I began writing a long, labourious post about not having a job anymore, but I realised I didn’t give a f.uck, and if I don’t give a f.uck how can I expect others to?
So, I don’t have a job anymore. I’m a housewife. I like that title; I can live with it.
I had my job for seven years. I survived two restructures, with the second seeing me move from being a TA to becoming a teacher again, albeit in a non-specialised subject. I chose to leave when the third wave of restructuring came along. I’m relieved to be leaving because morale is at an all-time low and, to be honest, if the provision for non-mainstream is still available this time next year I’ll eat my non-existent hat. With ketchup, please.
Although the last couple of years have been awful, the first few years were amazing. My relief is therefore twinged with a little sadness and a lot of fabulous memories. Whilst clearing out my cupboard I came upon things which reminded me of the Good Times, and of the fact that I WAS good at my job, in the early days at least.
The bestest aspect of my job has been the students, without whom there wouldn’t be a job in the first place. These are the kids the schools wash their hands of: the traveller children whose sense of right and wrong is completely out of touch with my own concept of morality; the young people who scream and shout and harm themselves because nobody understands them; the girls whose own mother’s chose to take their innocence for a few measly drugs; the children who turn up at school in the same clothes, day in, day out, hair crawling with big, fat, juicy lice.
In this school I have worked with prostitutes, sex offenders, bank robbers, the neglected, the molested, the dumped and the forgotten. I have seen the affects of heavy and daily prolonged drug use on fifteen year old boys. I have had to wrestle scissors from self-harming teenagers. I’ve been a psychologist, mother, friend, supporter, bigger-upper and advisor to many. I’ve even seen children disappear from the system.
Sometimes they pop in and see us after they’ve left and that is the bestest bestest of everything. They may have turned their lives around, have a car and a job/apprenticeship. Often they have babies (the boys too) usually within a year or so of leaving. This isn’t because they get a house. It’s because they need someone who will love them unconditionally, in the way their own parent/s never loved them.
And thus the cycle continues …
I leave knowing that I touched the lives of at least a handful of students (mostly from the early years), having made a few amazing lifelong friendships along the way and having learnt that I don’t need to cross the road when I see a random bunch of dodgy looking teenagers.
Life was once good, it became a little shitty, but it will be good again. And in the meantime, it’s sufficient for me to be a housewife.
I’m such a lazy fecker.
I’ve felt very unloved the last year or so, so it was a big surprise when I receieved my leaving gifts. Sometimes you don’t know how appreciated you are until it’s too late. Oh, and the only person who didn’t sign my leaving card? The
Monster Boss. Not such a surprise (after all, she never did ‘get me’), but a Thank You! would have at least been nice.
Now, to sleep.