Parent-teacher meetings are supposed to be about the child, but often they’re not. Within the first few seconds, the complexion of it is established. You’ll know when you’re dealing with a parent who will back their child to the hilt; who’ll take even the mildest reproach as an indictment of not only their parenting, but their entire existence. You’ll make vacuous statements, say nothing that can be leapt upon, and just handle the child yourself.
Then there’s the rare, magical, Hail Mary parent. The one who, from the moment their posterior touches their seat, launches into a diatribe. “I bet she never shuts up ... she’s a divil for dodging her homework ... if they ever back-talk to you, you phone me right away.”
These ones you don’t have to coddle, cajole or negotiate with. You don’t need to ease them into accepting that maybe their child can be a human being. Not always polite, not always rude. You just sit back and watch, like there’s a film playing in front of you. You can hardly believe it.
And at the end, you stand up, reach over for their hand and say: “It was an absolute pleasure talking to you.”
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‘I’ve seen quite a few parents devoid of affection, all across that parent-teacher meeting table’
Most parents I can be kind of honest with. Ultimately, a successful parent-teacher meeting is one where they don’t make a beeline for the principal after speaking with you. I often think of Jim Hacker’s advice in Yes, Minister. Don’t listen to the question. Make your statement. And never invite a question. Or ask one, if you can avoid it.
Every teacher has their own technique for bringing a meeting to a close. Mine is to stand up and extend my hand. It would take some brass neck to tell you to sit back down. An effective meeting can be done in two minutes if you say what you need to say and brook no unnecessary diversions:
Scene: a boxy trestle table, two plastic chairs befitting developing youths, not grown-ups, muddy overhead lighting that barely blankets a draughty sports hall from the 1970s.
Seated, teacher shivering from either nerves or cold. From stage left enters a woman bearing a large coat and a redoubtable mien. The time is six o’clock in the evening and the tea has gone cold.
– “Hello – Rachel’s mother here.”
– “Ah, lovely to meet you. I have two Rachels. Just want to double-check. Red hair?”
– “Yes.”
– “Yes, well, Rachel is getting on grand. A bit of rough patch at the start, but she settled in.”
A wrinkled expression from the mother.
– “There were a couple of times homework was forgotten. I had to correct her for a bit of chattiness. But they all can be like that at that age.”
The expression softens, but is still watchful and suspicious.
– “Her last piece had some really good ideas in it, though. I think she has potential. Does she read at home at all?”
– “No. I try, but you know how they are with their phones.”
A sage nod from the teacher.
– “And do you think she’s able for the higher level?”
– “Oh, yes, absolutely. But she will need to be a bit more consistent in her studies.”
– “What kind of grade do you think she’s going to get?”
– “Well, I don’t like to pin myself to a prediction. I’ve had parents throw them in my face before. It all depends on the exam and her performance on the day. Students have both shocked and surprised me.”
Wan smile from the teacher. The mother looks unmoved, yet almost imperceptibly impatient.
– “And what can she do to improve?”
– “I hate sounding like a typical English teacher, but the reading really is important. And trying to imitate the style of writers she likes when doing her own work. Eventually, her own style will emerge from that.”
– “Okay...”
– “Even using my samples will help, as she does tend to write very little, which gives the examiner little opportunity to award marks.”
– “Yes, well, quality over quantity.”
– “True ... up to a point.”
The teacher stands, peremptorily extends hand.
– “Anyway, if that’s all, I better get on to the other parents. Have a lovely evening.”
Years of dealing with minors has taught me a lot about what is required to be a good role model. It has also given me a keen eye for when something isn’t right with a child.
The mother was the problem. Intense, arrogant, demanding, she’d show up to parent-teacher meetings with about five minutes remaining, and do a round robin to berate most of the staff
I had one student in second and third year for English. In second year, they were a delight to have in class. Vibrant, witty, incisive, always a good contributor. But that changed in third year. They changed. They became fretful, worried daily about the Junior Cert; questioning everything we did in class. Would this be on the exam? What will an examiner be looking for? When are we going to get the poetry course finished? The child was a contagion of concern. All the kids felt it. They flinched away from their stress, not wanting to be infected by it.
In transition year, this student reverted to their second-year self. Smiley, uninhibited, calm. But nobody wanted to be their friend any more. They got lonely, depressed and left the school by Christmas. They went to a more “academic” school for their Leaving Cert studies.
My opinion? The mother was the problem. Intense, arrogant, demanding, she’d show up to parent-teacher meetings with about five minutes remaining, and do a round robin to berate most of the staff. Tired of her antics, I got up and left, as it was after finishing time. She got up from my colleague’s desk and chased me down the corridor to question me about when I’d get the course done. I curtly replied that “in seven years, I’ve never sent a student into an exam with the course unfinished. It’ll be done.” With that, I turned on my heel and left.
Just as we model adulthood to students, I think parents need to be aware of how their modelling impacts on their child’s personality. Grades aren’t everything.
For some parents, they feel their job is done if they pushed their kids to get 600 points. Ambitions are wonderful things, but they have to be tempered by affection. I’ve seen quite a few parents devoid of the latter, all across that boxy trestle table.
