Why am I striking?

Why am I striking?

Because we are being exploited.

Because our care is being exploited.

Those daily moments of care:

that chat after lesson

with the kid who hangs around

to tell you about their hamsters

but who just needs some kindness

in their life. Or the care

for the kid who doesn’t know how

to tell their parents. Care

for the kid who just can’t sleep

or the one who rarely eats.

Or our care for each other:

for the young teacher,

hands clammy, eyes shadowed

by meeting upon meeting

of unrealistic expectations.

Or the long-time workmate

graven by year on year

of the same old changes,

their face lined by columns

of data, still on duty at 2am,

eyes scanning the corridors

of their bedroom ceiling.

Or our care for families

other than our own: the bitten

lip of the call to the mum screaming

down the phone, taking out on my ear

what she can’t take out on the state

that has told her in every cut and policy

that she is worthless and alone.

Or the call still being made at 6pm

to the terminally ill mum

whose son is struggling and failing

to be the man he thinks his mum needs

him to be, when he still needs to be

a lost boy, and we need to be a parent

to both mother and son, and its still

6pm and I will now miss my own kids’

bedtime, because somebody needs to care

about people and the idea of society.

All this care is being exploited

by the same politicians who have dodged

taxes, done dodgy deals with their mates,

cut budgets to the bone, said

there’s no magic money tree

whilst they gorge on its low hanging

fruit, who can find money to heat

their stables but not a classroom,

who can feast on cheese and wine

but not feed hungry kids in winter,

who can break their own rules,

but make new rules for workers,

who bully and cheat and lie and smear,

and then talk of their own integrity

and professionalism. Look at us.

Look at the teachers you clapped.

We could teach you a lesson.