Paul Lennon looked out at the school classroom full of bored faces. The books he’d placed on the desks at the start of the lesson had been met with groans and eye-rolling from the high school children. 

‘Sir, this is boring.’ One boy called out. 

‘It’s not boring, Mr Chapman, this is Shakespeare.’  Lennon insisted. 

If he could get these kids to see beyond the old-fashioned phrases, to get to the actual story, to the tale being told, he knew he would have them gripped. He just had to get them interested. 

‘Right, let’s move the desks back, clear a space. We’re going to act this out, I’ll explain the story as we go along.’ 

The pupils looked at each other, this was a change from reading from the books. They jumped to their feet and dragged, pushed and shoved the desks and chairs against the wall.

‘This,’ Paul waved his arms dramatically, ‘is no longer a classroom. This is the Globe theatre.’

The pupils laughed and cheered. Paul didn’t mind that some of them were laughing at him, rather than with him. They kids were engaging, they were interested, they were learning. That was the main thing. 

Paul had been teaching at the school for almost five years now. He prided himself on getting on well with both pupils and parents. For him, as he often told families on parents evening, it was all about education, education, education, but not necessarily in that order. Even the most unwilling of pupils would admit, albeit begrudgingly, that they did enjoy his class. Getting the kids to learn was a bit like getting them to eat their greens. If you shove a plate of broccoli in front of them, and told them they had to eat the lot, then you’ve no chance. But if you served it up in a way that was more appetising, then they just might take in what you are trying to give them.

As the end of the school year approached, one boy hung back at the end of class. The kid was in his last year, Year 11, and would be leaving the school in the summer. He shuffled awkwardly, staring at his shoes.

‘Can I help you?’ Paul asked.

‘I just wanted to tell you something, sir.’ He managed.

‘Really, Patrick? I’m intrigued.’ Paul said. 

‘I’m going to college in September. I want to be a teacher.’ 

‘Oh, wow, that’s great.’ Paul said. ‘I think you’ll do really well.’

The boy’s cheeks burned red as he chose his next words.

‘It’s down to you, sir. You’ve inspired me.’ Patrick admitted.

Paul coughed, clearing back the lump in his throat.

‘That’s wonderful news. It really means a lot.’ Paul said. 

‘I want to be a teacher, to teach the way you do.’

Paul nodded, the words lost at his lips.

‘Was it one of your teachers that inspired you to go into teaching, sir?’ Patrick asked.

At the question, Paul’s mind drifted back to his own school-days, an inner-city classroom fifteen years earlier, the scenes running through his mind like an old movie reel. 

The teacher standing at the front of the class, looking out at his pupils, undisguised hatred on his face.

‘Homework, on my desk, now!’ He yelled like a drill-sergeant on a parade ground.

The pupils grabbed their books and shuffled to the front of the class to place their work on the desk. Paul rummaged in his rucksack. Where was his notebook? He swore to himself. He had done the homework, he always did. He was one of the rare pupils that did the work they were set because they enjoyed it, rather than because they had to. He had finished the essay the night before. He must have left it at home. Feeling sick, Paul raised his hand. 

‘Sir, I can’t find my book. It’s not here.’ Paul said.

He gestured to his school bag, to illustrate his point. 

The teacher crossed the classroom, like a boxer crossing the ring, dashing to pummel his opponent.

‘Don’t lie to me, boy! You haven’t done your homework, have you?’ the teacher bellowed.

‘I can do it again at break-time, sir. I can remember what I wrote down.’ Paul stammered. 

The fist caught him on the side of the head. He hit the floor hard, the taste of blood in his mouth.

That was one of countless incidents that happened to Paul and his classmates. While others left school at sixteen, vowing never to set foot inside a classroom again, Paul was angry and defiant. The subjects on offer had intrigued him, but the harsh, brutish handling by the teacher, had made it clear he was there to discipline and to punish rather than to educate. Paul had left school wanting to learn, and to teach.

‘Yes,’ Paul said. ‘you could say my teacher inspired me too.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom