When Gifts Come Early
- 4 days ago
- 3 min read
by Rebecca Thomas
I apologise in advance, but Erica just keeps giving me reasons to type...
This week’s announcement that the Government will fund teacher registration fees through to 2028 will land differently depending on where you stand.
For some, it will be a welcome relief — one less cost to carry; for others, a gesture that feels strangely timed. A gift that, while appreciated, invites a few quiet questions.
It's not my place to tell anyone how to feel about it. But I would ask this:
What happens if we treat this announcement like we would any text we put in front of our learners in a critical literacy lesson?
Not to tear it apart. Not to be cynical. But simply to notice. To wonder.
If you were designing a critical literacy session for your class, you might start here:
Who is speaking?
Who benefits from this announcement?
Who might be impacted in ways we haven't yet thought about?
What other information might help us understand this more fully?
How would this feel if you were a beginning teacher? A principal? A policymaker? A union president/representative? The Teaching Council, even?
And then perhaps, digging a little deeper:
Where did the funding come from?
Why is this happening now?
If this announcement were a seed, what might it grow into?
It’s easy to feel grateful when something heavy is lifted from our shoulders. And it’s right to recognise when support is offered.
But it’s also important — especially now — to stay awake.
If our learners can ask brave, uncomfortable questions about the texts they encounter, so can we. If they can wonder about whose voices are heard and whose are missing, so must we.
There is nothing wrong with accepting a gift.
Especially when the announcements start coming thick and fast —
when the *Unicorn Train picks up speed — promising magical solutions to complex problems.
It’s easy to get swept along.
But there is wisdom in pausing to ask: What am I being invited to believe? What conversations are being made harder by the way this is framed? What bigger story might still be unfolding?
Not to be combative.
But to stay discerning.
To keep our integrity intact.
An Invitation
If you feel comfortable, I invite you to try this in your classroom this week.
Share the news about the Government’s funding of teacher registration fees. Offer no opinion at first. Let your students read, question, discuss. Notice what they see. Notice what they ask.
Because this isn't just about money. It’s about how we shape understanding. It’s about how we encourage our young people to think about power, promises, and change.
Some of you may have read David Taylor’s recent piece explaining why he has told his principal he will not teach the new proposed English curriculum. David speaks to something many of us feel:
Sometimes, standing still is not an act of defiance — it’s an act of professional responsibility.
Sometimes, the real work is not rushing to adapt, but taking the time to notice, to name what is happening, and to refuse to be hurried along without thought.
If the idea of openly refusing a curriculum feels too big to carry right now — maybe this small act of critical questioning is a way in. Maybe simply inviting our students to ask:
What are we being asked to accept?
Whose interests are being served?
What choices will we have later on?
That, too, is powerful work. That, too, is teaching.
Some students might grin and say, "Mean whaea, are you rich now?"
Or, "Miss, does that mean you're shouting pizza?"
Or even, "Can you take us on a class trip with your money?"
Their honesty is a gift, too.
Because after the laughter settles, some might also ask:
"Why are they giving you money now?"
"What’s the catch?"
"If they can find money for that, why not for our new library / more teachers?"
Those are the questions worth sitting with.
Those are the conversations that remind us:
Teaching isn't just about delivering content — it’s about growing critical thinkers who know how to look carefully at the world they’re inheriting.
*Unicorn Train: When complex educational challenges are met with promises of simple, magical solutions — the kind that seem to seize momentum like a runaway train, only to prove as fragile as fairy dust when they meet reality — often derailing just as they reach the next station.
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