Tapu Misa: How a principal's pub time with the parents helps a reading revolution

COMMENT

It might seem that Tony Howe, the principal of Opotiki Primary School, spends a lot of time down at the local pub. I certainly thought so when I first talked to him and, to be honest, I started to wonder if that was the secret of his success.

He told me, for instance, that when he was at the pub the other day the mum of one of his 12-year-olds had him on about her son's reading age. He'd told her 18 months before (at the pub, yes) that her son couldn't read English. Or, to be more precise, that he had a reading age of about 7 or 8. The mother didn't believe him. She'd seen him poring over comics and books. Plus he was clearly bright.

Howe could see that, but when he put the boy in the maths extension class, he discovered that he couldn't read well enough to do the problem-solving tasks.

He talked Mum into taking her son out of the school's Maori immersion unit and putting him in a mainstream class, and then the school worked its magic.

That's my word. Of course, it's not magic at all - as Howe is at pains to point out - but a combination of hard work and proven reading programmes.

The boy's reading age has now jumped to 14. (It could be higher but the school hasn't tested beyond that.) Hence, his mother's understandable crowing at the pub.

This is not an isolated occurrence at Opotiki Primary School. I'm talking about the remarkable turnaround in student achievement, although the parent-teacher conferences at the pub aren't that rare, either.

Howe's school is decile 1, in one of the poorest districts in the country. Almost all his 240 students are Maori (only five are Pakeha) and his parent community is made up of seasonal workers, the unemployed and gang members.

The kids come from homes devoid of books and computers. And because most of their parents haven't had positive experiences with the education system, they're not all that confident about helping their kids to succeed. They see that as the school's job. So does Howe.

Where other principals might wring their hands, Howe simply concentrates on what his school can do. Which is plenty, evidently. In 2001, when he arrived at Opotiki Primary, 80 per cent of the children would leave for high school with reading ages below their chronological age. Now, more than 80 per cent (and rising) leave with reading ages at or above their age.

For the past four years, too, Opotiki Primary has been a winner in the Herald's Make a Newspaper programme, a competition that requires a more-than-respectable level of literacy.

Naturally, I wanted to know his recipe for success, but Howe is adamant there's no magic formula. Apparently it's all about hard work, commitment and the belief that every child is capable of achieving, no matter what his or her background.

Of course, the school uses a number of flash, thoroughly tested reading programmes, all developed in this country, but some of them have been around since the 1970s. What's different is that every child is put through the programme, not just the slow readers, so there's no stigma attached to taking part. The unexpected discovery is that even the brightest kids improve.

It's true that some of it is as simple as keeping the school library open.

Like many low-decile schools, this one used to keep its library closed at lunchtime, and didn't allow children to take books home in case they lost them. That's changed, and Howe admits they lose a few books, but it's a small price to pay to get kids reading at home.

The school also closely monitors every child, so it knows whether its programmes are working. You ... won't get improvement unless you get good teaching and good learning".

It helps that Howe understands his community and doesn't judge it. He grew up there, and went to Opotiki Primary. He's Pakeha, his wife is Maori and he has five grown-up kids.

So when he says there isn't a single parent in the school who doesn't want their children to do better than they did, he knows what he's talking about.

"The poor parent cares just as much as the rich parent. I've got gang families here and every single one of them loves their kids - though they might have funny ways of showing it. "

It also helps that he now has a policy of telling everyone the truth about how their kids are doing.

Although it often comes as a shock to many to know how badly their kids are doing, Howe is adamant that parents have a right to know the unvarnished truth - and to know what they and the school can do about it.

Howe says it's simply not fair to write reports, as he once did, saying that a 12-year-old with a reading age of 8 "struggles a bit with reading" when what the school really means is that, without intensive help, that child is headed for the dole queue. He says most kids already know the truth, anyway. If you ask a girl how good a reader she thinks she is, she'll know to a high degree of accuracy where she's placed in the class.

Even so, the truth can hurt. Every now and again, a child will ask him not to tell his parents his reading age in case he gets a hiding. Howe says he tries to pre-empt that with a friendly visit home.

But the days of being hauled up at the pub by a burly gang-member demanding to know why his kid can't read are becoming a thing of the past.

Most of them know now that the school is on the job.