Second Chances

Jake’s Story

“How’s college going, Jake?”

“Okay, thanks. There’s a lot of work though. Sorry, I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late. See you later!”

It’s the third week of my Access course. I didn’t say anything to Dad, but I’m thinking about leaving. I hated school because of having to write essays, and now I’m expected to write two at the same time. The lecturers are nice, but we keep having different ones on Wednesdays. I don’t think I’m up to this course: everyone else seems more confident than me, and cleverer. Apart from two other students, everyone is female and I just feel out of place. However, I really do want to succeed because then I could study for a degree in Education, and hopefully become a teacher and help children like I used to be to fit in. Reminding myself of my dream always motivates me to stay.

It's raining, but it’s not far to the college. The doors slide open and I go straight to the café for a can of coke. There’s a long queue, but I need the caffeine to get through the lesson. Luckily, I don’t have to wait for the lift: a smartly dressed man carrying a tray of coffees gets out so I get straight in and press ‘4’. I’m not looking forward to this: it’s an ‘academic skills’ session. I always hated English at school and this is basically the same. There’s a woman looking out of the window who must be the tutor. I apologise for being late, but she says I’m not and asks if I’m okay. A few more minutes pass before the session starts: I’m disappointed that the long-haired woman is yet another cover lecturer. I try and concentrate, but I’m just staring at the PowerPoint slides changing on the screen. There’s so much information on each slide that I give up. I’ll never be able to write an essay, I’m just useless and I’m hot and …

“Okay everyone, I’m sure you’ve all had enough of listening to me telling you how to write an essay. I’d like you to discuss in your groups how you think you might approach planning your own essays. Then we’ll share some thoughts, and you’ll have some time to work on your plans before the end.”

The two girls I’m sitting with immediately start talking to each other about how they used to plan at school. I don’t care: I don’t know how to plan and wouldn’t want to admit that I never have. The lecturer comes over and asks how we’re getting on. The other two repeat what they’ve just said. She makes a suggestion, and then she asks me. I mumble something hoping she’ll go away, but she doesn’t so I admit that I haven’t ever written a plan. I can’t think of anything worse than her suggestion that the two girls help me! As soon as she moves away, however, they start talking about what they’re going to do at the weekend, so I didn’t need to worry.

“Hey, how’d you get on?” Sam asks as we leave the room for lunch. I’d like to get to know him more; he’s a bit older than me, but we went to the same school and I vaguely remember him being kind to us younger ones.

“Okay, thanks. You?”

“Really good, yeah, thanks. I was with Jean and Carol; they had loads of tips. Sit with us next time and we can help each other.”

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I am hoping the next ‘academic skills’ session will be better, at least it should be with last week’s lecturer rather than another new one. I had planned to sit with Sam, but I couldn’t find my iPad anywhere so I ended up leaving late; it must have fallen down behind my bed when I fell asleep last night. I look around the room quickly, but the only seats are with Nicole and Paris again. Like last week, it’s too hot and there are hundreds of slides; I’m not sure I can bear it. Fortunately, it’s not long before we are invited to discuss our approaches to taking notes in our groups, and then share with everyone. I hate talking, but I learn a lot from listening.

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I wake up earlier than usual feeling really nervous; there is an ‘academic skills’ workshop this morning and I don’t know what to expect. I am determined not to be late again; I want to sit with Sam. The lecturer comes in and announces that she will talk to us all individually about our essay drafts in the ‘study room’ downstairs. She tells us to use the rest of the time

to work on our essays and suggests we also share our drafts with each other. She frowns at the continually beeping door and says she’ll report it.

As soon as she has gone, everyone starts chatting and someone, I think it’s Paris, starts playing music. At least it drowns out the beeping door, but I still just want to go. There’s no way I can work; I don’t know what to write and I cannot think in here. Maybe those younger girls know everything already as they have only just left school, but I’ve had a gap and desperately need to concentrate.

Sam asked to go first as he has a hospital appointment; I wish I had done the same, but I’m stuck here now. It’s no good. I’ve got to go, but, I can’t just go. I’ll have to ask.

I leave the room, ignoring the cries of “where you going? We’ve got to stay here”. I don’t want to break the rules, but I’ve got to get out … I run down the stairs to the study room where the tutor is sitting with Sam. I feel bad interrupting, but Sam will understand,

“Sorry, I need to speak with you for a moment.” 

The lecturer looks slightly surprised, but smiles, says something to Sam and follows me outside:

“I’m really sorry, I don’t want to be rude, but I can’t work upstairs.” She asks me why and I explain. I think she’s going to say ‘no’, but she says she understands and then asks me if I’ll wait until she’s finished with Sam so that she can look at my draft before I go. I really don’t want to, but I don’t think I’ve got any choice. I hope Sam’s not long, and I hope I don’t get into trouble for not really having a draft.

“Jake?”

I hurry over and blurt out, “I'm confused. I don't know how to start. Sam tried to help, but I can't copy his.”

She agrees I can’t and asks if I have a draft. I don’t want to show it to her, but she is determined to look at it. I fumble with my iPad embarrassed at how little I’ve done, but she seems happy. Even when I admit I don’t know what to write, she just smiles and tells me to write the essay title as that will help me focus. She even reads it aloud for me as I’m typing. She makes me copy the instructions about what to include from the assessment brief and waits while I type them all out. I look up and see loads of students are waiting. I’ve taken up too much time already, but I really don’t know how to write this essay and I might not get another chance to ask:

“Sorry, I don’t know what to do next.”

She tells me to just write for the next few minutes without worrying about spelling, punctuation or grammar. She says it will help my ideas to flow and I’ll be able to see which ones I want to focus on in the essay. I’m worried she’ll send me back upstairs, but she lets me do it here. It’s actually quite easy now that I’ve got the title and the points to address in front of me. I’m surprised how much I write in those few minutes. She shows me where I can write more and even offers to look at a draft, if I email it to her. I still feel anxious, but I have made a start …

Mary’s Story

I’m looking forward to covering an Access to Higher Education class this morning. I like Access students with their mixed ages and their different experiences. I am not as prepared as I’d like to be as I was only asked to do it yesterday, but at least the PowerPoint presentation had already been created. I’ve only had to look through the slides and see what I’m supposed to cover, but I prefer to create my own resources to meet the students’ needs. I am slightly worried about there being nearly 50 slides and no activities for the students to engage in. However, I do not know this class, and I am only covering, so it is probably best to use the materials provided. Two hours to teach ‘how to write an essay’ does not really leave time for activities, but I am a bit anxious about how much they will learn by just listening for two hours.

I’m early, but there are a couple of students already there. I have a chat with them and then log on to the computer and am relieved that the projector comes on easily. I haven’t been in this room before and I’m surprised at the splendid view of the muddy-looking sea. I can just make out a dog at its edge, chasing a ball. A couple of women who might be around my age arrive just before 9.30 wearing jeans and jumpers, closely followed by a much younger-looking man dressed in a grey hoodie and black jogging trousers. He runs his hand through his light brown hair as he sits down and apologises for being late.

“You’re not. Are you okay? I’m Mary, I’ll be taking this class for the next few weeks.”

“Okay, let’s make a start!” I say more confidently than I feel with so many slides to get through. Are they as bored as I am, I wonder on slide 16: ‘How to plan’ … Some of them are even more bored judging by their facial expressions. The two girls sitting with the young man, who apologised for being late, are rolling their eyes at each other, and a few others look confused. Okay, something needs to happen if any learning is to take place ...

Abandoning the PowerPoint, I suggest they discuss in their groups how they think they might plan their essay. There’s renewed energy in the room, forces are definitely at work as (most of) the students start to speak and engage with each other. Laptops come to life and pens can be heard scribbling on paper ... I can’t be sure they are all talking about planning, but anything is better than confusion, boredom, slides being clicked on one after the other, and the sound of a lecturer’s voice …

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 Week two and two hours to recap essay writing and to teach note-taking and reading strategies (and 37 slides) does not seem very inspiring, or even feasible. Learning from last week, the slides are largely abandoned and discussion on tables encouraged and facilitated from the beginning:

“What note-making strategies have you used?”

“What are the advantages and disadvantages of each one?”

The air is buzzing, the walls bulging in the fight to contain the buzzing, the computer sleeps through the students' rising chatter, through their doing, writing, reading, thinking. The teacher relaxes as the noise increases, something is happening in the room ...

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Last day of covering and it is a workshop: students can work on their essays and have a brief one-to-one chat with me. Walking downstairs to the ‘student study room’, I am excited at the thought of the conversations about to take place. I want the students to feel relaxed so I deliberately sit on a (faded) blue sofa rather than one of the traditional tables and chairs found in educational institutions. I am in the middle of discussing the first student’s draft when another student appears beside us, runs his hand through his hair and says, 'sorry, I need to speak with you for a moment'. 

“Okay, no problem”. He leads the way outside and then explains he cannot work in the room upstairs with the noise, he needs to leave. 

Is he allowed to go? Probably not, but I feel his anxiety and do not wish to exacerbate it. I know I would work much better on an essay at home than in class. 

“I understand.” I say thinking quickly, “Have you got your draft? Would you be okay to work in here while I finish talking with Sam, and then we'll have a chat about your draft before you go.” 

The student, Jake, I think, hesitates. As the tension mounts, he suddenly nods and follows me back into the room. There's no time to think: the tight schedule of seeing each student individually has already been broken ... Later, the shifting moods, the capaciousness of all bodies to affect and be affected, and the emerging 'assemblage' will be written to and with, and two stories (Jake’s and Mary’s) will enter the world. For now, however, the writing will have to wait.

I finish with Sam, call Jake over (relieved he has waited) and invite him to sit down. He remains standing, looks at the floor, runs his hand through his hair, and blurts out:

“I'm confused. I don't know how to start. Sam tried to help, but I can't copy his ...”

“No, but you can learn from it. Sit down. Have you got anything I can look at?” 

He sits down heaving his green rucksack on to the table. After rummaging inside, he shows me his iPad. “Okay, you've made a start on what to include. I always find it helps to write out the title, and also the points to be addressed listed in the brief. I'd leave lots of space under each one.”

Jake taps on his iPad: “Like this?”

“Yes, that’s great. Now do the next one.” 

He seeks reassurance after writing each one. We continue like this until all the points are copied onto the screen. I'm aware of how long this is taking, and of the number of students who have drifted down from the room (im)patiently waiting their turn; I'm also aware that Jake is confused by the whole essay writing process and that he needs more than this, if he is to make progress ...

“Great, I’d suggest you spend a few minutes now – I’ll time you – writing your ideas. Don’t worry about spelling, punctuation or grammar, just let your thoughts flow and see where they take you.”

I have a chat with another student, who fortunately seems more confident and whose draft is progressing well, and then return to Jake.

He has written a surprising amount. I show him where he can elaborate and then ask how he feels about continuing on his own.

“I'll try, but not in that room. Can I go home?” 

The anxiety that had never left escalates. I hide mine and reassure him he can, and that I'm happy to look at what he does. 

Watching him put his iPad away, struggling to get his bulging rucksack on his back, I hope he will be okay. It cannot be easy to be one of only three males in a class. I've already been struck by how some of the older ladies have been supporting another anxious young man, encouraging, cajoling him into writing a plan. But there is also a group of younger girls, who remind me of one of the first students who I taught in Further Education: a 16-year-old withdrawn on her first day when she could not conform to the rules. Those girls have made it impossible for Jake to concentrate. They must be at least 21 to be doing an Access course, but they don’t seem as mature as Jake.

As there are so many students, another tutor has offered to assist for the last hour. I look up as he enters the room; he sits at a round table by a window. Eventually, the steady stream of students stops. There is a group of students (the younger ones) sitting at a table. They can see I’m free and so are obviously waiting to see him. I go upstairs and ask the few students there, if anyone's waiting. As I’m speaking, the door opens behind me, “Tom's free downstairs, if anyone wants to see the proper tutor”. 

A sudden jolting stops my heart. I can’t turn round, but I think it might have been Nicole who spoke.

As thoughts cluster in my mind, none of which can be spoken aloud in the now silent room, one of the younger girls calls out:

'I don't know what the difference is, but can I show you mine, Mary?'

Warmth floods through my body: whether intentional or not, her kindness is exactly what I needed to hear. I walk towards her willing my heart to stop racing so that I can focus on her writing.