This is an edited extract from Making the Classroom Work for Every Child, the second book in the Equity in Education series published by Routledge, which is available now. Click here for more details.
The story so far
In Book 1 in the Equity in Education series, Why School Doesn’t Work for Every Child, we met Thomas and Tommy, two fifteen-year-old boys. I’d visited them at home whilst they were both in Year 11 studying for their GCSEs.
Thomas lived with his mum and dad in a five-bedroomed detached house in leafy suburbia. There was a large, manicured garden, home cinema, a study with more books lining the walls than the local library, and a heated swimming pool in the basement.
Until recently, Tommy had lived with his mum and dad, but him and his mum were taken into emergency accommodation. Their temporary flat was on the other side of town. It had one bedroom and one reception room. The reception consisted of a kitchenette and a threadbare sofa which was more spring than cushion. There was a shared bathroom down the corridor which didn’t have a lock on the door or a shower over the bath. The carpets were sticky and the whole building smelled of damp. Tommy shared the bedroom, top-and-tailing with his younger sister; his mum took the sofa. The ceiling leaked and the incessant drip-drip was distracting, like a head full of bees. The heating system was on the blink, but Tommy’s mum couldn’t afford the heating bills anyway.
Thomas had quite the social life: Monday was chess club; Tuesday was tennis; Wednesday was debating society; Thursday was piano; and Friday was time spent with friends. The weekends were no less frantic: Thomas played football on Saturdays and spent Sundays online gaming.
Tommy hadn’t made friends in the area, but he didn’t like being in the flat, so he spent time at a local cafe because they had free Wi-Fi and didn’t ask questions so long as it wasn’t too busy, and he sat quietly in a corner. It was warm and bright. There was a plug to charge his phone, and the tap water was free. He couldn’t use the local library because it got closed just like the community centre where he used to live. Until the community centre closed, he would often go to the youth club there on Thursdays to use the computers or play sports.
Thomas thought he got too much homework, but it wasn’t too hard. His mum and dad helped him whenever needed – and there was always his private tutor. His mum worked from home so was always on hand when needed; his dad ran his own business, so he organised his diary so he could pick Thomas up from chess club and debating society and watch him play football at the weekends.
Tommy knew his dad was a good man, but he lost his job in construction during Covid and struggled with the lockdowns. He became less patient, more prone to outbursts. Tommy’s mum worked at the local supermarket and cleaned at the hospital. She worked shifts which could be tough. Some days, Tommy had to get his sister up and ready for school and some days he had to pick her up after school and babysit her till mum got home. There was no washing machine in the flat and the local launderette was expensive, so their clothes – which were too small – had to survive several wears. Tommy struggled to concentrate at school, often felt tired, hungry, distracted. He would get into trouble for not doing his homework or for daydreaming in class. He would get behind because he was often late.
Thomas had easy manners, was confident and articulate. In the days before his dad bought a villa in Spain, the family would travel Europe. His weekends growing up were always busy – his parents liked to go to the theatre and to visit art galleries and museums. Books also featured heavily in his early memories. His dad would read to him most nights. His favourite author was Roald Dahl. The house was always full of books.
Tommy used to be eligible for the Pupil Premium. His mum didn’t know why that stopped, something to do with changes to her Universal Credit. All she knew was that they didn’t suddenly get any wealthier!
Thomas intended to stay on at school to do his A Levels then take a year out, travelling. After that, he wanted to go to university to read Economics like his dad. His dad could get him a job in the City. He knew what he needed to get in his GCSEs and what A Levels would be best for university applications. He knew all his extra-curricular activities would help when it came to his UCAS form, too, and his parents had said that they’d help him financially.
Tommy had been feeling increasingly anxious. Anxious about school, about homework, about getting into trouble; anxious about not sleeping, not eating; anxious about his appearance, his health, his sister, his mum, where they were going to live next, what was going to happen to his dad.
Thomas was a high-performing student, predicted a raft of grade 9s in his GCSEs; Tommy was not. Thomas and Tommy were students at the same school. Thomas and Tommy had the same IQ. And yet there was little doubt that Thomas would outperform Tommy at school, not because he was brighter or harder working, but because he started the race halfway round the track and had more expensive running shoes.
So, what happened next?
Life after GCSEs
It’s been a year since I last visited Thomas and Tommy. In the interim, they finished their GCSEs and completed Year 11. Thomas is now in the school sixth form studying A Levels; Tommy has enrolled at the local further education college where he’s resitting his English and maths GCSEs alongside a Level 2 qualification in Computing.
I meet Tommy on campus one wet November lunchtime. The college canteen is bustling with activity. Tommy has a tray of chips. The smell of salt and vinegar seduces me, and I instinctively place a hand to my stomach when I hear it grumble.
Tommy tells me about college. It wasn’t his first choice, he says, but he didn’t get the GCSE results he needed to stay on in the school sixth form. Nevertheless, he’s enjoying it so far. There’s more freedom, he tells me; you’re treated more like an adult here than at school. Besides, his teachers at school never liked him, and he had few friends to speak of. The course he’s on is easy, he says. Too easy, if he’s honest. He did Computer Science GCSE so a lot of what they’re doing in college this year is a step backwards for him. He had applied for the Level 3 course, but he hadn’t met the entry requirements because he had needed grade 4s or higher in both English and maths.
I ask him why he didn’t get the grades he needed. He says he knew his stuff, but the exam questions made no sense, used stupid words. The English language paper had a question about skiing holidays or something posh like that. He hadn’t understood half of it. He wouldn’t know a crampon if it bit him. And he hadn’t understood a lot of the words in the unseen text extract either, couldn’t catch hold of its meaning. Plus, he was tired and struggled to concentrate for the full ninety minutes. Kept drifting off, daydreaming. He started thinking about his mum who’d just lost her job cleaning at the local hospital. He’d think about his dad, too, who’d got into a bit of bother with the police after a fight outside his local pub. And he suspected his sister was being bullied at school because she had become quiet and withdrawn.
The maths exam was no better. He can add up, he says, but the questions were just too wordy. Shouldn’t they test your maths not your English?
I ask Tommy if he revised for his exams. He says he tried but finding the time and space to study was always hard. And he lacked the motivation, he adds, candidly. In the spring, he had managed to get a part-time job clearing tables at the Polish cafe near his mum’s flat because he knew he needed to help pay the bills now it was just him, his sister, and their mum. And the flat is tiny, he doesn’t even have his own bed, he tells me, let alone a quiet corner in which to sit and work.
And the closer the exams got, the more he had begun to stress about them. He started having palpitations, panic attacks. He hadn’t told his mum, she had enough on her plate. School didn’t help much, said there was a homework club he could attend but it was after school, and he needed to collect his sister from school so couldn’t stay late.
Anyway, Tommy says, I’ve heard they’ve got to fail a third of students every year, so I guess I was unlucky, and they choose me. I ask him what he means, and he tells me it was something he’d heard a teacher say at school, but he hadn’t really understood.
I ask Tommy if he’d have stayed on at school given the choice. He says he wanted to do A Levels because that’s what most jobs ask for these days, but he’d had enough of the place, to be honest. He hadn’t ever felt like he’d belonged there, the school wasn’t really for people like him. What does he mean by “people like him”, I ask. Working class kids, he says. Poor kids. It’s not only the exams that talk about stupid skiing holidays or use big words, Tommy adds, growing morose, or perhaps truculent. His teachers seemed to be talking a different language half the time. He was always being told off, too; getting detentions for not doing his homework or for not concentrating in class. Teachers don’t understand what it’s like for kids like him, he says.
Primary school had been a bit better. He was doing ok there. But then he moved to ‘big school’ and it all went downhill from there. His teachers thought he was thick, put him in the bottom sets and gave him boring work to do. Why did he get the impression his teachers thought he was thick, I ask. Don’t really know, he says; maybe because I’m not as clever with words as some of the posh kids from up the hill. He didn’t have their confidence, couldn’t speak as well as them, didn’t always know how to explain his thoughts. He hadn’t read all the books they’d read or been to all the places they’d been. Didn’t play rugby at the weekends so often got left out, made to feel different.
I ask Tommy how he knows he was in all the bottom sets. He laughs, not cruelly, just suggesting the answer is obvious. He says everyone knew. They didn’t call it the bottom set, but you only had to look around you to see that’s what it was. All the estate kids, the ones from the children’s home, the ones with no families, no money, no hope. All thrown in together. Sink or… well, sink. Besides, we were the ones who got the supply teachers all the time whilst the good teachers taught the clever kids, he says. We got wordsearches to do whilst they went on field trips or made things explode in the science labs. Not that we could have done the science experiments anyway – there were too many of us in our class, no room to swing a cat let alone dissect a frog. The top sets had half the number of students in them.
But is college good, I ask. Yeah. It’s better than school, he says. More freedom, like I say. Not that I know what to do with it half the time because I don’t have anywhere I can go to study, and the internet doesn’t work in our block. Plus, I don’t always know where to start, I get a lot of work to do outside lessons but where to begin? And I can’t sit in the café and use their Wi-Fi anymore because I work there now, they said it’s not right.
I have to sit English and maths again, too, and the lessons are so boring. We just do the same stuff all over again. And many of the other students in those classes can’t even speak English. I’m not racist, he says quickly, defensively. I don’t mean anything bad by that. It’s just a fact that a lot of the other students in my class are refugees or whatever, just arrived in England and can’t understand the language so the teacher has to speak slowly: small words, big pauses. That makes it boring for me, the lessons just drag.
So, what next? Tommy looks at me, confused. Do you mean after dinner? No, I explain. I mean, what’s your plan for the future? Where do you see yourself going, what do you want to do with your life? He stares down at his chips for what seems like a long time, then faces me and says: survive, I guess; get by. Earn enough to help my mum and sister out. I want my sister to go to uni, she’s definitely got the brains for it. So have you, I tell him. I’ve seen your IQ score, your CATS and SATs. You’re a bright lad. Yeah, well, maybe, he says. I wasn’t the right kind of bright for school, though, was I. Or else I wouldn’t be sitting here now.
The right kind of bright
You’ve got to be the right kind of bright, Thomas tells me as we sit at his kitchen island dipping bread sticks into a pot of organic hummus.
The right kind of bright? I ask. What does that mean? I’m good at exams, he says. It’s not always what you know that matters – or how clever you are, your IQ or whatever. It’s how good you are at remembering stuff and being able to write it all down in the time given and under pressure. Exams don’t bother me, don’t stress me out like they do some people. And I can write quickly, which helps. Good under pressure, me.
And you had lots of help at home, I suggest. Yes, I suppose so. My mum and dad are always around if I need help with homework or revision or whatever. Mum works from home and dad’s his own boss so is there whenever I need him. And you had a private tutor, I add. Yes. Yes. I’m good at maths, Thomas says; get it from my dad. But the tutor helped me with my English because I was predicted a grade 7 and my parents wanted me to get straight grade 9s.
I’m good at remembering stuff, he repeats. Books I’ve read, places I’ve visited, things I’ve seen and heard. There was a question in the English exam about skiing and I remembered when me, mum and dad went to Innsbruck – that’s in Austria – on a skiing holiday. So, I used that memory, basically. The words just flowed.
It’s not all about exams, though, is it, I ask. No, but the same applies in lessons, doesn’t it? I mean, some people are more confident and able to explain themselves, others less so. I get my confidence from my dad. He says we belong wherever we are, should never feel excluded or isolated. We should be proud and speak our minds. Fit in everywhere. I know how to talk to teachers and people at my dad’s work. Some kids just talk the same way to teachers as they do their mates and so they come a cropper.
How’s sixth form, I ask. Thomas shrugs his shoulders: so-so. Is he enjoying the subjects he’s chosen, no regrets? Well, they’re what I need to get into uni so enjoyment isn’t important really. He likes the fact he has some free study time, he says. Some days he can start school later, some days he can leave early. Gives him more time on his games console – where he earns money via his YouTube channel – and more time to shadow his dad who’s given him an informal internship at his trading firm in the city. And he likes being independent, managing this own time and studies. His tutor helped him write a study plan and taught him something called the Pomodoro Technique. And he’s been able to continue playing tennis and rugby.
Thomas tells me his plans for when he finishes sixth form have changed since we last met. He had intended to do Route 66, travelling across America in his gap year before university. But now he’s decided to work full-time with his dad for a year because he knows this will increase his chances of getting into Cambridge, which is where his dad went. He’ll be able to save enough money so he can enjoy university, too; get good digs and be able to join lots of clubs and socialise.
The rigged race of life
Thomas and Tommy went to the same school and there were no discernible differences in their levels of intelligence. Whether they were equally gifted or equally average is of little consequence. What’s important to note is that they were equal. And yet their lives were far from equitable. Thomas outperformed Tommy at every turn and there’s little doubt that he will continue to do so for the rest of their lives. He has already achieved a better level of education from school. He will go on to get better outcomes at post-16 and he will progress to university and secure a well-paid job and enjoy a meaningful and fulfilling professional career. His health and general wellbeing will be better than Tommy’s, too.
In short, Thomas is destined to live a long, happy, rewarding life.
Tommy is not.
Tommy will struggle to achieve any worthwhile qualifications. He will struggle to find a good, well-paid job. He will struggle to afford a decent place to live. He will struggle to afford to heat his home or to feed himself healthily and adequately.
Tommy was born into a poor, working-class family which struggled to make ends meet and failed – not intentionally, but unavoidably and despite their best efforts – to provide a suitable start in life for Tommy and his sister. Unfortunately, Tommy’s birth is set to be his destiny.
Had Thomas and Tommy been switched at birth, so too would their life chances be reversed. Despite what many privileged people may think, success is determined, not exclusively and not always, but in most cases, by the sheer luck of birth. It is much easier to be successful when you start the race halfway round the running track and have an expert coach and expensive equipment.
There are, of course, outliers, people who came from nothing but achieved much. But rags-to-riches stories like these are so rare as to be exceptions that prove the rule. And often these outliers, when you delve a little deeper, did benefit from circumstance. I consider myself to be such an example. I was born and brought up in a poor, working-class family and had no silver spoon. But I went on to be (relatively) successful in my field. I am now demonstrably middle-class: a professional with a raft of good qualifications, a homeowner, car owner, and taker of foreign holidays, able to fit in and feel comfortable in any social circle. But my journey was not one of individual means. Yes, I worked hard, I ‘grafted’ as we’re told we must if we want to escape our disadvantage. But I was also lucky. I had good teachers, available and supportive parents who valued education and made sacrifices to ensure both my brother and I received a good education. I had free access to excellent public facilities including libraries and leisure centres. I was given a full government grant that enabled me to go to university. And often I was simply in the right place at the right time.
The fact remains that most people born into disadvantage or who have additional and different needs can not and do not escape that disadvantage, not because they are not bright enough or do not work hard enough, but because we do not live in a meritocracy and life is neither fair nor equitable.
But it doesn’t have to be this way. Whilst society needs to change for there to be any meaningful and longstanding improvements to this situation, there are many changes that schools can make to help improve the educational and life chances of disadvantaged and vulnerable children, and to create a fairer, more equitable place to learn and thrive.
In part two of this article, we’ll examine Tommy’s experience of school and consider what his teachers could have done differently to help him achieve better outcomes and improve his life chances. In short, what could his teachers have done to prevent Tommy’s birth from becoming his likely destiny.
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