the-roundup-114

A message from 
Rich Jones, Head.

I've never really minded talking. More importantly, I've never really minded talking in public. I think that's probably down to some hefty early exposure. Having been roughly this size since I was eight, I've always found it rather difficult to hide or remain inconspicuous. I was also never quite fast enough when everyone else ducked out of sight, leaving me standing there, staring into space, wondering quite how I'd ended up at the front again.

From an early age, I found myself speaking in assemblies, Sunday School classes, lessons and even, on one memorable occasion, local television. I was helping to promote a charity drive involving hot cross buns when I decided it would be frightfully amusing to remove the 'n' from bun and replace it with another letter. You can probably imagine which one. I thought I was hilarious. The adults were less convinced, and I subsequently spent a considerable amount of time in detention learning that the Portishead Lions' Church Roof Christmas Appeal was no laughing matter.

As a Head, I still do rather a lot of talking. Twice this week, in fact, with our Open Day on Wednesday and Sixth Form Information Evening on Thursday. I quite enjoy these occasions. They offer a chance to talk about the School, to reflect on what we're trying to achieve and, perhaps most importantly, to remind myself why we do what we do.

For Open Day, I always try to write something new. From healed femurs to muddy worms, there is usually something slightly peculiar woven into the proceedings. I spend quite a bit of time thinking about the stories, the connections, and the messages I want families to take away. It matters to me that what I say feels authentic and captures something of the spirit of St Chris.

This week, however, I learnt an enormous lesson. Again.

You see, after I've finished speaking, I hand over to Jen and Louis, our current Head Students. It's a fairly annoying process. I spend ages constructing analogies, considering narrative arcs, checking statistics, refining jokes and trying to sound vaguely profound. Then these two chancers wander onto the stage and utterly blow me away. Effortlessly.

They spoke separately, but with such heart, compassion and truth, and with a healthy dollop of self-reflection, that you couldn't help but be moved. Both talked about their journeys through the school, the nervousness they had felt when they were younger, the challenges they had faced and the confidence they had gradually developed. Both reflected on how utterly bemused their younger selves would have been at the thought of standing in front of a packed hall of prospective families and delivering a speech with such assurance.

Now that's a narrative arc.

Frankly, there was very little point in me being there.

I spend quite a lot of time with Jen and Louis. We meet weekly for about 45 minutes, and our paths cross regularly at breakfast, in meetings or simply wandering around school. They are excellent company. They are also very much their own characters, but what has always struck me is their passion for the school, their kindness and their understanding that their roles are not really about status or recognition, but about giving something back.

Naturally, our conversations are not always terribly profound. We spend a reasonable amount of time discussing poor Louis's unwavering support for Leicester City, his frankly worrying admiration for Rory Stewart and the various fortunes of British politics. Jen can launch into an extraordinarily enthusiastic analysis of the state of the nation within minutes of sitting down, no political party or persuasion is left unturned, usually with Louis only seconds behind. They are engaged, thoughtful, opinionated and interested in the world around them. They challenge, question and care. They are, quite simply, wonderful ambassadors for our school.

Interestingly, both seriously considered leaving St Chris for their Sixth Form education. I think that's worth acknowledging. At sixteen, the world opens up a little, other possibilities emerge, the lights elsewhere can appear a little brighter, the grass a little greener and, perhaps most compellingly, the nearest Greggs a little closer.

But they stayed, and I'm enormously glad they did.

What struck me about their speeches on Wednesday was that neither simply offered a catalogue of opportunities, achievements or facilities. Instead, they talked about something much harder to put into a prospectus. They talked about time, care and space. About being known. About the confidence that comes from being encouraged, sometimes gently and sometimes with a little more insistence, to discover what you are capable of.

These are almost intangible things, difficult to measure and even harder to capture in a glossy photograph, but they sit at the very heart of what we try to do here.

We work in the grey. We adapt. We recognise that children don't develop neatly or predictably, and that progress rarely follows a straight line. Sometimes a young person needs encouragement, sometimes challenge, sometimes someone to listen and sometimes simply the space to work things out for themselves. And crucially, these things need to happen when they are needed, not when a timetable, policy or predetermined checkpoint suggests they should.

That, I think, is one of the most important things about St Chris. We have the opportunity to respond to the child in front of us, rather than an imagined version of who that child ought to be at a particular age. We can give time when time is needed, offer space when space matters and recognise that confidence, independence, and a sense of self cannot simply be delivered according to a scheme of work.

There is something wonderfully reciprocal about this too. A school helps shape its young people, but those young people, in turn, shape the school. Jen and Louis have undoubtedly benefited from their years here, but St Chris is also a better place because of what they give back. Their thoughtfulness, their willingness to take responsibility, their curiosity and their care for others all contribute to the community that helped them grow in the first place.

And perhaps that is what I found so moving on Wednesday. I was standing there trying to explain to prospective parents what makes this school special, while two young people were standing beside me quietly demonstrating it. They didn't need elaborate analogies or carefully constructed arguments. They simply told their stories, with honesty, warmth and a confidence that had taken years to develop.

Jen and Louis are two absolute crackers. They will probably kill me for writing this, and I suspect they will both be thoroughly embarrassed, but it deserves to be said. They are a reminder that education is not simply about what young people know when they leave us, but about who they have become, how they understand themselves and what they are prepared to contribute to the world around them.

They are also a reminder that sometimes the most powerful thing a Head can do is stop talking and let the young people speak.

Although I do still find the whole business rather annoying. My speech took me ages.