Child care uncovered - or we are no. 22, we don't try at all...

Here we go, another report on the state of the world, this time through the analysis of children’s lives, done by the very worthy charity Unicef. It’s caused a huge crisis in the UK, due to figuring last in the sweeps at number 22. Children here are worse off than anywhere else in the developed world, with the US one step above. However, little in the US papers mentioned beyond a brief one liner the status of the children in America, choosing instead to focus on the failure of the British government to provide an environment that cared for children. I haven’t had any personal letters yet telling me I chose badly when I came here, but it’s bound to happen.

Ironically, parents reading the New York Times could have discovered how to make snow for themselves at home with a small version of a ski trail snowmaker, which surely would make for happier children. Reading the papers is frequently the emotional equivalent of taking a very strange drug. Some elements are weirdly magnified, and some ideas take on the properties of magical life saving powder; add water, and presto! Things are instantly better. Questioning anything is beyond the power of the advertising driven media, who rely on quick messages to gain the trust of tiredly over sold people. Headlines need to be quick and snappy – Iran, bombs, happiness, failure, the dollar, talks continue, interest rates. Instant snow. It’s like instant white Christmas, and that means instant love, families, simpler times.

The British response to the public acknowledgement of what anyone with eyes to see on the tube at half-term could have told them – the Brits don’t really like children – seems disjointed. One columnist claims that it is no good to be upset – something must be done. But what? Tory oiks claim that it’s Labour’s fault, lack of investment, realistic planning, that sort of thing. Labour says it’s the result of Thatcherite policies that made poor parents of people and focused everyone’s attention on money. The one thing no one seems to be doing, despite the existence of a new website designed to ask children themselves about their own lives, is actually letting the children speak. Or talking to people who spend their entire lives with children, at least during the day – teachers. The other big news about children is being downplayed -the shooting of three boys in South London, all seemingly unrelated, all killed in the last week or so. Somehow, black boys in ghettoized suburbs don’t really come into the debate, which may be part of the problem. There is a deafening silence around what might be the cause of such a horrible tragedy, unless it is to mention that the area has had a great deal of investment. As if that should solve everything. And again, maybe that is a part of the problem.

As a teacher, I see it a little differently. I remember the time I had to bring in my son to work, something I will have to do again next week, as half terms are not lined up, which has been causing me a lot of stress. He was thrilled at the idea of helping out, and made sure every desk had a dictionary and a little note that said ‘welcome’. His enthusiasm and innocence twisted my heart, already corrupted by the lack of respect and long hours that teachers endure. Despite what people say about us deserving whatever we get, due to long holidays, it’s a pretty harsh road to walk, and your own sanity wins out over whatever impulse towards universal good you might have had at the start. I felt the initial thrill I had at the beginning of my training, when it really mattered that I got it right, and the whole business of teaching seemed a mystery to be unravelled, in order to help the whole world. My son apparently felt the same way, privileged in his connection to these students, none of whom he knew. But on the way out, we met up with one of the deputy heads. I introduced my son, and she asked him how he enjoyed being in the school. ‘It was wonderful!’ he cried, ‘I’d like to come back and help out when the kids are here.’ My heart swelled and then sank back down upon seeing the expression upon her face. Her small aging princess face, surrounded by her neat blond highlighted bob became pinched and her eyes grew cold. ‘Oh no’, she said. ‘That’s not possible. No. We are much too busy.’ Nothing more.

She turned away, busy upon whatever task she had set herself, saving a new crop of children from themselves and their lousy environment, out there where the Olympics are the latest sham thrust upon a disbelieving public. But to me she had already proved that she knew nothing about children, and was quite happy to crush their spirits in the endless search for a better bureaucracy. There was no room for a small boy wanting to help, just as there was little room for any enthusiasm. On a practical note, there was no concern for my interests as a parent. Anyhow, as a parent and a teacher, I am an anomaly, an oddity. Most teachers are single, a throwback to the times when female teachers were not allowed to be married. It allows them a free schedule, a chance to not be with children, a chance to see the children as part of their job, rather than part of their lives. There are teachers who do phenomenally well without being parents, and the profession would be poorer without them, especially when so many of them are gay and devote their time to the helping professions because they feel it is the right thing to do, not because it fits in with holidays or provides a meaningful stop on the way to marriage.

But there are others who see children as second-class citizens. Annoyances. Not adults. Not really important. This is shown in different ways, all revealing an awkward psychology as far as adults’ interaction with children is concerned. Sometimes the adults show a permissiveness that allows the worst students a constant stream of treats in order to keep them even vaguely in line, a ‘we are mates’ approach which does not teach them much about respect or boundaries, as other adults are used in a good cop/bad cop scenario where only one adult has the power. Sometimes it is shown by a callous disregard for what is appropriate around children. I’ve been in a pub twice now with my son where people thought it was necessary to swear either at him or over him. Why is it necessary to say ‘you’re a cunt’ to someone while sitting next to a child? I’m not sure, although the last time it happened, I overheard the man saying ‘but it’s a pub’ to his friend, who seemed shocked that his English friend had said ‘I don’t give a fuck what you do’ directly to a nine year old boy telling him what he was about to go and do. The shocked friend was from Ireland, so perhaps that’s a hint about the deeper instincts of the English. Maybe not. But I don’t see the friendly gestures that have been standard any time we go to France, the ‘it takes a village to raise a child’ idea that means any child, all children are potentially wonderful and worthy of being loved, just for the fact of being an innocent out in a big scary world, a small person just trying to figure things out, not all that different from the larger versions. No one has ever hugged my son here, while in France, he was routinely picked up and swung around by friendly adults, to their mutual delight. Here in the UK, I have the impression, just as in America, that children are best not seen or heard, unless it’s to show how the children are mimicking their elders, in terms of money or sophistication. Innocence is a debased offering; we don’t want to see what we have lost; only what we have corrupted. Maybe that’s why less than half of children trust their friends. Could their parents say any different?