Celebrating Self-Discipline in ‘Jekyll and Hyde’

Robert_Louis_Stevenson_by_Henry_Walter_Barnett_bwThis evening, I read a thread on Twitter which presented an interpretation of Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde which I fear is all too frequent. Utterson was seen as a repressed Victorian gentleman who would do well to admit honestly, as does his old friend Jekyll, that he has a darker side to his nature. According to this interpretation, we should see human nature as Jekyll does: ‘not truly one, but truly two’. In other words, we should be ready to give up hope of achieving any kind of integrity, any kind of self-discipline. Virtues such as temperance are to be scorned as mere hypocrisy. Embracing such a view of human nature means instructing our pupils in the impossibility of any kind of noble self-sacrifice for the sake of others. It is a counsel of despair. As an antidote to this gloomy outlook, I’m posting here an exemplar essay which we use at Great Yarmouth Charter Academy, which offers a very different interpretation. It aligns with our belief that self-discipline is not only possible, but necessary. Instead of dismissing of the efforts of Utterson to mortify his selfish appetites, we celebrate them.

Read the following extract from Chapter 1 (‘Story of the Door’) and then answer the question that follows.

In this extract, which is the opening of the novel, Stevenson introduces the lawyer Gabriel Utterson to the reader.

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

‘Gabriel Utterson is the real hero of the novel’.

Starting with this extract, explore how far you agree with this opinion.

Stevenson’s 1886 novel The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was published the year before Sherlock Holmes appeared in print, but it shares many characteristics with Conan Doyle’s famous series of detective stories. Among these is the contrast between an ordinary, typical Victorian gentleman and an eccentric genius who does extraordinary things. Gabriel Utterson is rather like Dr Watson in many respects, because he represents normality in contrast to the outlandish exploits of Dr Jekyll. But a key difference is that unlike Dr Watson, it is Utterson rather than Jekyll who is doing the detective work. He is piecing the clues together through the first eight chapters of the novel, and the reader shares in his puzzlements, as they share in his final discovery of the key to the mystery in chapters nine and ten.

But is Utterson the hero of the novel? That depends upon what we mean by ‘hero’. If we mean someone who has many admirable characteristics, then Utterson suits this description better than Jekyll. Utterson proves himself to be a loyal, brave and self-disciplined gentleman: in many respects, one could argue that he is a model of Victorian morality, in contrast to Jekyll, whose rebellion against accepted moral standards leads to his destruction.

In this opening paragraph, Stevenson takes some care to characterise the man who will be keeping the reader company for much of the narrative. A key to his personality is his reserve. He speaks rarely and never smiles. His undemonstrative personality will be crucial to his role in the story as it unfolds. Utterson is a man who can be trusted with secrets, and his discreet attitude to any information that relates to his friends is symbolised by the safe in which he locks Jekyll’s will, and later the letter which purports to be from Hyde, but which he believes to have been forged on his behalf by Jekyll. Strictly speaking, this letter should have been handed to the police, as potential evidence in a murder case, but Utterson’s loyalty to his friends, even his friends who are ‘downgoing men’, means that he would rather lock their secrets away than reveal them to anyone.

Stevenson also emphasises Utterson’s self-discipline in the extract. He deliberately drinks gin (which was particularly cheap in 1886) and avoids fine wine in order to ‘mortify’ his appetites. This private act of self-restraint illustrates a larger point about his character: he will not follow selfish impulses, which once again makes him a contrast to Dr Jekyll, who pampers his selfish nature through his ‘adventures’ as Hyde, whose ‘every act and thought centred on self’. Later in the novel, we witness Utterson restraining his desires in a more serious matter, when he is tempted to open Lanyon’s narrative before the death of Jekyll, but he overcomes this temptation, and locks the narrative in his safe. In contrast to Jekyll, who seeks a ‘solution of the bonds of obligation’ by becoming Hyde, Utterson obeys the ‘stringent obligations’ of ‘professional honour and faith to his dead friend’.

Stevenson also makes clear in his opening that Utterson reserves judgement. He avoids passing judgement on ‘downgoing men’, and is ‘inclined to help rather than to reprove’. As a result, he manages to maintain friendly relations with them, and maintain the hope of being a ‘good influence’ upon them. As the narrative unfolds, we see this characteristic amply illustrated in his determination to maintain his friendship with Jekyll, whatever his reservations about the connection with Hyde, and despite the strange behaviour of his friend. His offers of help are rebuffed by Jekyll in Chapter Two, but he renews them in Chapter Five, after the murder of Carew, when he agrees to take the letter from Hyde. He even begins to see the link between Jekyll and Hyde in a better light when he reads the letter. He is eager to look for the best in others and avoid judging them unless he has conclusive evidence, a characteristic which is underlined by his profession as a lawyer.

Finally, Stevenson leaves the reader in no doubt of Utterson’s courage. This is most clearly illustrated in Chapter Eight, where Utterson must confront a man whom he believes to be a murderer, armed with only a poker. Even the reserved Utterson is described as ‘very pale’ after he hears the voice of Hyde coming from the cabinet, but he masters his emotions and agrees to break into the cabinet with Poole, then calmly goes about searching for evidence following their discovery of the body of Hyde.

In conclusion, it is certainly possible to see Utterson as the hero of the novel, due to his loyalty, generosity, courage and self-discipline. Perhaps we could see the novel as having two heroes. The doomed Jekyll is its tragic hero, destined as he is to be destroyed by his self-indulgence and his misuse of power. Just as in Shakespeare’s tragedies there are always characters who obey moral laws and restore order, so in Stevenson’s tragedy Utterson fulfils this role. But Utterson is considerably more interesting as a character than the typical Shakespearean restorer of order. Utterson may seem rather stiff to modern readers, yet he remains ‘somehow lovable’.

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Remembrance Day at Charter

War MemorialRemembrance Day is one of those occasions when we are reminded of the public’s thirst for tradition and ceremony. The destruction of ceremony never has been a popular movement; it has always been imposed by a liberal elite. People find great satisfaction and great consolation in taking part in meaningful public ceremonies of a solemn nature. Sadly, there are few opportunities for them to do so, unless they happen to go to a major public school, where such things are preserved for the enjoyment of the economic and social elite.

But at Great Yarmouth Charter Academy, we believe that everyone can access great traditions. Everyone can appreciate the value of honouring the sacrifice of their forefathers to preserve the freedom of the country where they live. It’s not a complicated or excessively intellectual thing to understand that many ordinary men laid down their lives for their country a century ago, and it’s not a complicated or difficult thing to honour that memory through ceremonies such as a two minute silence.

In fact, even in schools which are normally chaotic, I’ve found in the past that the two minute silence can be observed successfully. Even pupils who are normally rude and obnoxious can rise to the occasion when there is something happening which all recognise as serious and solemn. This shows the edifying and uplifting power of public ceremony and tradition, as it reaches even into the dark world of the bog standard comprehensive.

But at Charter, we can do much more than a two minute silence. We can take many opportunities to talk about the virtues displayed by the soldiers who laid down their lives. Over the last fifty years, there has been an educational fashion whereby the poetry of Wilfred Owen is seen as the ‘real’ version of World War One, while poems such as ‘In Flanders Fields’ are derided as mere propaganda. It’s worth asking ourselves which poet better represents the experience of the typical British (or Canadian) soldier. Owen sees the suffering of the soldiers as meaningless and futile, while John Macrae, the author of ‘In Flanders Fields’ demands that we honour the dead by continuing the fight which they began.

We may debate whether the First World War was necessary, or the tactics adopted by the military leaders, but surely we cannot doubt the commitment, courage and loyalty shown by the ordinary soldiers who laid down their lives? Focusing only on the misery of the soldiers and not their courage and perseverance turns them into mere victims, and dishonours their memory. You won’t be surprised that it is not ‘Dulce et Decorum Est’ but ‘In Flanders Fields’ that we are memorising as a school in preparation for Remembrance Day:

‘In Flanders Fields’ (1915) by John McCrae (1872-1918)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Whole Class Feedback: A Winner All Round

Hoop jumpingWhole class feedback can be seen as a lazy option. Surely teachers are just avoiding the necessary work of giving individual feedback because they want to have more free time? But this view ignores the important point about opportunity cost, which must always be considered. Time spent on writing individual feedback in exercise books is time not spent on improving resources, or developing subject knowledge. Individualised feedback is enormously time-consuming and of doubtful benefit. In comparison, improving teaching materials will certainly benefit large numbers of pupils, and will continue to do so time and again, as the resources are used year after year.

This view also ignores the personal cost of excessively time-consuming practices which are of doubtful benefit. Teachers have families and friends. They cannot work every hour of the day and night; nor should they. If we want teaching to be a sustainable and an attractive profession, we must consider the work-life balance of staff.

At Great Yarmouth Charter Academy, we have introduced a school wide policy on whole-class feedback. As with everything at GYCA, we are aiming for consistency across the school, so that pupils know exactly what to expect. We are are also aiming, as always, for the maximum learning return on time invested.

As a school we require teachers to read all of their pupils’ books regularly and to make notes, for their own use, in a shared Google spreadsheet which can be accessed by their department and by the senior leadership team. The spreadsheet contains columns for notes which pertain to feedback to be given directly to the class as a result of reading the books, but the more important column is where teachers note feedback for themselves. What are they going to do differently based upon what they have seen in the books? What are they going to teach differently? What are they going to lay greater emphasis upon, or less? Which common misconceptions are they going to address, and how?

The most important feedback from reading pupil work is not to the pupil but to the teacher. The greatest impact will be had if the teacher reflects on how to improve their teaching based on what they have read. For example, when I read the year ten English literature exams at the end of last year, I noticed that the pupils did not have a clear enough concept of setting. Therefore I updated all of our GCSE literature study guides to include a setting section, to make this more explicit for them. I am also making a point of mentioning the term more often in my teaching of literature, and guiding pupils to write analysis based around aspects of setting in, for example, the Victorian London of Jekyll and Hyde.

At GYCA, teachers have the time and space to reflect on their teaching and respond to what they are seeing in the books. They’ll be doing this in class, as well, as they look over shoulders during writing tasks, which are always done in silence, but the regular look through the whole class sets of books gives a particularly powerful opportunity to reflect on their teaching and how to improve it.

Another huge benefit of our light-touch approach to feedback is that teachers no longer need to be afraid of pupils writing lots and lots and lots. I’m sure many teachers reading this have had a sinking feeling as they watched their classes of thirty-two filling up the pages, and they pictured the piles of books which they would have to fill with extensive, personalised, multicoloured feedback as a result. In contrast, teachers at GYCA are liberated to get pupils to do lots of writing, and they know that they will be able to read it and discuss it without the burden of time-consuming processes imposed on them from above.

It’s a winner all round: lots of writing in silence, lots of guidance before and during that writing, lots of time to produce ever-better resources, and a reasonable work-life balance. That’s why we’re committed to whole-class feedback at Great Yarmouth Charter Academy.

(Image from Wikimedia)

The Joy of Good Manners

When I was in my teens and twenties, I despised manners. Why would you say words to other people without really feeling them?. Why would you go through routines, using fixed words, instead of expressing the spontaneous emotion of the moment?

In this, as in so much else, I was influenced by the degraded Romanticism which pervades our culture, in which emotion is raised above reason, and the individual will must be at the centre of everything.

It didn’t do me any good, of course. I missed out on many cheerful words and many ceremonies which would have enriched my life. I graduated from university three times without once attending a graduation ceremony. I was often crippled by a lack of spontaneous words to utter, and would even avoid my friends at times when I felt uninspired. I remember crossing the road to avoid people I liked well, just because I couldn’t think of anything original or interesting to say to them.

Thank goodness, the burden of originality and spontaneity has been lifted. I’m sure it’s something to do with having been married for almost two decades. I’m not the slightest bit concerned that the words ‘I love you’ are unoriginal or lacking in the spark of divine genius, and I enjoy being married more and more as the years go on, and the words become more and more well-worn.

But lately, I’ve made yet another discovery about just how wrong and how miserable were the Romantically-inclined beliefs of my youth. I’ve started working at Great Yarmouth Charter Academy, where the headmaster, Barry Smith, has been training all of the staff in manners. You might think we, as grown ups, didn’t need such training, but I can tell you that in my own case, it’s done me the world of good, because it has created a community in which there is a simple expectation: every time you walk past someone, you greet them. You never ignore them. You never keep your head down. You look towards them and bid them ‘good morning sir / miss’, or if there are many of them, ‘good morning ladies and gentlemen’.

Whether or not you’re feeling cheerful, you can be cheerful in this simple way, and it makes every day happier and brighter. It also means that pupils know that staff are around and paying attention to them. Staff are not invisible because they are audible. Staff can be heard greeting pupils cheerfully as you go around the school. No one is sulky or withdrawn, because that’s just rude. Teenagers do not retreat into themselves, as I often did when I was that age.

It’s a simple and beautiful thing, and it’s something everyone can do. It doesn’t depend upon the individual, but upon a communal expectation, and it becomes a habit after you’ve been doing it for a few days. Like all of the best things in life, it’s just normal, and it doesn’t gain me the slightest bit of glory. What a glorious relief for everyone!

Direct Instruction Principles for Guided Writing Practice

stower_titanic_colourizedI’ve been a fan of Expressive Writing for a number of years. It is exquisitely designed, and like all of Engelmann’s Direct Instruction programmes, the principles on which it is based can teach us much about how to teach effectively across the board. It is particularly relevant, though, to how we think about practising writing.

David Didau recently blogged about what can be practised in English lessons. He argued against practising writing essays or analytical paragraphs on literature, favouring instead the teaching of sentence construction, as sentences are the building blocks of good writing. He also argued that it would be a good idea to use plenty of oral practice of good sentences, as this would result in better retention of knowledge.

I agree that we need to practise the components of writing, and we need to use plenty of oral drill, but it doesn’t have to be either/or. In Expressive Writing, pupils go through a carefully designed, incremental sequence of practice exercises, moving from oral drill, to editing sentences, to writing sentences, to writing paragraphs, to writing multiple paragraphs. The ultimate goal of the oral drill and the written exercises is to enable pupils to produce extended narrative writing fluently and accurately. This has to be our goal with analytical writing as well, and we can use similar methods.

Guided writing practice involves a series of steps. Let’s take the example of writing about An Inspector Calls, J B Priestley’s perennially popular piece of socialist propaganda. Our ultimate goal is that pupils can produce extended analytical writing on a given theme or character in the play. They might have to answer a question like this:

‘How does Priestley use the character of Mr Birling to present ideas about capitalism?’

In a lesson where our goal was for pupils to write a paragraph on this topic, we would teach specific examples of how Birling shows a complacent attitude. We’d teach (or revise) the definition of ‘complacent’ of course – ‘smugly satisfied with your own achievements’. We’d have the class chant that definition, and ask multiple pupils to repeat it using cold-calling. We’d chant key quotations, such as ‘the Titanic […] unsinkable, absolutely unsinkable’. We’d model how to analyse such quotations orally, having the whole class and individual pupils repeat sentences such as ‘Using this image, Priestley depicts capitalism as doomed to destruction’.

All of this oral drill would be done briskly, and no pupil would be able to hide, because they would all be expected to join in when the whole class chanted a particular word, phrase or sentence, and they would know that they could be cold-called at any time. Only after having been through this fast-paced, interactive whole class teaching would we ask any pupil to put pen to paper. And when they did put pen to paper, they would start by copying an opening sentence, to ensure that they began as we intended them to go on. The opening sentence could be something like this:

‘Priestley makes abundantly clear to the audience that Birling’s confidence is misplaced, particularly through Birling’s reference to the Titanic as being ‘unsinkable, absolutely unsinkable’.’

This sort of closely guided writing practice, preceded by fast-paced oral drill, means that writing is focused, and pupils are continually building knowledge and vocabulary as well as the ability to write analytically. It can be extended to essay length as time goes on, but always under the guidance of the teacher.

If we want our pupils to write well, they need to practise writing, but it doesn’t have to be mechanical Point-Evidence-Explanation; it doesn’t have to be a confusing and futile exercise in building a mythical generic skill of analysis; it doesn’t have to be a pretend mini-GCSE to generate junk data. It can be satisfying, interesting and effective, if we apply the principles of Direct Instruction.

Footnote:

British English:
verb – practise
noun/adjective – practice

American English:
verb and noun/adjective – practice

[Engraving by Willy Stöwer: Der Untergang der Titanic]

Combining GCSE Preparation with Real Education

Robert_Louis_Stevenson_by_Henry_Walter_Barnett_bw

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

GCSEs are fiddly. There’s no way around it. They contain multiple question types which demand slightly different things of pupils, and they are marked according to rigid criteria, often by examiners who lack the deep subject knowledge to make nuanced judgements. This means that knowledgeable and able pupils can lose marks unless they have been trained to serve up ‘what the examiner wants’.

Therefore, although it is not the same thing as education, schools cannot avoid doing test practice. And because it must be done, we need to think about ways of making this test practice as educational as possible. We need to make the test practice as coherent as possible, and pay as much attention as possible to building cultural capital that is retained in long-term memory, even while we are addressing the dreary and anti-educational issue of ‘what the examiner wants you to do in paper 1 question 3’.

If we can crack this issue, we can make GCSE preparation more than just a joyless, soul-destroying exercise in ticking the exam board’s boxes.

Let’s take a look at GCSE English language. However much I deplore the very existence of this non-subject, it’s part of our current educational reality, and so it must be addressed. How might we prepare our pupils, for example, for GCSE English language paper 1 section A? In this part of the exam, candidates are required to read an extract from 20th or 21st century fiction and answer a series of question types which move from fundamental understanding of content to critical evaluation of literary techniques.

The exam boards provide anthologies of extracts for practising these question types, but I would advise English teachers not to use these, because they are not created with any coherent knowledge goal in mind. If we want to make the best use of the time spent doing test practice for GCSE English language, we need to come up with our own anthologies so that we will not simply be reading any old thing in order to ‘practise comprehension’.

Let’s look at some specific examples. If you are studying The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde for English literature, you could gather together an anthology of extracts from gothic fiction, such Frankenstein, Dracula and Edgar Allan Poe’s short stories. If you are studying An Inspector Calls, you could gather together an anthology of extracts from other twentieth century socialist writers, such as John Steinbeck and George Orwell. Or you could gather together some Edwardian fiction, such as E M Forster, to give a better understanding of the time at which the play is set.

The same principle can be applied to GCSE English language paper 2 section A. The two linked non-fiction texts you use could be related to the literature you are studying. I recently pulled together a resource pack for Inspiration Trust English teachers focused on The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, using a piece of 21st century journalism looking at the history of the novel’s reception, along with a contemporary review of the novel from the 19th century. These two non-fiction texts contain a wealth of knowledge and vocabulary which has intrinsic value. They are actually worth studying for their own sake.

If you’re going to use rich, satisfying and challenging texts for the purposes of GCSE test practice, then you will need to teach these texts explicitly. You’ll need to leave behind the idea that each lesson can be a mini-mock, and explain key ideas and words to pupils before they attempt the questions. They’ll still be getting familiar with ‘what the examiner wants’, but they’ll actually be learning something into the bargain, instead of muddling their way through and retaining nothing in long-term memory due to cognitive overload.

Once you start thinking about it, there are so many possibilities for using test practice as an opportunity for building rich knowledge and vocabulary and enhancing pupils’ study of literature. So take the leap and abandon the exam board anthologies, which are based on the false notion that it doesn’t matter what material you use for practising the generic skill of comprehension. Comprehension is primarily based on knowledge and vocabulary, and we must not waste our time delivering lessons that are not focused on building retention of these in long-term memory.

Primary Literature: Telling Stories

Tikos_Boy_Reading_1843

Boy Reading (1843) by Albert Tikos (1815-1845)

I’m currently working with primary teachers across the Inspiration Trust to develop a content-focused approach to literature. I spoke to the whole primary staff about this project back in October – you can read my talk here. In this post, I’ll be looking at why a content-focused approach is more accessible, more equitable, more effective, and more joyful.

But firstly, what do I mean by content-focused literature teaching? Very briefly, I mean teaching that has as its goal the retention in long term memory of the content of literature: its plots, characters and themes. This goal is distinct from the goal of practising decoding to fluency, which is of course a necessary part of primary education (and sometimes of secondary too). It is also distinct from the goal of practising generalised ‘comprehension skills’ such as inference and prediction. I’ll argue later that a focus on content actually enables better inference and prediction anyway.

Content-focused primary literature teaching is accessible

A strong focus on the plots, characters and themes of literature is more accessible because fundamentally, it is about knowing the story well. Everything flows from this. Stories are the most memorable and interesting thing, for everybody. As Daniel Willingham has pointed out (in Why Don’t Students Like School), the human brain seems to be set up specially for the retention of stories. They sink in and they stay in the mind more easily than anything else.

When the teacher is focused on the story as they teach literature, she is using the most powerful and the most accessible tool for transferring knowledge to their pupils, whatever their ability level. When the teacher reads the story out loud to the class and explains it to them, she opens up new worlds to pupils of all abilities and backgrounds.

Content-focused primary literature teaching is equitable

This follows naturally from accessibility. A teacher-led lesson focused on literary content allows the whole class to share in the story. The whole class is building cultural capital. The whole class is building shared meanings that will stand them in good stead as they mature and encounter more sophisticated texts. No one is left behind.

This is always the paradox: when we insist upon differentiation, we embed disadvantage and make our education system less equitable. When we insist that everyone in the class listens and learns the same material, we reduce the gap between the haves and the have nots.

Content-focused primary literature teaching is effective

When the focus is squarely on the content of literature, children’s knowledge and vocabulary will grow, and this is the primary means by which comprehension can be improved. While there is some benefit in general strategies for improving comprehension, they are, as Willingham points out here, easily learned and do not require much practice. The vast majority of our ability to comprehend is based upon what we have stored firmly in our long term memories. So focusing on this in our primary curriculum is the best way to ensure success in the short and the long term. It will lead to better SATs results, but more importantly, it will lay firm foundations for a lifetime of better understanding and ever increasing knowledge.

Our brains, tuned as they are to stories, naturally infer and predict, and their ability to do this accurately is primarily based on how much knowledge is stored in long term memory. The conclusion is obvious. If we want our pupils to be able to infer and predict effectively, we must give them more knowledge.

Content-focused primary literature teaching is joyful

If we want to inoculate our pupils against literature, the best way to do this is to turn every story into a vehicle for practising comprehension strategies or doing SATs test preparation. But when we forget all that dry, dull and empty formalism, we find that there is a wealth of fascinating stories that every pupil can enjoy. Content-focused primary literature teaching becomes a journey of discovery which includes everybody in the class, even the teacher. And you get better SATs results into the bargain.