My mum wrote me a card for my 40th birthday telling me how much she admires me for following my dreams. I believe I have the private school where I was educated, in part, to thank for this. But if I want my children to share a similar secondary school experience (I love their state primary and wouldn’t change it), I have three years in which to win the lottery.
School allowed me to be a dreamer, never devaluing my passions and instead nurturing and encouraging my love of English. All my early reports say I needed a great deal of reassurance – and this is exactly what I received.
It didn’t instil in me a Rees-Moggian confidence, but when it came to careers, I dared to ask: ‘Why not me?’ and follow my long-held dreams to become a journalist. In my early twenties, I dared to suggest writing a column for a Chinese newspaper about being an English woman living in a town in Guangxi province, and when I returned home I dared to write to every national and local newspaper to ask for work experience, collecting the rejection letters as they flooded through.
I was lucky to be accepted for a two week stint at The Independent, which led to a staff role. I felt intimidated rather than entitled: I stayed up the night before I entered the newspaper office learning every shadow minister’s name in case I was quizzed.
Similarly, when it came to becoming a solo parent, I dared to ask: ‘Why not me?’ and follow my dreams. I didn’t have a partner but didn’t feel limited: if I wasn’t going to become a parent it would be my low fertility levels that prevented me, not circumstance. This inner conviction over doubt is something I’ll always appreciate.
I’m one of those people who genuinely loved my school days: my teachers had a passion for their work similar to my children’s primary school teachers today. I think of my English teachers often, from the encouragement they gave me to write imaginative stories in my primary years, to the head of English taking us on a train to Edinburgh for the schools debating finals in secondary, to being taught to analyse Andrew Marvell during sixth form. My biology teacher, meanwhile, who stunned us all in a GCSE class by telling us she’d eaten placenta on toast after giving birth, was decades ahead of her time.
My friends then remain some of my favourite people in the world – they know my good, bad and ugly and still love me, as I do them. When I listen to friends-I’ve-made-since tell me about their teenage years, I’m very aware how protected I was from the worst of peer pressure. Rather than becoming identikit teens, we celebrated each other’s differences, just as we do now.
I’ve heard tales of girls’ secondary schools where anorexia is rife, but it was a tragic exception rather than the norm at Nottingham Girls High School. In many ways, we were protected from the harsher sides of life itself. Even when I found life hard, after my parents split up, and rebelled against all authority figures, the teachers somehow kept me interested. We were encouraged to do well academically (most of us did), but it wasn’t a pressurised exam factory; students were respected as individuals. It also wasn’t the school to go to for Westminster connections, after all, we were north of the M25.
While I was conscious that my parents made sacrifices for my brother’s and my schooling, I never felt we owed them anything, or they were looking for a return on investment.
Fast-forward three decades, and I absolutely love my children’s primary school and wouldn’t change where they learn. It’s a brilliant state school and is instilling in them the most important values, including kindness and standing up for others.
I cannot imagine better teachers – and their encouragement towards the children, and reassurance towards my eldest Astrid, seven, who I suspect needs it as much as I did – means the world to me.
They also get regular opportunities, largely because of their teachers’ extra hard work, that encourage their dreams: Astrid recently went to her first private view to see her clay sculpture in a Year 2 exhibition curated by an external philosophy lecturer as part of her research, while earlier this year she performed in a choir with another school.
But when I think of secondary school, do I feel guilt for not being able to consider an education where class sizes are 20 instead of 30? Of course I do. It’s natural that when children are young we fear them being swallowed up in a secondary school with 1,000 pupils, but I wonder if I worry about it also because I can’t imagine trying to fit into my local secondary growing up where sport was king. I loved academics and acting, and only briefly made the second team at netball because class sizes were so small.
If I won the lottery, I wouldn’t dream of sending the children off to boarding school (I’d happily give away all the winnings to keep them at home), nor of sending one child to a private school and not the others.
But despite my politics – I firmly believe the private school system further embeds inequalities in society – I would open myself to accusations of hypocrisy and consider sending them to a private day school where class sizes make it easier for teachers to encourage each individual’s dreams.
Of course, I’d much rather our government focuses on making sure no parent is tempted by the private school sector by offering smaller class sizes; as so often, Scandinavian countries are ahead and perhaps Finland, where private schools are banned, has the answer.
I make my peace with the lack of jackpot winnings by reassuring myself of all the things the children gain, and focusing on the genuine positives. My nephews are both at London state schools. My sister-in-law Jess, who I first knew from school, says she never feels guilt regarding her children’s education. “All kids from different backgrounds should be schooled together,” she believes. “Both our boys are bright and have had a great free education so far. They are very aware of politics and world events. A friend’s daughter is at private school and seems less aware, not recognising the Ukrainian flag, for example.”
When it comes to looking around secondary schools in three years, I’ll be looking at the usual things: values, teaching, opportunities for students. But also, how much students believe in themselves. And if I can pass on anything to Astrid, Xavi and Juno from my schooldays to my children, it will be to encourage my children to dare to follow their dreams.