featured as being a smoker, promiscuous, rebellious. I prickle with irritation at this. I worry that when we write about children we sound like 19th century missionaries converting the heathen. And we all know how that ended up.
There we go. I’ve lapsed right into virtue signalling. The very arsehole I didn’t want to be. Meanwhile, this has surely been such a painful experience, we have to learn from it. I’m thankful for Professor Sunny Singh’s rules which I have copied below . I am pretty sure that my answers to all of the questions below – applied to this piece – are positive.
If you read this – thank you. Now I’m off to make a loaf of bread.
sezl: 50 + 