Pale Face

Pale Face has been teaching here at Ordinary Comprehensive for three years. Today she came to my office in tears, declaring that she wanted to leave the profession. She was so choked up with emotion that the 5’6” mousy-haired 26 year old English teacher and amateur ballroom dancing runner-up from Streatham Vale, in blue blouse from H & M and sensible shoes from Clarks in a sort of taupe, slightly scuffed - whose identity shall remain a secret - was having trouble communicating. My heart filled with pity, so I tried to understand.

‘Can I get you a drink, Pale Face?’ I asked. She managed to shake her head between sobs and gasps. I let her have my comfy seat with the nice cushion and perched on the desk before her – a pose of confident authority with a hint of compassion.

‘I think I know what the problem is, Pale Face. You don’t like black boys. Is that it? I’m right, yes? You don’t mind teaching the white children, but you can’t bring yourself to help out the black boys.’

‘No!’ she spluttered, a little snot dribbling from her pink nose, ‘that’s an awful suggestion!’

‘Okay, okay, Pale Face. Calm down. So it’s not teaching the black boys that bothers you, it’s telling them off. You’re afraid to discipline them. Is that it?’

‘I’m not racist!’ she exclaimed, rather melodramatically.

‘Whoa there, Pale Face! No one’s calling you racist! Not that it’s the racists I have a problem with. It’s the wishy-washy Lefties with their political correctness and equality and their fear of appearing racist. I’m not blaming you, Pale Face. You can’t help yourself – it’s your Liberal upbringing. You’ve been brainwashed –’

She interrupted me, which I thought was a bit much, considering she’d invited herself into my office.

‘It’s got nothing to do with black boys…’ she insisted. I began to understand her predicament a little more clearly.

‘Ah! It’s the Chinese you’re not keen on,’ I suggested.

‘No, it’s not…’

‘Indians? South Americans? Wait – I’ve got it! You can’t stand the working class kids! Of course! Well, let me tell you something, Pale Face, and I think this might help you – but this stays between these four walls. When I started teaching, I couldn’t stand the so-called ‘working’ class kids with their idleness and their excuses. But then, over the years, I grew to understand something very important. Working with paupers makes you look good. It’s good for your CV, it’s good for dinner parties – it’s good for dating. It’s especially good if you imagine you may one day have to knock out a lot of column inches in defence of some hastily-conceived rant that was only ever cobbled together in the first place in order to promote your book…’

She interrupted me again.

‘I don’t have any prejudices against the kids, Miss G. I’m just finding the workload too much. I need a rest. I don’t think I’m cut out –’

I sensed the floodgates may have opened, so I showed her the door and advised her with as much sympathy as I could muster that leaving was probably her best option. A little later I heard that she had, mercifully, handed in her notice. Another one bites the dust!