paul earned a Bachelor of Education (Hons) from the University of Tasmania 1993-1996
My first two teaching practicals in the winters of 1993 and 1994 were largely non-events. Paired with another teacher-in-training, I spent no more than 15 school days each winter observing and shadowing a handful of professional educators at work. I spent a lot of time watching but found it difficult to divorce myself from the role of student. Not once was I given the chance to lead a class or start developing my own teaching style. This changed dramatically during my third teaching placement, at a medium-sized rural high school in the winter of 1995.
Ready to apply the theory I’d absorbed over the previous five semesters, I looked forward to this prac: I looked forward to working with an experienced teacher, and I looked forward to working with students — after all, that’s why I’d signed up to train as a teacher. However, on my first day I discovered that the experienced teacher had transferred. In fact, the entire Physical Education department had moved on that year. My new supervisor was a senior teacher who hadn’t worked directly with students for nearly a decade. The department budget was minuscule, and the equipment store was in tatters. A particularly rebellious group of Year 9 students had become the real authority in the school, and weak leadership did little to quash the tide of fear that had overcome most staff and many students. I worked hard with my supervisor to re-establish the Physical and Health Education program in the school. I planned, taught, and struggled with the responsibilities of a modern teacher.
Although inexperienced, I could sense the school was in disarray. Staff morale was low, student effort was minimal, yard duty was dreaded, and weekends were longed for by everyone who spent time there. It was not a nice place to be for a day — let alone the five weeks I spent there.
I travelled the 45 minutes to and from the school each day in a carpool with three other male teachers: two senior staff and one subject head. Collectively they had more than 50 years of teaching experience. I literally had “five minutes” experience — and no sense of when to keep my mouth shut. One evening late in the second-to-last week, I decided to use the car as a closed space to air some of my concerns. I spent a good stretch of that trip arguing against eight-day revolving timetables (they confused students and staff and made planning impossible), against the use of sirens (which, I argued, promoted dependence), against compulsory school uniforms (which I felt broke trust instead of building it), against the heavy bias of subject time toward maths and science (which I saw as unfair to other disciplines), against daily staff meetings before first period (directionless and time-consuming), and against arcane time-out policies, restrictive yard rules, and a raft of other traditions I saw as educationally bankrupt.
Needless to say, the car rocked and rolled with the thunder of argument the moment I drew for air. The three occupants defended their school’s organisation, traditions, and administration with all their passion — for it was their school, theirpractices, and ultimately their careers I was insulting. I still believe my ideas had merit — but I had only limited evidence and, more importantly, no authority to say what I was saying. I’m convinced I would have been dumped from that car that night if I hadn’t been the driver. If I learned anything from that incident, it was that heavy criticism should always be balanced with constructive ideas for improvement. Unfortunately, I was hell-bent on telling my companions what was wrong — and I’d thought very little about what might make it right.
I stewed on that car ride for the rest of my degree. Anytime an argument surfaced about the merits of certain educational practices, I would check my position and read the room. If I was with fellow uni students, I’d speak up. If I was surrounded by experienced teachers, I’d bite my tongue. I survived my final practical and internship knowing all was not right with the system, but also feeling I had neither the experience, nor the authority, nor the depth of ideas to mount a proper critique. I knew I couldn’t be a teacher in good faith — I couldn’t support the dehumanising practices of contemporary schools. I vowed never again to step foot inside a public school as a teacher. If I ever returned, it would have to be in a role where I stood as close to an equal as possible with the students.
In my final year, I took on an extra study load and completed an Honours-level dissertation. I’d hoped to interview high school students, teachers, and support staff about youth suicide prevention — but the university ethics committee barred me from speaking directly with students. They believed I was too inexperienced to talk to young people about death and suicide, fearing I might “plant the idea” of self-inflicted death in young minds. So, at the eleventh hour, I dropped my planned student interviews and re-jigged my research to fit the time left. Reluctantly, I surveyed staff instead and produced a report about their perceptions and experiences of youth suicide. When I submitted my work, I swore I’d never again do research that reduced a person’s experience to numbers.
What I learned while studying teaching (1993–2001):
The reflections below were written around 1999, during a time when I was deeply immersed in critical education theory. They capture my thinking about schools at the turn of the century, and I include them here for transparency. Each pair of passages sets out a “generalisation” as a critique, followed by an aspiration for what could be.
Some 25 years on — through my work alongside educators and from closely observing my own children’s journeys in the public education system — I believe my critique was, at times, too harsh. Today, I see that the vast majority of teachers and school leaders perform extraordinary work in often challenging circumstances. The aspirations, though — those I still hold tight.
FROM THIS
Too many young people leave school fearful of new challenges, reluctant to keep learning, burdened by feelings of failure, powerless to change their lives or communities.
TO THIS
Young people leave school with critical awareness of social systems, confidence to shape their own futures, and the courage to lead social change.
FROM THIS
Learning shaped by competition, ranking, and endless theory — disconnected from real life.
TO THIS
Learning grounded in strong relationships, real-world action, and deep exploration of social issues — school is not preparation for life, it is life.
FROM THIS
Students become passive battlers with little hope for real change — convinced problems are too big to solve.
TO THIS
Students become visionary doers — people who know they can dream, act, and achieve meaningful change for themselves and others.
FROM THIS
Classrooms that leave students asking: What’s the point?
TO THIS
Learning centres where real-world challenges are tackled together — students proudly say, We’re doing it!
FROM THIS
Students treated as future economic units — passive recipients of society.
TO THIS
Students recognised as humans first — nurtured with care, compassion, continuity and love to become tomorrow’s champions.
FROM THIS
Schools designed to produce obedient workers for economic growth and endless consumption.
TO THIS
Schools that grow a compassionate public — people who live well, contribute to community life, and value leisure, relationships and nature as much as work.
FROM THIS
A culture that suppresses curiosity — learning becomes stressful, creativity fades, dreams shrink.
TO THIS
Schools channel curiosity and creativity — helping young people live, learn and leave a legacy, unafraid of change, ready to shape a better future.
FROM THIS
Education that breeds selfishness and competition — no sense of civic responsibility.
TO THIS
Schools that nurture a strong civic spirit — graduates committed to collective action and improving life for all.
FROM THIS
Students finish school with only shallow facts — disconnected from big issues and unable to see how systems connect.
TO THIS
Students learn to read the world critically — tackling urgent local and global issues through experiential, hands-on projects.
FROM THIS
Schools block students from acting now — learning stays theoretical, real change is “for later”.
TO THIS
Schools free students to lead now — creating, testing and expanding solutions to social challenges.
FROM THIS
Students become uncritical consumers — echoing the powerful without question.
TO THIS
Students learn to challenge dominant narratives — becoming creative co-authors of fairer futures, connected to local action networks.
FROM THIS
Schools reaffirm the status quo — big problems are left for governments or corporations.
TO THIS
Schools spark change — local, national and global networks grow from classrooms acting as social change hubs.
FROM THIS
Schools limit exposure to alternative ideas — communities stay disconnected.
TO THIS
Schools become open forums — bridging generations, classes and cultures to tackle the future together.
FROM THIS
School is a once-only stage of life — adults rarely return, learning ends at graduation.
TO THIS
Schools become lifelong pathways — welcoming community members back to learn, mentor, and grow, again and again.
FROM THIS
School life ends at the workplace — people long to be “done with learning”.
TO THIS
Education flexes with life — people step in and out of schools across their lifetime as students, mentors, and co-learners.
FROM THIS
School feels trivial, boring, irrelevant — students learn they “don’t belong”.
TO THIS
School is a vibrant social hub — learning through action, connection and contribution, with serious intellectual, moral and social purpose.
FROM THIS
Childhood cut short by narrow vocational paths — obedient workers shaped too soon.
TO THIS
Students stay curious and free to explore — choosing how they contribute, leading as compassionate activists co-creating the future.
