Resignation Day

If I ever win the Euro-Millions lottery I will go to work the next day. Most certainly I will.  I will be in a hired airplane buzzing the place, a long banner unfurled behind reading “YNA YNA YNA YNA YNA!”

Today was Resignation Day; the last day that teachers can resign from their jobs this side of Christmas. There was a small queue outside my office door this morning. Nervous looking colleagues fingering immaculate white envelopes and encouraging each other; 

“You go first.” 

“No you.”

All three displayed different emotions as they took their turn. One was overjoyed as she planned to return to Devon and the safety of her family. Another cried. The third: a 10 year veteran of the school repeatedly claimed to be nauseous. She puffed her cheeks and squeezed her brow as she spewed out the words. All had a history here and to knowingly expunge that history was an emotional act. 

Within 60 seconds all three had informed me of their intentions. They said their piece and stood still, waiting. Waiting for what, I do not know. Perhaps they wanted me to talk them out of their decision. Perhaps they had watched Dead Poets’ Society over the Half Term Holiday and were expecting something like this to happen:

In short, I thanked them for their service and wished them the best in the next step of their career. And so the scene was ended; no posh school boy stood on his desk, not a single line of Walt Whitman was uttered. The three filed out to work their period of notice.

Working in a failing school (hopefully failing not much longer) is a tough life. I understand it is not for everyone. For this reason, I would never attempt to encourage any of the trio to change their mind. Equally, our school’s teachers are a metaphoric chain, inching, tearing and pulling the entire institution out of the deep mud. A chain, as I often say to our staff, that is only as strong as its weakest link. If any or all three had felt their metallic fibres twisting in the heat then it was best they did go.

If my demeanour seems cold, dear readers, then all the better.

One can be guaranteed that when interviewing for the Head Teacher post at a school the same question will always be asked: What is your management style? My answer is I don’t have one style, I have a range of styles I apply to different situations. Different schools call for different approaches.

Currently, I subscribe to the 3 Cs: cold, calculating and consistent. I keep a distance from the staff these past 18 months because I have to. Already there are seven heads on spikes outside my glass box of an office. They are the ones who did not choose to queue up outside the door, toying with white envelopes. They were summoned, told they would be leaving.

In order to fire or sack people, one cannot befriend them. Emotion will take over and the scene becomes personal, disregarding of what is best for the children and instead wholly about what is best for the teacher. It must remain first, foremost, always and at all times: what is best for the children. 

It makes for a lonely life. Cold heads in the 3C zone are not invited to the pub with the staff when pay day comes. Calculating Heads notice it goes silent when they enter the staff room. Consistent Heads offer tissues to the weeping while calmly stating, “I have made my decision, I will not change my mind.”

Management styles are means to an end. The end remains constant and true and dare I say, consistent, regardless of the school. The most helpful question I ask myself when faced with the difficult decisions is the aforementioned: What is best for the children? The answer helps me to cut through any distracting emotion. It works.

But it is all not about reptilian steeliness. I have been Head at schools where I have made deep and lasting friendships; where the managerial thermostat is set for warmth not chill. Always, my fingers pause before manipulating the temperature because once the climate is set, it cannot be changed.

Today the calendar said early June but the London weather was cool and rainy and windy; more like early March than early summer. I turned the three white envelopes over in my hands and let them fall to my desk.  Outside my door I could hear through to the playground and the squeal of children as they clung to the rescuing chain, being sucked, extricated from the mud. I listened for an airplane flying low over the school building: a banner unfurling behind reading:

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;         

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;         

For you: bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;   

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!       

This arm beneath your head;   

It is some dream that on the deck,      

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

Keep the Faith,

The Head