The Internet Keeps Arguing. The Children Keep Waiting.
- 6 days ago
- 3 min read
by Rebecca Thomas
Funny thing.
School has become my shield.
The ecosystem of a school has built a kind of natural armour around me. It protects me from the tug-of-war politics, Ministry battles and the blue glow of social media that follows me into the darkness.
Facebook has become an algorithm of outrage. Racism. Bias. Power struggles. Endless declarations about who is right and who is wrong. Every day I scroll past posts that leave me feeling sad and disappointed in what we seem to be becoming.
If my algorithms truly reflect the landscape of education, then perhaps my only option is to keep fighting them with hope until they change.
Don't get me wrong.
I have plenty of strong feelings about the Minister, the Ministry, the power plays, the culture wars and the racism that continues to divide us. I absolutely worry about the harmful curriculum changes and the relentless assessment demands. Daily, I agonise about systems that seem increasingly disconnected from the reality of classrooms.
But today I was reminded that schools are different.
Our classrooms are different.
Today I enjoyed watching children teaching children.
I deliberately set aside the politics, the curriculum debates, the assessments and the endless expectations that seem determined to squeeze every drop of joy out of teaching. I rebelled against the mandates and the pressure. I pushed cruise control and let the children set the speed.
I watched our Tuakana teach our Teina about feelings. About what it feels like to be a child in a classroom. As they played, named emotions and recorded their thinking, something fascinating happened. The feelings they chose seemed to mirror the truth. Not necessarily their truth. But the truth they see around them.
Their task was simple. First, build a bank of feeling words. Then study a classroom picture. Talk about what might be happening for the learners in that image. Finally, record a voice-over explaining how one of the characters was feeling.
It was an old activity from a resource Steve and I created during COVID called PULSE. Some of you may have used it yourselves.
To get them started, I modelled an example. One character loved school because maths was their favourite subject. I wondered aloud what other subjects might become their characters' favourites. There were no right answers, no achievement objectives, no assessment schedule and no pressure to perform. Just play. Just imagination. Just children.
Then the recordings started.
"Meh, this is boring because I hate school."
"I feel lonely. Nobody lets me join in."
"I'm worried because I have no lunch today."
"I'm scared because I have a new teacher. They never seem to stay."
"Writing is too hard. I'm worried."
"I'm tired. I didn't sleep well last night."
"I'm hungry. When is lunchtime?"
At first, I felt uncomfortable. Why were so many of their characters unhappy? Why weren't they talking about all the wonderful things we do every day? But the more I listened, the more I realised these weren't really complaints. They were clues. Windows into what matters.
As I listened to the recordings, I realised how far apart the adult conversation and the children's conversation have become. While social media continues to rage over curriculum, politics, ideology and who is right, the children were quietly describing a very different world.
A world where the biggest worry is having no lunch. A world where being left out hurts. A world where writing feels impossible, where tiredness follows you into the classroom and where finally finding a teacher you trust only matters if they are still there tomorrow.
The things consuming our newsfeeds barely seem to exist in their world. They are not waiting for the next policy announcement, curriculum refresh or political victory. They are waiting for someone to notice they are hungry. Waiting for someone to notice they are lonely or worried. Waiting for someone to notice they are trying, not just consolidating or becoming proficient. Simply waiting for someone to stay.
Perhaps that is why school has become my shield of late.
Every evening the internet seems determined to convince me that education is a battleground. Every morning the children remind me that it is something far more ordinary and far more important than that.
A classroom is not a policy document or a political ideology. It will never be tainted by those who think it is. It cannot have a refresh, a refresh of the refresh, a roadshow, a consultation process or a disappointing honours list. It pays no attention to any of it. It is simply a place where children arrive carrying all the complicated pieces of being human and hope somebody will help them carry them for a while.
The internet keeps arguing.
The children keep waiting.
And I know which voices I need to listen to.
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