Why I don't want to be a teacher…
Illustration by Satyaki Chakrabarti
For those who don't know me, I have completed a PGCE in Science at The University of Warwick and taught in a Secondary School in North West London.
Yes, I had a lot of holidays as you non-teachers always want to remind us.
After 2 years of teaching, I decided to work with children as an Education Mental Health Practitioner, supporting young people facing mental health problems through low level interventions such as Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT) and parent-led therapy.
In summary, working with children is a passion of mine. They are not the problem.
The problem lies in the system.
After many sleepless nights and with the help of my Philosophy GCSE, I have found out why I do not want to be a dance teacher.
Barathanatyam has been reduced to a mere ‘hobby’.
Teachers no longer focus on standard of learning, but rather, pushing the children through the grades until they trip over the finish line. Whilst gurus are a source of immense knowledge of their craft and enriched in culture, the artform is diluted. The value of the artform is confined to a process of ‘finishing dance’ and having just enough knowledge to create a TikTok reel.
Teachers face the hurdle of the horrible headteacher.
Barathanatyam is often taught in Language Schools. Every Saturday morning, my three brothers and I would battle our way to reach the bathroom first, scoff down a ginormous bowl of Lidl's finest Choco Pops (unfortunately we didn't have the means for branded Coco Pops), and sprint our way to the bus stop opposite our house as my grandad yelled that the bus had turned onto our road. After taking up our roles as the “Class Clowns”, for the next 2 hours and scribbling feeble answers in response to the Tamil literature piece presented on the day, I would skip my way to dance class whilst rapidly chewing on the mutton roll I had shoved in my mouth.
Within this hour, my guru faced 40 children at different levels of dance.
Time constraint is tackled but the next challenge is lurking.
Parents.
They hover at the door like hawks waiting to catch its prey.
As soon as the class finished, the hawks made their move. The teacher is trapped in a flock of parents shouting:
" என் மகள் ஆடுவாளா?"
“மகள் அடுத்த examக்கு தயாரா?”
Translated to “Does my child dance?” and “Is my child ready for the next exam?”.
After flicking away these questions, the guru manages to escape. Little did she know of what was awaiting when she took a sharp left in the corridors.
The Headteacher, (or I prefer the term dictator), stood before her, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch across the length of the halls, concealing any hope of liberation. The guru sighs. She nods continuously, mimicking a bobble-head doll, as the dictator shares their disappointment that not ALL children have been recommended for examination. The guru feebly explains that they are not ready but the headteacher flaps her hand, dismissing her defense. The decision has been made.
All students will be submitted for exams.
Exam day arrives, the gurus gather in clusters. Childrens lips tremble as they state their names. The examiner makes the ultimate choice.
If I pass this child…
The child gains confidence.
They continue learning dance.
The guru has a better reputation of passing a set number of students.
The child can ‘finish’ dance.
The parents are happy.
The dictator is happier.
The detriment of this decision is that the standard of this ancient artform is reduced to pacify the external pressures the guru face.
What would I change in the system?
Increase rigor in assessment technique and allowing children to fail to ensure the expectations of a good dancer is maintained.
Allow the child to struggle in class. The number of children who have completed their diploma but cannot maintain a simple natyarambha arm placement, hold an aramandi position and will be wheezing after reciting a trikala jathi (a set of rhythmic syllables that gradually builds up in speed), has increased in the UK.
Let me explain myself before I get accused of torturing children.
The Kalakshetra School, an institution in India founded by Rukmani Devi Arundale in 1936 and renowned for exceptional standards for cultural preservation, has stated that a student will remain in the same class until they have mastered it. In the UK, a child will present 101 excuses for why they can't sit in aramandi, a half sitting position. Their core strength, adavu technique and mental resilience needs to be built through intense practice. With the correct support from their guru, students can build the resilience needed to be a great dancer.
Limiting the number of examinations a child can take within a period of time.
Let me do some quick math for you:
A child can take an exam twice a year.
We have 52 classes in a year (traditional weekly classes).
If we exclude half terms, Christmas, Easter and our British 6 weeks summer holiday, we have a total of 13 classes canceled.
Total number of classes per year = 39
Year 1: Completed Grade 1 and 2
Year 2: Completed Grade 4 and 5 (please note Grade 3 has been skipped as mother has requested guru to ‘move quickly’ so she can join sibling's class)
Year 3: Completed Grade 6 and 7
Year 4: Completed Grade 8
In 156 classes, we have ‘finished’ learning an ancient art form that has been passed down by our ancestors.
My last plea for artists…
Learn the artform with intent.
Ancient artforms need to be felt. In my recent performance of Gandhari, a theater production retelling a Hindu mythological story, The Mahabharata, I portrayed a mother who blindfolded herself and witnessed her 100 sons murdered in the Kurukshetra War. Whilst performing the final scene, I was entranced by the vibrations of the Guru Mantra recited by the humble vocalist, the subtle notes of the carnatic violin and the gentle whisper of the bansuri, an ancient Indian wind instrument resembling a flute. At that moment, I was Gandhari. My heart sank at the loss of my children who I bore for two long years. I felt so alone. Behind the blindfold, I wept.
When an artist performs with intent, they unveil the transcendent essence of these ancient artforms.
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