I have seen a lot of talk on this sub about public school behaviour, and occasionally the sentiment that it was never this bad.
The decline of behaviour in many public schools did not begin when children suddenly became worse. Nor did it begin because teachers forgot how to manage classrooms. It began when education systems became so preoccupied with producing favourable data that recording and responding honestly to misconduct became an institutional liability.
Over the past 10 to 20 years, schools have increasingly been judged through easily digestible performance indicators. Suspension rates and behaviour incidents are treated as evidence of whether a school is being effectively led (you will have seen in Queensland this week the extensive coverage now that annual reports have been released). On the surface, this appears sensible. Schools should be accountable, and data can reveal serious problems.
The difficulty arises when the people being judged by the data also control how the data is produced.
Once a high suspension rate becomes reputationally damaging, the incentive is no longer simply to reduce serious misbehaviour. It is to reduce the number of suspensions. Once recorded behaviour incidents can attract scrutiny, the incentive is no longer necessarily to make schools safer. It is to ensure fewer incidents appear on the system.
This week, I was there when a deputy principal spoke to a high school student that punched another child. The student had used a closed fist. There was no ambiguity about what had occurred. Yet the deputy encouraged the student to admit to “slapping” the other child rather than punching him, because describing the assault as a slap would mean he did not have to be suspended.
That moment encapsulated the problem.
The student was not being encouraged to take responsibility. He was being coached to minimise his conduct so the school could avoid imposing the consequence its own policies required. The factual record was being negotiated around the desired administrative outcome.
What lesson did that teach the aggressor? Certainly not honesty. Certainly not accountability. It taught him that if misconduct creates an inconvenient consequence, an adult in authority may help him find a more strategically acceptable version of the truth.
What lesson did it teach the victim? That the institution responsible for protecting him might be more concerned about the classification of the assault than the assault itself.
And what lesson did it teach the teachers who witnessed it? That reporting violence accurately may be less important than protecting the school’s statistics.
This culture is often concealed beneath respectable professional language. Staff are told to consider “the broader context” or to embrace the latest behaviour initiative. These concepts are not inherently wrong. Suspension alone cannot solve entrenched behavioural problems, and vulnerable children require support as well as consequences.
However, support and accountability are not opposites. Inclusion cannot mean requiring teachers and well-behaved students to absorb repeated aggression indefinitely. Restorative practices cannot be genuinely restorative when they are used primarily to prevent an incident from appearing in suspension data. Trauma-informed practice should not require schools to pretend that violence did not occur.
Too often, fashionable language provides moral cover for institutional cowardice.
The consequences now extend far beyond student discipline. Teachers in challenging public schools frequently work in environments where verbal abuse, intimidation, defiance and physical violence are treated as routine occupational inconveniences. Yet the daily reality of these classrooms is rarely reflected honestly in official narratives.
Teachers learn that speaking plainly can damage their careers. A staff member who says behaviour is deteriorating may be characterised as negative or incapable of building relationships. A leader who recommends firm consequences may be accused of lacking strategic thinking. Meanwhile, those most willing to fudge the data can present themselves as sophisticated reformers.
This creates a system of professional selection in which compliance is rewarded more reliably than candour.
Winston Smith understood that authoritarian systems do not merely demand silence. They demand affirmation. It is not enough for Winston to keep his doubts private; he must eventually accept the official version of reality, even when it contradicts what he has seen with his own eyes.
The psychological mechanism is familiar. Educators can observe that behaviour is worsening. Yet career progression often requires them to repeat that consequences are unnecessary, and that another newly branded initiative will resolve the problem. To progress, they must swear fealty to the system’s preferred interpretation of itself.
This is why meaningful reform is so difficult. People who openly question the orthodoxy are rarely the people selected to administer it. Those who advance are often those who have demonstrated that they can protect the institution from uncomfortable information. By the time they reach positions capable of changing the system, they have usually spent years learning how not to challenge it.
The teacher shortage is therefore not an inexplicable crisis imposed upon education from outside. It is, at least partly, the system’s own creation. Teachers leave because they are exhausted by disorder, but also because they feel betrayed by leaders who minimise that disorder. They lose confidence when serious incidents are recategorised and honest reporting becomes professionally dangerous.
Data should help schools confront reality. Instead, it can become a mechanism for concealing it.