ERO without context

by Rebecca Thomas

When the deeper you explain your reality, the further you seem to sink.

I don't need to describe my community to those who have probably clicked on this link. You have followed my words for long enough to know our story.

To be honest, the more I tell it, the more it feels like I am wading through quicksand while bystanders stroll past on solid ground. If I were religious, perhaps it would feel a little like the pūrākau of The Good Samaritan.

The Good Samaritan ERO is not.

They had already attended the pre-visit. The visitor in question looked as though I had offered her a warm cup of sick as our context was described. She arrived hot and heavy, laid down the attendance law and attempted to dominate the leadership narrative.

But we made her sit still and listen.

We spoke of children who arrive carrying trauma before they arrive carrying a ‘book bag’ (in fact our school doesn’t even issue book bags - yes we are ‘that’ school). We spoke of housing instability, poverty, attendance battles, learning support waiting lists and families trying their best with what they have. We spoke of our reality.

I know there is no drop-down box for any of this (I know people in ‘camp ERO’ — much to their dismay). I know our story will never appear as a coloured square on a dashboard. I know our context is unlikely to feature in any public-facing summary. But it mattered.

My community matters.

They left with a formal review date set for Term 3. Judging by the timeline, we suspect the feedback settings may not be adjusted to "gentle". We are preparing for the worst. Not because we have done anything wrong, but because we know the stick we are being measured with.

And do you know what?

Most schools facing the music we are about to dance to would dig in. They would tighten the screws, frighten the staff, panic about the numbers and begin a frantic swim against the current. But not us. Not the School That Says Yes.

After the visit, we continued practising our farewell assembly for a tumuaki who has served this community for thirty years. We continued planning our first ever Matariki Market Day; designed, organised and run by our Tuakana for our Teina. No parent fundraising quotas. No glossy corporate sponsorship. Just arts and crafts, financial literacy, agency, ownership and children learning how to create something for others.

We continued our Jumping June skip-offs.

We continued our kapa haka.

We continued Pizza with the Principal. (funny how things come in threes)

Yes, there were RASP forms to update and boxes somebody somewhere desperately wanted ticked. There were hoops we were apparently expected to jump through like performing seals balancing compliance on the ends of our noses.

But that wasn't us.

We were not prepared to pass that stress on to our kaiako and tamariki, who still arrive each day ready to laugh, learn and belong. Because long before ERO arrived and long after they leave, we have always been ‘just us’.

FYI: The funny thing about context is that it never arrives neatly packaged.

Context looks more like the pile of paperwork currently breeding on the corner of my desk.

I am fairly certain if left unattended it will eventually evolve opposable thumbs and begin completing its own referrals. Somewhere in that pile is an application explaining why a little girl cannot safely navigate the school grounds without adult support. Somewhere else is evidence of another child whose distress arrives faster than their words.

There are behaviour plans. 

Learning support requests. 

Notes from meetings. 

Follow-up emails to follow-up emails.

There are forms asking me to prove what happened. Then forms asking me to prove it happened often enough. Then forms asking me to prove it happened recently. Then forms asking me to prove it happened in the correct category.

Sometimes I wonder whether if a child set fire to my office, somebody would ask me to upload a photograph and tick which curriculum area the flames best aligned with.

That is the thing about schools like ours.

While other people are discussing attendance percentages, we are discussing whether a child can safely get off a bus. While somebody is calculating achievement targets, we are trying to stop another child hurting themselves. While somebody is preparing a dashboard, somebody else is sitting on the floor beside a frightened five-year-old helping them believe school is a safe place to be.

None of those things fit neatly into a coloured square.

Yet they are the work. Not occasionally. Every day.

The School That Says Yes sounds lovely on a t-shirt.

In reality it is often exhausting.

Saying yes means enrolling children other schools struggle to keep. Saying yes means refusing to give up on whānau when attendance is hard. Saying yes means making room when there isn't room. Finding support when there isn't support. Stretching funding that doesn't exist. And carrying responsibility that increasingly feels like it belongs to somebody else.

Schools like ours don't need sympathy. We need context. Because a number can tell you who attended school today. Context tells you what it took to get them there.