A Reflection on the Curriculum Roadshow That Mattered

by Rebecca Thomas

Albany High School AEC Curriculum Roadshow

A story of truth, light, and our young people

Some time this week, the numbers will leak.

How much was spent on the curriculum Roadshow our Minister rolled out in the middle of strike action.

The one principals quietly — and firmly — boycotted.

The one where rumour says MOE staff were flown from Tai Tokerau to Wellington just to fill the empty chairs.

Those revelations will spill soon enough.

The invoices.

The travel costs.

The hours lost that could have been poured into classrooms, instead of photo ops.

But for me — financial costs aside — the real price was paid by our young people, and by the educators who hold their futures in cupped hands.

Because a roadshow should be a place of learning, a place to connect, to share best practice, to grow together without requiring miles of travel or a circus of theatrics.

If anyone found that experience at the MOE roadshows… well, ELV would love to hear the miracle.

The Roadshow That Actually Counted

For me, it was the AEC Roadshow that left its mark — the one with ice cream and candy and no smoke, no mirrors, no suits rehearsing a script someone else wrote.

Despite it being a Monday night, despite it being the second-to-last week of a year that has wrung educators dry, people came. They came from north and south. They came because something real was happening.

Online avatars became living faces.

Usernames became stories — some new to the profession, some international, some carrying lifetimes of experience inside their eyes.

A kaleidoscope of humanity, gathered for something simple and sacred: to remember what education is supposed to be.

We ate melting ice creams and watched a film — a spark, a catalyst, a reminder of what our system forgets far too often.

The Film’s Quiet Lesson

As the pixels danced, a truth rose like a tide:

Our young people keep surprising us.

Their agency.

Their determination.

Their creativity, curiosity, fire.

Across time, they keep rising.

And across time, the adults keep meddling — sometimes kindly, but often disastrously — without asking the very people whose futures they claim to design.

Not once in the film’s sweep of history did the meddling adults stop to consult the rangatahi.

They never anticipated how brilliantly young people would rise if simply trusted.

And somehow we still wonder why engagement slips…why mischief grows where hope should be…while adults argue over right and wrong and forget to listen.

Some young people thrive despite this.

But far too many do not.

The Moment the Mic Was Passed

When I took the mic — unsure if anyone would care, unsure if anyone even knew who this random person was — something unexpected happened.

A conversation began.

Awkward at first. 

Honest.

Raw.

A little messy.

Utterly necessary.

We swapped perspectives.

We named our tiredness.

We wrestled with change, with politics, with power, with solutions that felt too heavy for one night.

But underneath it all, we were doing something deeper:

We were healing each other.

Rekindling hope.

Tending to embers before they faded.

People stayed long after time should’ve chased them home.

Each person a small spark

in the dark.

Each vowing to keep tending that spark until together we could light something larger.

What I Wish We Spent More Time On

If I’m honest, I left wishing we had talked more about learning itself — about the experiences of our young people, their dreams, their worlds, their brilliance waiting for oxygen.

But beginnings are rarely perfect.

The important thing is that we began.

Because right now, there are people in your kura who have their heads down, their hearts exhausted, their backs bent over planning and duty and duty again — and they may not realise the extent of what has been unfolding in the crevices of corrupt politics, power, and interference in education.

If that’s true for your place, start there.

Have a conversation in the staffroom. Name what you see.

Speak the truth that sits beneath the surface.

Let the ranting be cathartic — then let the clarity be grounding.

And when the dust settles, share the small flame of hope you’ve carried from this story.

Because Knowledge — Even Dangerous Knowledge — is Necessary

Tell the story of what has happened to us.

Tell it to your colleagues.

Tell it to your Boards.

Tell it gently and bravely to your whānau.

Truth is a lantern.

Even in dangerous hands, it casts light.

And light is what young people need most from us right now.

For all the meddling adults in history, for all the systems that forget who learning is for, there remain communities — like the one gathered at the AEC Roadshow — who choose hope over cynicism.

And that choice matters.

Because in the end, hope isn’t passive.

It is an action.

A wero.

A promise.

A spark that insists on becoming flame.