Pom in Oz with Derek Goforth: After 30 years in the classroom it still throws me to be called ‘sir’

I’ve been in classrooms for the better part of 30 years now, and I still find it a little strange being called “sir”. You’d think it would wear off. Like chalk dust on your sleeves or the sound of a bell at the end of the day, just another part of the rhythm. But it hasn’t. Not really. I can remember the very first time it happened with ridiculous clarity. Back in the last century, when I was still finding my feet, sitting in on a lesson and trying to look like I belonged there. A Year 8 student walked up to me, polite as anything, and said, “Excuse me sir, do you know where the solder is?” Sir. I don’t mind admitting, it threw me completely. I was looking around for who she was talking to before it dawned on me that, somehow, impossibly, it was me. I fumbled my way through an answer, pointed vaguely towards a cupboard, and probably sounded far less certain than I should have. But the moment stuck. Not because of the question. Because of the title. And here’s the thing. All these years later, it hasn’t entirely lost that edge. Only recently, as I sat writing this, a class of Year 9s filed out at the end of a lesson with a chorus of “bye sir”. Perfectly normal. Happens every day. And yet there it was again, that tiny pause where part of me still thinks, really? Don’t get me wrong. I understand it. Schools run on structure and respect, and “sir” plays its part in that. It sets a tone. It draws a line. It reminds everyone, quietly but clearly, that there’s a role to be filled in the room. I just don’t think the word itself is doing the heavy lifting. Respect these days is built far more on consistency than titles. Students are pretty quick to work out who you are, how you operate, and whether you’re worth listening to. You can be called “sir” all day long, but if there’s nothing behind it, the word doesn’t carry much weight. At the same time, there’s something reassuring about the tradition of it. It connects classrooms now to the ones we sat in ourselves. The same language, the same small rituals, passed down without much thought. There’s value in that kind of continuity, even if it does feel a bit outdated at times. Maybe that’s why I’ve never tried to change it. Because despite everything, despite the slight discomfort and the occasional double take, there’s a quiet understanding wrapped up in it. A recognition of the role, if not always the person. And after 30 years, you learn that the role matters. Still, I’m not sure I’ll ever fully grow into the title. There’s always a part of me that’s that younger version, sitting in the corner of a classroom, hoping no one asks me anything too complicated. And when I hear “sir,” that version of me still looks up in mild disbelief. Thirty years on, and I’m still half expecting it to be meant for someone else. Derek Goforth is an expat and father of three living and working in Geraldton