Pointy-Enders

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Message To Readers

Chapter 1

Life At The Pointy-End

Chapter 2

Duty Of Care

Chapter 3

Monday, Mad Monday

Chapter 4

Acronym Soup

Chapter 5

The Hole In The Pole

Chapter 6

An Influx Of Angels

Chapter 7

Double Trouble

Chapter 8

Sex And The Under 7S

Chapter 9

Pointy-Ended Parents

Dedication

To my beloved Andy, without whom, none of this would have been possible.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There is a long list of people who deserve to be acknowledged but, for obvious reasons, cannot be acknowledged openly. To the children who appear in this book, this acknowledgement will have to suffice, together with my hope for them that there are better things to come.

Special thanks must go to Kylie for five years of unswerving support, friendship, and cups of tea when they were needed, with honourable mentions to Jenny, Donna R, Kylie F, Jess, Lynda, Fran, Trish, Leslie, Carmen, Sharon, and a hug for Miss Nat. Many thanks to Kath and Andy for the loan of the ute.

There are far too many colleagues and friends over the years to list, but very special mention must go to Margaret and Darren and Charlie and Tracey P. Honourable mentions to Tracey Mac, Alex, Debbie H, and the late George Skirrow.

MESSAGE TO READERS

G’day. It is not hard to argue that Australia is ‘the lucky country’. From the golden beaches and the iconic reefs, to the huge mineral deposits and vast agricultural lands that generate opportunity, employment, and wealth, Australia ‘abounds in nature’s gifts’. Generally, it is an ordered, structured, liberal society. It is a tolerant, peaceful, and safe society when compared to many others. The Australian lifestyle is relaxed and happy. But none of this can be taken for granted. It is an environment that has evolved, and without constant care and attention, it can easily become something very different.

As a criminologist, I recognise that there is an alternative view of Australian society. The reality is that lurking just below the surface of Australian society is a less desirable image. The reality is that crime and violence cost the Australian taxpayer billions of dollars every year. The reality is that if the combined costs of the criminal justice system—the courts, the prisons, the corrective services officers, the parole officers, the social workers, and everybody and everything else associated with dealing with antisocial behaviour—were to be channelled into educational or preventive programmes, then the outcomes would be very different.

In my experience, doing nothing gets nothing done. By that, I mean it is not sufficient in life to sit back and just ‘go with the flow’. It is not sufficient to sit back and take for granted what currently exists. Such inaction flies in the face of one of the givens of social existence—along with death and taxes—that change is inevitable. Indeed, whether we like it or not, change happens all around us all the time. Usually, the changes that occur are almost imperceptible. For example, we wake up each day and are one day older than yesterday. We may not be noticeably taller or shorter, lighter or heavier, wiser or richer, or poorer or whatever, but the reality is that, imperceptibly, we may be some or any or all of these things.

There are times when change is dramatic. Australia is a land of fire and flood. Catastrophic events leave lives and homes destroyed. These events are as inevitable as the dramatic events that may intrude upon personal lives, such as death, accidents, illness, violence, or the breakdown of relationships. At the collective level, in the face of widespread disaster, it is deeply ingrained in the Australian psyche that people will get things done, that they will pull together, that they will cope, that they will survive. It is known as ‘the Aussie spirit’.

At the individual level, coping and surviving are more problematic. Over many years, in many different settings, both personal and professional, I have struggled to come to terms with the notion of how individuals and communities should best cater for those members who are less fortunate, less able, and less capable of coping or surviving than the majority, particularly at times when there is not widespread adversity. It is equally as important to recognise that there are members of every community who are more vulnerable than others. In this category, I include children.

There are children who, through no fault of their own, are born disabled, disadvantaged, or disempowered. There are children who are used and abused. There are those that are sorted, sifted, and discarded. There are children who will never have the opportunity to live fulfilling lives and those whose limited capacities create limited horizons and even more limited abilities to cope with everyday life.

So what, if anything, has any of this to do with the writing of Pointy-Enders?

Pointy-ended children are those who are least likely to be able to cope. They are the children who will become a burden for the criminal justice system or an impost upon the support structures in place in society. My intention in writing Pointy-Enders was twofold. First, it was to draw attention to the existence and the plight of pointy-ended children. There are growing numbers of them. As a group, they are poorly understood, for there are as many differences in their stories as there are pointy-ended children. As a disparate group of children, they are not well catered for neither by current State Education systems nor by society, generally.

The second reason for writing Pointy-Enders was to draw attention to the increasingly difficult task facing schools and school staff who are required to cater for these children on a daily basis. The stresses involved on personnel are already enormous and largely unacknowledged. On the one hand, teachers are being required increasingly to focus upon matters of literacy and numeracy. On the other hand, teachers ignore the disruption caused by pointy-ended children at their peril. The impact of pointy-ended children on other children and the wider community is incalculable. While their numbers in schools are reasonably limited, pointy-ended children pose a threat, albeit one that is increasingly difficult and costly to contain. As their numbers multiply, the level of threat moves from being intimidating to being dangerous. As pointy-ended children become pointy-ended adolescents, pointy-ended adults, and pointy-ended parents, they become an increasing threat to the laid-back Aussie way of life.

The time for doing nothing is long past.

CHAPTER 1

Life at the Pointy-End

As the chair hurtled past my left ear, I thought, not for the first time, that perhaps I ought to find some other line of work. This year, to date, I have been slapped and punched. I have had my shins kicked mercilessly. My hair has been pulled. I have been spat upon more than once. I have had a variety of objects thrown at me, including the aforementioned chair. I have been the target of torrents of verbal abuse and some interesting suggestions written on walls. My car has been vandalised. I have dealt with angry members of the community; some of whom have found it in their hearts to threaten me, to call my parentage into question, and, indeed, to question my heterosexuality. I have faced down one incipient mutiny and felt intimidated (hopefully without showing it) on more occasions than I care to remember. On a brighter note, until last week, it had been more than a year since I was last bitten.

To the average Police Officer on the beat, this is all instantly recognisable. It is the daily fare that comes with dealing with criminal or antisocial behaviour. In order to prepare for the daily round of battle, the forces of Law and Order are trained extensively, not least in unarmed combat. They are provided with guns, tasers, and capsicum spray, as well as other useful objects such as batons and handcuffs. They have all the power of due legal process to apprehend and detain. They have an organisation behind them that will spring to their aid in emergency situations, not least in providing armed backup should the need arise. They represent the weight of authority.

I have none of these advantages. My name is Hugo Walker. I am a teacher. I am a teacher in a Primary School. More specifically, I am the Behaviour Management Teacher in a Primary School charged with the express function of dealing with violent, uncontrollable, or antisocial behaviour in children aged from five to twelve years of age. Let me restate the above in a slightly different way. I do not work in a Special School for children with defined disabilities. I do not work in an Intervention Centre or Alternative School established to deal with ‘difficult’ children. I am not a Corrective Services Officer working within the criminal justice system, nor do I work in a juvenile institution. I work at Kookaburra Primary School, an everyday, common-or-garden Primary School situated in a working-class suburb of a large city. Having said that, if you haven’t been told to ‘fuck off’ by a five-year-old recently, then you don’t work in the schools in which I work!

If some of this comes as a shock, then it is probably necessary to point out that the number of children being suspended from Primary Schools each year for varying degrees of unacceptable behaviour is increasing at an alarming rate. There are a growing number of Primary School children who are being excluded from schools. There is an ever-increasing catalogue of ‘school crimes and misdemeanours’ from which to choose when analysing poor behaviour in schools, ranging from the truly awful to the gut-wrenchingly bad. Suffice it to say that little shocks me anymore, although no sooner have I thought that I have seen or heard it all, when something else arises to persuade me otherwise!

While the majority of my clients are boys, I have received my fair share of bruises from girls. It is trite to say so, but no less true, that there are very real differences between the behaviours of boys in schools and those of their female counterparts. Nevertheless, the difficulties associated with my job double when faced with screaming, spitting, biting, swearing, and kicking girls.

I do not enter this arena as if I were totally unprepared. On the positive side of the ledger, I do have a Certificate in Non-Violent Crisis Intervention to go with my Degree. This entitles me to ‘lay hands’ on students as a measure of last resort, provided that I do not use unreasonable force and comply strictly with the approved holds as set out in ‘the Manual’. Non-Violent Crisis Intervention is for use as part of a team situation. The reality in schools is that backup is not always available. In these situations, discretion takes the better part of valour. Circumstances may dictate that immediate intervention is required; better to defuse a dangerous situation at source than run the risk of someone else getting hurt. It then becomes a question of ‘duty of care’, with a balancing act between numbers of differing, sometimes competing, variables. Do I deal with the offender carefully (‘duty of care’ for his or her rights) with the means available (me) or run the risk of greater damage occurring while waiting for assistance (the rights of others, not least, self!)?

Another alternative is to evacuate the immediate area (disturb the learning of others and violate their rights to a safe, peaceful environment in which to learn!) and try to ‘talk the individual down’, knowing full well that this may take some considerable time. In these circumstances, knowledge of the individual concerned becomes critical. In some cases, the reality is that there is not time for this to happen. The individual concerned has ‘lost it’ totally and no amount of talking or waiting is going to retrieve the situation. ‘Force majeure’ will be the order of the moment, regardless. The major issues will focus on how to remove a screaming, swearing, biting, scratching, spitting, punching, and kicking bundle of child from the setting with the least amount of damage to them, to self, and to the immediate environment!

However, there is a thin, precarious line that exists between taking appropriate action and finding oneself under scrutiny by other authorities. It would not be unreasonable to think that these physical trials and tribulations would be enough to bear. Just to add to the stress of the position, during the last twelve months, I have also been the subject of two internal Departmental reviews and one external inquiry by the State’s Crime Commission, all of which have given weighty consideration to my professional conduct towards others. All have come to nothing, but all take up inordinate amounts of time. They play havoc with the nerves, not to mention undermining one’s belief and confidence in one’s ability to do the job. They are also indicative of the fact that the parents of the Kookaburra community are not backward in coming forward when it comes to making complaints, vexatious or otherwise!

This is where thirty-five years of teaching experience in a variety of settings is proving to be invaluable, for most of the preparation for this role has been in the form of ‘on-the-job training’. The role contains more than just a little element of ‘make it up as you go along’. At one level, it is an extension of parenting; at another level, it is a tricky mixture of teaching, counselling, negotiating, social work, therapy, and judo! A good degree in criminology, psychology, or sociology would be a worthwhile basis, but only if the degree comes with the healthy injection of practical skills required to deal with abnormal situations. The similarities with policing should not be disregarded. A suitable measure of the skills of detection, conflict resolution, and hostage negotiation do not go amiss!

With the above in mind, all of the qualifications in the world are useless if the individual concerned does not understand children. In the Primary School setting, children range in age from five years of age (or younger) to twelve years of age. Differences in levels of maturity, even within similar age ranges, are marked. It is a totally different scenario dealing with the temper tantrums of an immature five-year-old to that of dealing with the uncontrolled rage of an early adolescent, if only in physical terms. I am better able to cope with the flailing feet of a five-year-old than I am with the flying fists of a twelve-year-old! Some children are biddable; others are defiant. Some children clearly understand the reasons for their poor behaviour; others have no understanding whatsoever. Some children are aware that there are consequences for poor behaviour; others refuse under any circumstances to accept responsibility for their behaviours.

And then there are their parents. While it is important to have the ability to relate to children, it is a necessary part of the role that the incumbent must also have the skills to deal with their parents or carers. This is regardless of how awful these parents may be. The reality in this job is that not all the characters that you meet are likeable. Indeed, not all are rational or even sane. It means that it is important to possess a bottomless reservoir of patience, a capacity for instant decision-making and the flexibility to meet demands as they arise. Above all else, it means that whoever does a job such as mine needs to understand the status of the school in any given community. It is one thing having the skills to suck up to professional parents in green-leaf suburbs. It is quite a different set of skills to deal with urban battlers without becoming patronising, condescending, or pompous.

While on the matter of job description, at times, I have been referred to as the ‘school bouncer’. The analogy is not entirely inappropriate. If required, I remove undesirables, round up strays, police the exits, or defuse explosive situations—not literally, I hasten to add, or at least, not yet! I assist with the wounded, guide the lost in the right direction, and help negotiate the peaceful resolution of disputes. I do not discriminate: if a child or their carers need dealing with, then I’m your man!

Don’t get me wrong! I have been around the block a few times. I have taught in a range of schools in three different countries. I have a fair understanding of the workings of the ‘educational system’. The experiences, the contacts, serve me well in this current position. I know about classrooms, but I am not a classroom teacher. I have been a School Principal, but I am not responsible for all the bureaucratic claptrap which goes with the job. I attend meetings, but only those I deem to be critical to the well-being of children. I get free rein to deal with parents, make home visits, and consult with local agencies. I am the rapid response group, on call for when things go pear-shaped. I am the reference point for stressed-out teachers or strung-out parents. Most important of all, I am available to all children, regardless of their age or stage in the school. Their welfare and well-being are my priority.

In previous lives, I have worked in and around the criminal justice system, count a number of Police Officers and Social Workers as friends, and understand the vagaries of the law as it applies to settings such as schools. I am on first-name terms with the local pollies (politicians), as well as some of those at the Federal level. I know a number of Paediatricians personally. I have contact with a variety of counsellors and therapists. If required, I am on nodding terms with some members of the Fourth Estate in radio, television, and newspapers.

I am also of ‘more mature years’. Age can bring a certain degree of respect, but it brings no guarantee that respect will be given. Neither should it! In the past, too many people undeserving of respect have demanded respect from others. The inevitable consequence of this erosion of the ideal is a growing level of cynicism. One consequence of this increasing cynicism means that those who should deserve respect are not necessarily afforded the respect they deserve. This move away from the ideal is particularly evident among the young. They look around themselves only to find false idols. Often, they lack appropriate models. They become uncertain as to who deserves respect and who does not. Uncertainty breeds inconsistency. Inconsistency creates chaos.

If this all sounds like ‘old fart’ talk, then I apologise! It is me who has become the cynic. In my job, it is not hard to lose sight of the fact that the overwhelming majority of kids do the right thing most of the time. Indeed, I see much to be hopeful about for the future. It is the institutions around them—and me—in which I have lost faith.

Oh dear! This is starting to sound like a sociological textbook! Without turning this into a debate about ‘values’ or some sort of sociological treatise about those societal norms that are deemed to be appropriate at any given moment in time, I am more concerned with the reality that change is constant and inevitable. In this context, many of the structural features of the provision of schooling have remained relatively unchanged for decades. It is also indicative of the long-standing gulf that exists between those who teach and those who learn, particularly in working-class communities. Authorities are keen to wax lyrical about ‘Education’ being a partnership between schools and their communities, but the reality remains that ‘Education’ is an agency of social control. It is still viewed, in academic circles, as one of the organisational building blocks of society—together with ‘the Community’, ‘the Family’, ‘the Church’, ‘the State’, and ‘the Law’. In the current era, the power of ‘the Church’ is greatly diminished and increasing numbers of the population pay scant regard to the authority of ‘the State’ or even ‘the Law’. Very few communities retain anything beyond a semblance of the notion of ‘Community’. It is ‘Education’ that retains some position, not least because it is compulsory. It has become viewed as the institution through which values are instilled in young people, in which the values reflect the dominant culture of society, and in which those young people are prepared to become useful and productive members of society.

All of which is just so much cant and not a little poppycock! Generally, the school system does a reasonably masterful job of sorting and sifting the children of the community into their appropriate social boxes. Nor should what passes for schooling these days ever be confused with the term ‘education’.

Like old soldiers, most teachers have a stock of ‘war stories’ to relate about their experiences. Often, these stories focus on the lighter, funnier moments that come with the job of teaching. Cosy tales of school life in North Yorkshire villages are a way of salving the soul. But just as the stories recounted by old soldiers tend to gloss over the brutal realities of war, so teachers’ tales are constructed, in part, to avoid some of the harsher realities of teaching. In truth, the fund of school stories should also include the weirder, scarier, more disconcerting moments that can occur. It is one of the oddities of teaching, however, that much time spent in the classroom is spent in a sort of bubble divorced from other aspects of the school. It is not unusual to find teachers who know very few children outside their own classes or of classes they have previously taught. It is a perennial problem for teachers on playground duty in the wider school who come across children who they cannot name. It is also part of the reality that many teachers have little or no contact with the major behavioural difficulties in the school unless those children are actually in their classes. So contact for them, with what are known as ‘pointy-enders’, is limited, whereas for those of us who deal with behavioural difficulties, contact with the ‘pointy-enders’ may be the only contact we have with children during the day.

I first heard the term ‘pointy-enders’ used some years ago during a visit to a country Primary School. Located on the edge of a small city, the school of 175 students mainly services a public housing estate that the rest of the city tries to ignore. A few students also come from nearby rural properties. Tucked away between a DPI (Department of Primary Industries) Experimental Station, rolling fields, and the estate, the school is on a road to nowhere, literally: either you were going to the school or you were not, because the road past the school stops at the next bend with a gate into a field.

To all intents and purposes, it is an idyllic setting. The estate is beyond the end of the school oval, masked by trees. It is not immediately visible from the school, except from the upper storeys of the Teaching Blocks. Strolling down the path from the car park towards the School Office, on a clear, crisp morning, it was one of those feel-good days that make it a pleasure to be out and about in certain parts of Australia in winter. The sky was blue, with nary a cloud; the birds were singing in the trees surrounding the buildings, and there was absolutely no indication of anything untoward going on in the school. There was no shouting to be heard, no children wandering around. Somewhere in the background is the sound of strumming ukuleles. Not exactly what you might expect in the Australian context, but pleasant to the ear and just one more indication that this is a well-run ship.

As indeed, it is! Neatly presented, immaculate grounds, this is a school that belies its lowly status. There is always a warm welcome to be had and a cup of tea and a biscuit for the weary traveller or anyone else who just happens to be passing. Overall, an air of peace and calm pervades the place.

I had visited the school on a number of previous occasions and had got to know the Principal and her Staff quite well. On this particular day, sharing a cup of tea with the Principal and one or two members of Staff, in the Staff room, the discussion turned to student behaviour.

‘Generally’, said the Principal, ‘there are not a lot of problems. At the moment, we have seven or so pointy-enders whom we have to watch, but beyond that, most of the kids do the right thing, most of the time.’

At that moment, before I could ask, as if on cue, there was a knock on the (open) door and a small child announced that ‘Shacair’s mucking up. Mrs Dawson says can you come and get him, please?’

‘Ah,’ said the Principal, ‘one of our pointy-enders! I will return!’

Shacair

With that, the Principal left the room, only to return about two minutes later with a small, indigenous boy in tow. Two foot tall and two stone wringing wet (if I may be permitted to use Imperial measurements?), he did not reach the height of the Principal’s waist.

‘This is Shacair,’ announced the Principal. ‘Shacair is in Year 1.’

‘G’day, Shacair,’ I said. He looked at me warily.

The Principal offered Shacair a chair. With his feet dangling way off the floor, Shacair duly sat down at the table. The conversation continued as if there had been no interruption.

‘As I was saying’, said the principal, ‘most of the children do the right thing most of the time, but we do have some who tax our resources to the limit. These are the acute cases, the ones at the pointy-end of things where getting meaningful help is always difficult and sometimes impossible.’

This set off a discussion about the problems of communication, co-operation, and co-ordination between and among the various agencies that have dealings with children and their families and schools. All too often, schools are either left out of the loop with regard to information about individual children, shut out of possible solutions for dysfunctional families, or totally ignored when seeking help or even advice for children exhibiting extreme behaviours.

Shacair is quiet. He melts into the background. Inevitably, however, after listening to five or ten minutes of adult-speak, he starts to fidget. Noticing this, those around the table draw him into the conversation.

‘What’s the problem in class today, Shacair? Have you been doing the right thing for Mrs Dawson?’

No response. It is nearly time for the First Break. ‘Have you got anything to eat today?’ Tackle the basic needs. Shacair nods.

‘Who got your lunch for you today?’

‘Gran’ comes back the reply, which is not the expected response. Local knowledge starts to kick into play.

‘Shacair, who are you living with at the moment?’

‘With Gran.’

‘Are Chantelle and Jaiden with you?’

Shacair nods.

‘Where’s Mum?’

‘Jail!’

‘Oh!’ Again, not quite the expected response, but time to follow up for some more detail.

‘Is it just the three of you with Gran?’

‘Brayden, Kahleb, and Aliyah.’ He counts them off on his fingers.

At that moment, the bell rings for First Break. Probably a case of literally saved by the bell because the conversation is drifting into tricky waters. Shacair is taken back to class to search out his lunch by one of the other Staff members.

The Principal explains, ‘Shacair is in Year 1. His older brother and sister are in Years 3 and 6 respectively. Their three cousins also attend the school. I had heard that Mum had gone to prison, but I hadn’t realised that her sister (Shacair’s auntie) must also to be in prison. That means that Gran (Shacair’s grandmother) is looking after all six kids. Let me make a phone call.’

A short time later, the Principal returns to confirm that both women are in prison for a period of weeks for fine default arising out of previous court appearances. They have both been in prison for nearly three weeks up to that point in time. We discuss Shacair’s behaviour, quickly reaching the conclusion that his latest spate of poor behaviour coincides with this upheaval in his life. On reflection, his brother, sister, and cousins have also been unsettled, but it is Shacair’s behaviour that has been the most noticeable.

This kid is playing up at school because his world is in a spin.

‘I take it that this is not the first time something like this has happened?’ I ask.

The answer indicates that this is part of an ongoing downward spiral for Shacair, his siblings, and his cousins. Shacair’s mother and her sister are drug addicts. They have a long history of contact with the agencies of the criminal justice system. They flirt constantly with a welfare system that wants to take their children away from them. They have become locked into a cycle of arrest, sentence, parole, parole violation, and arrest. Both are dependent upon benefit payments to survive. There is no money for the payment of fines, so a short stint in prison serves in lieu. Meanwhile, there are six children who need care.

I think I know the answer before I ask the question, but I ask anyway, ‘Where are the men in this scenario?’ In short, long gone because they were never around to start with, are in prison or, in one case, dead. The story is complicated, not least for the reason that the children have different fathers.

Later in the morning, I visit Shacair’s class. It is a hive of activity with twenty-four Year 1 children beavering away at various activities. Shacair is busy and seemingly happy. On a table are a few of the children’s journals, one of which is Shacair’s. The entry for today is a sentence spoken to the teacher and written by her for Shacair to copy. It reads: ‘I miss my mum’.

This kid is playing up at school because he misses his mum!

Of course, nothing is ever that easily explained. The diagnosis is simplistic! But the sentiment remains the same. Today, no matter what other problems may beset Shacair’s existence, he is missing his mum. He is a six-year-old boy who does not fully understand the workings of the world but knows that he feels sad or angry or frustrated or just that things are not right. When things are not right, he plays up because his behaviour is symptomatic of his feelings. He wants his mum back in his life to give him the comfort and security that he needs, whatever her shortcomings might be.

I realised why I had been granted a wary look on introduction. For all Shacair knew, I was some guy from ‘the welfare’ coming to take him away or somebody from the Police or some other agency coming to ask questions about Mum. Streetwise at six years old, he is already aware that speaking to strangers can have dire consequences. Already, he has learned to be wary!

The real dilemma, for the moment, lies with the school. There are few deterrents and even fewer consequences that the school can call upon that will not make life worse or more miserable for Shacair. The one constant that Shacair can rely upon is the school, as long as the school cares long enough to cater for his needs, to tolerate his ‘misbehaviour’, or to cope with his outbursts of rage or frustration. At the same time, the school walks a fine line between compassion for Shacair and the realities of his behaviour for his classmates, his schoolmates, and his teacher. If safety is the paramount concern, then ensuring the safety of those in the school takes precedence over the safety of an individual. If Shacair’s behaviour escalates, then the school will be left with no alternative but to ‘rid themselves of the pest’ regardless of the consequences for ‘the pest’. It is not a situation that Principals confront easily, nor comfortably.

Christian

We move on, but the opportunity to revisit the dilemmas that some ‘pointy-enders’ pose for the school arises almost immediately. There, waiting for us at the Office is Christian. He is sitting quietly on a bench; angelic of face and small of stature, Christian looks as if butter wouldn’t melt. He is a blond, blue-eyed, button-nosed seven-year-old. For all his seeming innocence, he has just thrown a monumental tantrum or, in the vernacular, ‘chucked a wobbly’, or ‘chucked a darkie’, or ‘gone off like a pork chop’! Choose any or all to describe an outburst of uncontrollable rage. He has scratched and bitten his teacher, who was trying to calm him. It has taken two adults to frogmarch him to the Office, with Christian kicking and screaming all the way. Yet, here he is sitting quietly as if nothing had happened.

We go into the Principal’s office and close the door.

‘If you thought Shacair was streetwise, you should spend