I hope the act of writing this will calm my squiggly-tadpole thoughts. As I said in my last 2 posts, I am trying to write in short bursts because my newish ‘Long-Covid brain’ steals my energy very fast. Also, the brain-fog confuses the coherence of my thoughts translated to words on the screen. Today, I am breaking my own self-imposed rule, and I am writing. I am writing despite feeling like my body is of deadweight, and my head is pounding with a painful beat (as it has for 2 days solid), and the muscle and joints shout disapproval at the noise. Today (oops and yesterday), I am ignoring the LC pacing advice; that you have to top of your energy levels by taking regular ‘therapeutic rest breaks’. This is when you power-down from outside stimuli to plug yourself into your peace. By the way, this usually works very well for me. Despite this advice, today I am pushing through the ‘fatigue’ rather than resting through this (car)crash of symptoms.

I am ignoring this because (and if you read those previous posts, you will understand when I say): I have to write these squiggly-tadpole thoughts down now…before the newts come.

At the start of this week, I thought I had planned my pacing really well. At the start of the semester, I had agreed with a colleague to cover for her, as she had holiday booked despite it being a usual day-off for me. She had covered teaching for me several times previously for various reasons, and anyway, colleagues support each other, don’t they? There was a bank holiday starting the week off, which always makes an easier week for many. However, whilst in Pre-Covid days I might have made the most of the day (exerting lots of energy in the process), this time I was mindful of my ‘batteries’ (energy levels). I made sure whatever I did at home that day was measured, I took regular rest breaks, stayed hydrated etc, etc. Perfect planning and pacing.

So I started the week, well Tuesday, feeling a little below par for some unknown reason, but my batteries were full enough. Two days working on the trot is tough for me currently, but do-able if planned. By midweek I was thinking how glad I was that I had a quiet Thursday to-do list, before delivering a session ‘Reflecting on Race’ on Friday. This was again my usual day-off, but I had gladly agreed to deliver this because it is a topic that I am passionate about, and it was a colleague who had asked.

However, it wasn’t far into Thursday when my good intentions were laid waste. Shortly before this local newspaper article was published online, I had also been informed for the first time, that as the article states,

“Over 100 people are set to be made redundant in the coming months, despite plans to increase student intake, a university has confirmed.”

There are so many questions that popped in my head when I had listened to the obvious script that was delivered to everyone in danger of being one of those to either voluntarily, or compulsorily be made redundant across the university. Isn’t language strange – the government website says this: “Redundancy is a form of dismissal from your job”. It makes it sound so different doesn’t it?

The script was delivered seamlessly – as I now imagine was happening across many different spaces. I picture 400 people’s questions pinging around their heads – “Me too”. I am sure the script covered all the necessary steps set out in government policy on this sort of thing. A twinkly-eyed image of my dad appears as I type this, it is something he would say with tongue-in-cheek: “I wonder if AI might be used for this sort of difficult news delivery task in the future, you know, to save further costs”.

My first thoughts of course, as I am only human, were of what it would mean to me personally; my responsibilities now and in the future, my health, and my age. If I was not made redundant, did I have the energy to do more, when I already did not have enough time to do everything now? In our small group of possible redundant bodies, one in three would be leaving. If quality was to remain, yet I couldn’t manage quality and the quantity, which ball would I drop? How can I square that circle and fulfil the data metrics of ‘quality’ imposed by others which were often so different than my own more relational ones?

My ego bruised, I asked myself why me? Was I too difficult in asking critical questions, or in challenging inequality when I see it, or for refusing exploitation when I felt it, and all of this encapsulated in my Union membership? Was I expendable because of any of the attributes, physical and mental, that make me who I am, or even who I am now not (since Covid)? It’s funny what the mind does when you feel backed into a corner.

Perhaps because of this ‘back-against-the-wall’ feeling, my squiggly-tadpole thoughts just went into over-drive. “What will this mean to my colleagues?” The younger ones with their individual personal responsibilities, and their life ahead of them. The ones who have constraints caused by life choices or the unfairness of life. My worklife is nearer the end, than the start, should I fall on my sword? What should I feel? Fear, guilt or should it be anger? Believe me there are emotions used and abused in this sort of process as experience in a previous job demonstrated.

The next squiggly questions were around my course, and my students. “Who would care for the students and my course?” In making relationships with students, I have always aimed to maintain honesty and respect. They are not consumers to me, but equals and co-learners, and in forming a relationship with me, many honour me with their trust to support them through the bumpy rollercoaster of academic life. I have been privileged to witness the development of so many early years practitioners over my 13 years, and been through their highs and lows, if only in a small part. Inevitably, it had to stop sometime, but rightly or wrongly, it feels like choice has been reduced to Hobson’s.

Lastly, my questions landed on my course to wonder what would happen to it, and therefore early years@Brighton which was once so respected for all it offered… at least, when I first started my life as a university lecturer. Close relationships with local authorities and other universities were built with the focus of Early Childhood at the heart. We all had time and the people needed to keep up to date and to work together to help each other through the complexities of the unappreciated stage that is Early Childhood Education and Care.

The course I helped to design with others in my (then) team was created with love and a real-life knowledge of the early years sector, and this was rewarded by being commended by the reviewing panel. We were so very proud and committed to it, until outside forces caused the small cracks to appear and widen, for example, as people left what was becoming a difficult and emotionally unhealthy HE environment. When their work fell to those left behind, it reduced the time available to talk, support and develop, and new policies were forced in to bend the original intentions in design. Perhaps this was actually the point a death knell was being rung and future plans were set.

After attending that online meeting, this and so many other logical and illogical thoughts and questions swum around my brain, causing my batteries to swing into the red. I pushed myself to complete my work to-do list for the day. I tried everything to relax, but the squiggly thoughts wouldn’t let me. Everything hurt as I climbed into bed, and despite going through my usual learned sleep-routine, sleep evaded me. I groaned as I got out of bed in the morning, sitting back down with a bump, as my head pounded, and the room span. I sat with my feet on the floor breathing as I have been taught, trying to calm my system by fooling my brain into thinking everything was fine, “Move along, nothing to see here!” However, it wasn’t having any of that old trick, and I sat, head in hands, wondering if today was one of those days I would have to phone in sick and sleep the pains away. Realising it wasn’t actually a work day, and teaching wasn’t until the afternoon, I chose instead to grab a cup of coffee taking it back to bed to ponder what I should do. I tuned into an online Union meeting – immediately feeling as if there was support and when it comes to adversity, “together we are stronger”. Committee members offered solidarity and support to more than 100 people in that meeting. They did not close the door to those more silent members, or judge those who might have been invisible in previous meetings – that small core of committee members organised and united. I am truly grateful that because of them, I felt less alone with my squiggly thoughts.

I sat and pondered after the meeting. When people say realisation dawned, for me it was more like a smack around the head from a teacher, as witnessed in my early childhood. The teaching I had promised to do that afternoon might be the last time I would teach. After all I could choose to leave voluntarily, or I might be asked to leave. If this were my last moment, then what better thing to present on than a topic that is so close to my heart: Reflecting on race: the impact of being black in a white space? Such an apt last session.

My teaching that afternoon was delivered with passion and fire despite not feeling my best. I explained my reasons for sitting to teach to preserve energy (I always move around when I stand up) and my need for notes now (brain fog) all curtesy of LC. As always I explained, as I always do, that the content was my truth (as is my writing here). Once it was done, and the lovely apprentice teachers had finished talking to me, I packed up my resources, looking out at the beauty of the view from campus on a sunny day. I thought what an important question it had been for me, “If this had been my last moment…”. I know that if that was indeed my last University teaching , I would be proud of what I had achieved. If that was how those students remembered me, I would be happy. So give it a go…ask yourself how you would feel if the next thing you do was the action you were remembered for. Think on this too if you are in anyway involved in the sad situation that caused my squiggly thoughts to fall onto this page, before the newts come. What do you want to be remembered for?

There squiggles done.