Overworked, underappreciated, and ignored
By this stage most of the little mites will have sent their letters off. They’ll have pulled out their best crayons, had a right good think, and listed the half-dozen items which will bankrupt you this Christmas. And, having accompanied you to the Post Office, watched you put the letter in the slot, and asked, for the umpteenth time, whether you’re sure it’ll reach the North Pole before the 25th, they are now nervously counting down the days, wondering if this is the year that they are finally outed as being naughty instead of nice.
But you know as well as I do that they were only lovely this year. Yes, they had their moments, the time they punched their sister full in the face was a particular highlight, but all in all it was a good twelve months, a further reminder that your offspring might not even be mortal, that they may very well be an angel, one sent down from heaven to light up the lives of everyone they meet. Because Irish children are great, a great bunch of lads; witty, charming, funny, polite, you only had to look at the Toy Show to see how blessed we are to have them.
And when they’re not being all charismatic and fascinating, they’re only going and being some of the best little readers in the whole wide world, following in the footsteps of Wilde, Joyce and Behan and showing everyone why we are truly the land of saints and scholars. If you don’t know what I’m on about then take a look at the latest results from the Progress in International Reading Literacy Study (PIRLS). Those results place our children, specifically our ten-year-olds, fourth highest in the world in terms of literacy skills, with only Russia, Singapore and Hong Kong performing better. And for that woman who told us we were only bitter because “we lost” last week, England ranked 10th.
How proud are you now? How grateful are you for all those nights spent reading Enid Blyton, JK Rowling and Roald Dahl with your disgruntled progeny, forcing them to enjoy it, telling them just ten more minutes and then they could go back to the PlayStation? And you should be proud; reading is a gift, one more rewarding than any computer game, any YouTube channel, and one which will stay with your kids for the rest of their lives. You’ll be the first to admit it wasn’t all you though, you definitely played your part, no doubt about that, but a few other people contributed to this remarkable turnaround, this vast improvement since the last study was carried out in 2011.
Obviously, the children did their bit; aided and abetted by the magnificent genes passed down from their wondrously intelligent parents. And Minister for Education, Richard Bruton, has been quick to take his share of the credit too, citing a national strategy for literacy and numeracy which was introduced before he’d got anywhere near the job and promising that we’re only going to get better. But really, most of the praise has to go to the teachers, to the men and women who take this raw material, these uncut diamonds, and fashion them into the bright, clever, table-topping individuals you so dote upon. Not only have our teachers ensured that we have a nation of advanced readers, they have done so under extreme duress, and in conditions far less favourable than most of the countries we’re better than, never mind those who finished ahead of us.
What these latest figures don’t show, what Minister Bruton chooses to overlook, are the increasing demands placed upon our teachers and how, despite the continued excellence of their pupils, their efforts are often go unnoticed. If we really want to know why our children are so well-versed in the written and spoken word, then perhaps we should examine a different set of figures, those published by the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD), which show that primary school teachers in this country work the third-highest hours in all of Europe and the sixth highest worldwide.
Those are the things the Minister, and all those within the Department of Education, would rather you didn’t mention, the things which have led to teachers having the highest risk of stress, anxiety and depression-related illness in the State, a long-hours culture slowly, but surely, wearing down all but the best of them. Almost half those in the teaching profession experience occupational stress at some point in their lives, with those in their forties most commonly affected. And yet should anyone come out in defence of this forever-maligned profession, they are immediately reminded of the long holidays, the two-month summer break, the fortnight at Christmas, the 3pm finish-times, and the joys of spending every day hanging out with kids.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Our teachers, just like our nurses, our gardaí, are hovering on the precipice, being pushed to their limits, and often beyond them, by a system which expects them to do more and more with less and less. And they are crumbling. It might not be noticeable yet, but there are many who fear that teaching will be the next Irish profession to fall into crisis, that it will become the next crucial component of the public sector to fall into disrepair through lack of support, through lack of care from a Government whose sole concern is the wellbeing of students and pupils, and doesn’t seem to realise that those responsible for their wellbeing need help too.
If you need an example of just how lowly this profession is thought of by the powers-that-be, then consider this: The Department of Education has published 28 documents relating to the mental wellbeing of Irish students. It has, to date, published none on the mental wellbeing of Irish teachers. Furthermore, should an Irish teacher experience difficulties in their job, the stress, anxiety and depression-related illnesses which affect their profession more than any other, then they must seek help from an external counselling service, avail of just six free sessions with psychologists who, although of a high standard, have no specific training to deal with the unique problems faced by teachers.
This is not a crusade, I have no vested interest here, but these are the raw facts, the things which make young teaching graduates think twice before accepting a job on home soil. These are the things which are, once more, pushing our most qualified, our most gifted, professionals to seek work elsewhere, to bring their talents to foreign climes, to help educate the children of Canadian mothers, Middle-eastern fathers, before maybe one day, if we’re lucky, coming back here. That our children are performing so well is almost a Christmas miracle in of itself, a story to be retold down the ages to wide-eyed, disbelieving grandkids, a tale as magical as that of Santa, Rudolph and a team of industrious elves. Although in this instance, the miracle of the loaves and the fishes may be more apt.
No really, you shouldn’t have
A survey has found that over half (52%) of Irish people feel that the presents they buy for others are more expensive than those they receive. These aggrieved gift-givers believe that they are losing out on approximately €116 every Christmas due to a combination of their own generosity and the mean-spiritedness of their friends and family.
Essentially this means that we can all be categorised into one of two groups; the lavish spenders, the type for whom money is no object, and the miserable sock-buying, penny-pinching humbugs who are saving for the sales. I know which category I fall into, but do you? Does the sight of your name on an unopened present send shivers of excitement through its recipient? Or do they just give it a half-hearted squeeze, guess that it’s another Lynx Gift Set and put it to one side?
Whichever category you fall into, whether you’re set for another winter of discontent or one of blissful ignorance, this duopoly is entirely necessary. We’re already the world’s biggest spenders when it comes to Christmas, if it wasn’t for that miserable old aunt, her thoughtless, worthless offerings, and that stingy sibling and their inconsiderate ways, we’d be in a right mess. Instead of just half of us sheepishly heading into the Credit Union come January, we’d all be in there, screaming for mercy, begging for a fiver so we can turn the heating on for just one night.
So, rather than sneer at the cheap tat, the re-gifts and the Africa body spray, be grateful that at least someone has a bit of a cop on, that we all don’t treat Christmas like it’s the last days of Caligula, and that the queue in your Credit Union will be mercifully short come those fallow early days of 2018.
