Schools for Slander

Schools for Slander: A True Story
by Ruth Barrett
Writers Club Press, 2000.
in US      in UK

US price: $11.95      UK price : £10.27

Format: Paperback
Size: 6 x 9                     Click on cover picture to enlarge
Pages: 188
ISBN: 0-595-13801-2
Publication Date: Oct-2000

Teaching is a vocation, not a job. And yet teachers can suffer unbelievable torture. In this book the author gives a vivid account of her years of teaching in England -- years of unmitigating persecution and slander!

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It wasn't hard for the author to record her horrendous experiences as a teacher in England. Every episode was as clear in her mind as if it had happened the previous day. She had repeated for months, every word that had been said to her -- over and over again, during the day and when she lay awake at night. And in writing it all down here it proved to be the best therapeutic treatment she could ever have wished for. She purges her system of the whole horrific episode in her life. "Such corruption sickened me," she concludes. Perhaps for many teachers this book will also prove to be a cathartic experience!

Following is a sample from the beginning of Ruth Barrett's book:

CHAPTER ONE

It all really began many years ago, very early in my teaching experience, when I was sent by the local divisional office as a temporary supply teacher to a small junior school. I remained there for almost a year and would have stayed longer, but, unfortunately, I caught a rather severe case of mumps from the children in my class which necessitated a long absence from the school, and I never returned.

The headmaster of the school was a tall distinguished looking man in his late fifties. He was helpful and considerate -- a gentleman, although, at our first meeting, my youthful eagerness was considerably dampened because his face betrayed extreme disappointment when I introduced myself as the new teacher.

"She looks too young," he muttered. "I really wanted someone more experienced."

However, I needn't have worried, for soon afterwards I heard from the staff that he had nothing but praises for me.

Miss Ashwood, the deputy head, was a staid looking woman, in her mid-forties. She never used make-up and her brown hair was nearly always held in place by a new clip. But the moment she entered the staff room she would light a cigarette, which then remained in her mouth until she had finished with it. To me, it seemed totally out of character.

I cannot say I really knew her. We had very little conversation together, but I did notice that she was inclined to make derogatory remarks about certain members of the staff and I used to think, "She'll get herself into trouble one day."

The school is significant simply because it was there, alas, that I first encountered her!

In retrospect I often wonder whether it was a forewarning of the disaster ahead, that the divisional office, after my illness, sent me to Thorngate Primary School, the very school where all the trouble began and where Miss Ashwood was soon to be appointed the head teacher. For, years later, it was there that we came across one another for the second time, and, largely because of her behaviour, a series of events began which I was barely able to survive. It was ironic therefore, that my decision to teach at Thorngate Primary School again was simply because I recognised her -- Miss Ashwood, the woman I had met almost ten years before. To be already acquainted with the head would be helpful -- or so I mistakenly thought at the time.

On that first visit to the school, the fact that I felt a sense of foreboding should have been warning enough. The whole place depressed me. It was an old type three-storey building with a separate infant school occupying the ground floor. The inside was gloomy; the dark green halls and corridors were destitute of light, needing electrical assistance even on the brightest of days. And the tiny narrow staff room with its low ceiling and windows of small dimensions, totally inadequate for such a large staff, gave me, when inside, a feeling of claustrophobia.

There was one person, however, who managed with her presence to illuminate the entire building--the headmistress, her whole being radiating warmth and energy. But she was then not a young woman and must have retired soon afterwards.

I was, nevertheless, in spite of her glowing influence, relieved when my temporary stay came to an end and I left vowing never to return.

During the next few years, continuing on a temporary supply or part time basis, I must have taught in practically every conceivable type of school, in all the differing areas a big city provides you with. I survived on many occasions only because of my ability to keep a certain degree of order even in the most difficult of situations, which is, in my opinion, an essential requisite for a teacher. Without good discipline all other gifts are often wasted. I saw from first hand the tragedy of those teachers who were not able to command attention. Some would just sit and weep while others would attempt all day to shout above the rumpus going on around them. Nervous breakdowns often resulted -- an occupational hazard I'm afraid, but I’ll go into more detail on that matter later on. As for myself, well, apart from gaining invaluable experience, I also managed to accumulate excellent reports from the many head teachers I had worked under -- or so a lady at the divisional office once told me. All in all it was a very happy time.

Then, after about eight years had passed, I found myself pregnant. I was, of course, by that time, well and truly married! So, at the end of the term, I left the school where I had been teaching for four and a half days a week and applied to the divisional office for another part-time post only with a reduced number of days. They obliged by sending me to an infant and junior mixed school which needed the services of a teacher for only two days a week. It was just what I wanted. But, sadly, things worked out far differently from what I had hoped because for the first time, after all those years, I came across a most unpleasant head teacher and she was responsible for giving me my first 'bad' report. I managed, it seemed, to receive two of them before all the real trouble began, and both of them were to be used against me later on. Because of their outrageous absurdity, the manner in which they came about is worth relating.

I had been teaching at the school for only a few days when, one morning, as I walked through the main door, I saw the headmistress, a rather thin, neurotically inclined woman. She was standing in the corridor, and obviously waiting for me to arrive. She strode over to me the moment she saw me.

"You needn't bother to come in again," she snapped. "I've informed the office."

Flabbergasted, I just stood there for a few moments, completely speechless, and she was just about to turn and walk away when I managed to stumble out:

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Every time I walked past your classroom you were sitting down," was her even more incredible reply.

She did, in fact, insist on the staff keeping the window panes in their classroom door completely free, so that she could peep in whenever she felt inclined -- which was quite often. To me it seemed an unhealthy curiosity.

Nevertheless, I went on to explain that I was pregnant and, regrettably, suffered from a slight morning sickness, but felt that I had carried on with my duties very well in spite of that -- which, indeed, I had. But as I spoke her face turned crimson.

"I want someone who can work!" she shouted, hastily turning away from me.

Realising immediately that it was useless even to attempt to reason with her, I asked politely if I could use the telephone in her office in order to seek further employment.

"No! There's one on the top floor . . . use that one," she snapped. This necessitated climbing three long flights of stairs

The divisional office gave me the name of another school and I speedily left the building, relieved that I didn't have to see her again.

Years later I was told she had complained to the divisional office that I was lazy. I wasn't told that at the time.

However, I duly reported for duty at my new school which happened to be a large girls' comprehensive and there I remained for the next few months. I enjoyed my stay immensely, partly because it was situated in the midst of fields and woodland, which was a welcome change for me. I appreciated it; it couldn't have come at a better time.

During my short stay I was asked by a lady in charge of staffing if I would like a more permanent post, specialising in music. I dearly wanted to accept but felt obliged to decline, knowing very well that I would need a few months leave of absence soon after taking up the appointment. It was a disappointment to me at the time.

My temporary stay came to an end in the July and I did not resume teaching until the February of the following year.

Just over two years later, a week or two before the summer holidays, the divisional office gave me the name of a Church of England junior mixed and infant school. The headmaster needed, for the following term, a part-time teacher for two and a half days a week. I contacted him and an appointment was made for sometime during the vacation.

The school was in a notoriously rough and derelict area and most of the secondary modern schools in the vicinity had unsavoury reputations. I used to hear tales of chairs being thrown about in the classrooms and of teachers being threatened with knives, none of which I can vouch for, having myself never experienced anything like that. Perhaps I was just lucky in that respect. The trouble that did come my way was because of the unbelievable behaviour of the people I was so unfortunate in encountering at the time. The children were not involved.

Finding the school, which looked more like a place of confinement, tucked away in a dingy back street, was therefore no surprise to me. It was encircled by tall buildings; mainly dilapidated warehouses.

I remember looking upward from the pavement and barely being able to see the sky. "Poor little things," I said to myself, and a surge of sympathetic feeling swept over me.

However, I was by no means put off by its outward appearance, for, many times in the past, schools such as these had turned out to be pleasantly deceptive: in them are to be found the most excellent and dedicated of teachers from whom I have had the privilege to learn, and it proved the case in that school

Nevertheless, it was there that I received my second bad report and it was again because of the behaviour of the head teacher. And although I regarded it at the time as a most dreadful experience it turned out to be mild in comparison to the nightmare I was later to live through.

When I entered the school building I found myself in a small hall. I had no time to look around because I was noticed immediately by a dark-haired lady who came rushing up to me. It was the secretary. I introduced myself and told her the headmaster was expecting me.

She led me to his office and I waited outside the door while she went inside and informed him of my arrival. When she came out she said: "Would you please wait here until he tells you to go in?"

I thought it strange, but it wasn't long before I heard a voice from inside call out: "You can come in now!"

I entered the office to see a dark-haired, greying middle-aged man. He was sitting by his desk and talking on the telephone. I took a seat when he indicated with his hand that I should sit. I noticed that his complexion was pallid and the rims of his eyes were red and raw looking. He looked sickly

I sat there, thinking of nothing in particular, taking no notice of what he was saying until I heard: "I've got someone in the office at the moment who's just right for me. You ought to see her!"

In all innocence I assumed he was referring to my teaching ability. But then he went on to describe, in detail, some of my physical attributes with such blatant rudeness and unconcern for my feelings that I began to tremble; my heart beat frantically and I felt dizzy enough to faint.

He went on 'conversing', saying such things as, "I'd really like to get her by herself," and I closed my eyes in disbelief. "This can't possibly be the headmaster of a church school," I kept saying to myself. "There must be some mistake! Yes, there must be some mistake." But there was no mistake -- he was the headmaster. And there was I, a professional woman, who had gone there to be interviewed for a teaching post only to find that the headmaster had shown no respect for me whatsoever. I had been referred to as nothing more than a lump of desirable flesh!

Read other books by Ruth Barrett:

What I Can See For You by Ruth Barrett. 
This is the story of the author’s personal battle over several years to regain her health. The battle was successful - eventually - but many lessons were learnt the hard way on the journey. This book is written as a warning to all those who value their health. Read on and draw your own conclusions ...

US Price: $14.95       UK Price £10.12