
Second-generation immigrants more likely to aspire to go to university, study finds
Second generation immigrants in primary schools are more likely to aspire to go to university than other children, according to a new study.
The findings are contained in the latest results from a landmark longitudinal study,
Children's School Lives,
undertaken by
UCD
's school of education, which is following 4,000 children across almost 200 schools.
Overall, it provides a broadly positive picture of migrant children's experiences and sense of belonging at primary school, while also highlighting challenges for pupils from minority backgrounds.
Across the schools surveyed, 21 per cent of children of pupils were from an immigrant background (6 per cent were 'first generation', or born outside Ireland, while 15 per cent were 'second generation', born in Ireland to migrant parents).
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When asked about their attitudes to school, immigrant children are more likely to have positive feelings towards primary school and have a stronger academic self-image.
When asked about their aspirations, most children in sixth class aspire to go to college or university.
Second-generation immigrant children are most likely to agree (68 per cent), followed by children with no immigrant background (64 per cent) and first-generation migrant children (59 per cent).
However, immigrant children are less likely than their non-immigrant peers to agree that they have the same chance to do well in school. They are also more likely to be worried about their learning in school.
The research team was led by Dympna Devine, professor of education at UCD and lead investigator in the report.
'The report highlights the ambition and hunger for learning among children of immigrant background as well as the difference primary schools make to their positive settlement in Irish society,' she said. 'We need to remain attentive to challenges some face and ensure schools and educators are fully supported in doing so.'
Some of the strengths of the primary school system reported by immigrant parents included systems of support and inclusive practice, as well as the culture of care within primary schools.
Teachers in the study consistently referred to the strong motivation to learn and ambition to do well among children of immigrant background.
The report also touches on challenges facing immigrants in settling in and adapting to the Irish education system, especially those who were more recently arrivals in Ireland.
These challenges were reflected in the lesser expectations of teachers for first generation immigrant children to go to university, especially those in the younger years.
A key finding is that most children are committed to fairness and equality concerning immigration and ethnicity.
However, it is first-generation immigrant children and children in general from a minority ethnic background who are most likely to report bullying experiences.
The authors note that the fact that these trends show an increase as the children move to the senior end of primary school is of concern.
The report also captures the changing experiences of Traveller children at primary level as they progress through the school system.
Attitudes toward school, engaging with the curriculum and overall levels of wellbeing were generally the same, if not higher, among younger Traveller children when compared with others.
However, Traveller children tend to record more negative experiences from second to sixth class when compared with all other ethnic groups.
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Irish Times
2 hours ago
- Irish Times
Maybe because I spend so much time with men, I feel less pressure to talk for the sake of talking
There was a time that, faced with the discomfort of silence, I would have told someone about my last smear test to fight the absence of sound between us. Going out for a meal with a large group of people, I'd groan internally when I realised that I was seated next to a craic vortex who would suck the energy out of me like a conversational drain, because human silence can be demanding. Then there are people with a strong quietness, like my neighbour. She seems cool, and there's scope for us to be friends, but each time I close the door after speaking to her, I slap my forehead and think, Why did I say that? There's something circumspect in her few words that ramps up my gawkiness. A friend of mine working in technology used to talk about using silence as a power tactic in the office. I didn't take any notice of it then because he also said things like 'blue sky meetings', but I'm learning how talking less can draw out buried secrets and stories, and how it can disarm and fluster your adversary. It needs to be used sparingly, and this delicate tool is not an excuse for shutting someone out, in which case, the silence is deafening. [ What Irish people really mean when they say they're grand, fine, okay or surviving Opens in new window ] Some conversations have no room for silence because the talking is competitive. Each of you is breathlessly nodding, chomping down the other's tale, at last reaching a juncture where the listener becomes the speaker and can release the story bursting from their mouth. I was travelling with a woman recently for two solid days, and we had a lovely equilibrium of exchange. I told her about how I thought there might be a poltergeist in my house. She gasped, sought more detail, and when I finished, she said, 'I'm so glad you said all that because now I can tell you about my supernatural experiences.' She gripped me with memories of a banshee's wails gliding across a black field in Cavan . We had found a happy seesaw, but there is effort in this, lest you be accused of conversational narcissism, of not genuinely listening, but rather, of greedily exploiting the unfinished point of the speaker to turn the conversation back to you. READ MORE I used to have a ferocious appetite for knowledge of other people, which meant that I would happily take on the responsibility of creating and maintaining dialogue, but lately this has waned. Recently, I met my brother-in-law, who lives in Australia. I asked him a series of questions about things that I thought might be pertinent to his life, which he duly answered. I ran out of energy quickly and I told him in good humour that I was out of questions. That's okay, he told me, and I felt that it was. I'm moving away from lining up a pop quiz based on work, friends, health, family, and holidays. It's unnerving. At a volunteer party at the football club, I walked in, slightly nervous, and sat down next to a deadpan kind of fella, whose big move is the power of mumbling. I abandoned my mental list of topics, relieved myself of meaningless jibber-jabber, and our conversation quickly turned into an unexpected and mind-altering discussion. Maybe because I spend so much time with men, I not only feel less pressure to talk for the sake of talking, but I have gone as far as to enjoy the silence. I've noticed that, particularly with my close male friends, we can allow our chat to peter out. There is so much beauty in those quiet moments, side by side. When our voices fade, emotions have a chance to surface, and in that comfortable hush, there's a feeling of security and love. [ I love being called 'love', although there are some exceptions Opens in new window ] Going to football matches in particular has taught me when to talk, and when to let go of any ego related to feeling unheard, because even earth-shattering news has no chance of getting aired if the football is good. On the sidelines is a sacred space where conversation, when offered, is unforced. I was at a match recently with six lovely lads, five of whom I barely know. The game wasn't great, giving more scope for chat, but a good bit of seat-swapping prevented any real flow or depth of conversation. A bag of Munchies was passed around and we each insipidly noted whether or not our square had any biscuit in it. The quietness on the pitch and in the stands created a sense of boredom. On the back of the Munchies chat, I asked the man to my left what chocolate he would pick if he went into a shop. Rolos, he told me. I grimaced, and everyone within earshot laid into him, setting off an animated conversation on the social acceptability of each of our nominations. We learned something about each other, and had a laugh about toffee-based treats. We were clamouring to have our preference heard when one of our players made a run for the goal with the ball at his toes, and we collectively fell into anticipatory silence.


Irish Times
2 hours ago
- Irish Times
Sky high prices leave readers baffled on behalf of older relatives
The idea that a television service provider would be taking well over €100 a month off people who can perhaps ill afford it without being able to adequately explain what is going on is pretty awful. But it enters the realm of appalling if those people are older, and might be struggling to get on top of their day-to-day finances. We have two stories connected to Sky Television that are strikingly similar, and involve family members seeking help for older people. 'I am writing on behalf of my elderly father-in-law,' begins a mail from a reader called Jacinta. READ MORE On October 30th last year, he had contacted Sky, as he was concerned about being charged a monthly fee of €120, she explains. 'He verbally agreed to a new monthly contract of €84.50 for six months and was told he should contact the company when that timeframe had elapsed to agree the next charges.' She says that on February 19th the charge was €85.14, and on March 18th the charge was €87.50. She says there was 'no notification of an increase'. [ Sky broadband blues: 'During the day, it stayed working. After 8pm, zilch' Opens in new window ] Then on April 16th 'the new charges were €105.80. This was within the six months period and there was absolutely no notification. On May 16th charges were €121 – an almost 50 per cent increase inside a few weeks with absolutely no notification." 'My father-in-law is in his 70s, and suffers chronic health, and talking at times on the phone can greatly exacerbate his breathing [problems]. It's not possible to email Sky, though you can call and be left usually up to 45 mins before you get to talk with someone and all that, apart from their charges. Sky can charge whatever they wish whenever they wish. Neither Comreg nor CCPC want to know as it's not their area.' Then there is the story about a woman in her 80s who appears to be paying an awful lot for very little. The story was shared with us by her nephew. 'I've an aunt in her late 80s who spent her life giving of herself to others,' begins the mail. 'She doesn't ask for much and uses TV to watch the news in her kitchen, and one other channel that's free on the internet. For quite some time she couldn't get Sky to work on the TV in the kitchen. I assumed it was because the TV was old, so I bought her a new one. The problem persists.' Our reader asked her aunt how much she pays, and whether she had the account details. 'The only information she could find was on her bank account, and she became upset as she realised how much they were taking from her account every month (average €150-plus). 'I work abroad, so rarely get the opportunity to resolve problems for her, but the week before last, after a lot of searching, managed to get through to Sky by phone. They went through security with my aunt and, after a few minutes, the call disconnected.' He says that he tried four times 'going through the same process, getting various levels of sympathy and assurances, but each time the calls eventually disconnected. This weekend I checked with my aunt. She'd received no mail or follow up of any sort,' he writes. 'My aunt's a trusting and generous person, and it seems as if Sky are happy to take advantage, deliberately make it incredibly difficult to contact them, and apparently impossible to get support.' It seems to Pricewatch that both of these people are is paying way over the odds for their television service but it also seems like they have both struggled to find out exactly what they are paying for. We contacted Sky. In connection with our first story a spokeswoman said Sky is 'committed to supporting all of its customers. In our efforts to provide fast and efficient customer support, our billing teams have maintained an average call response time of just 58 seconds year-to-date.' 'The customer in question regularly availed of promotional offers as a long-time customer with Sky. However, now that we are aware of the customer's health condition, we believe he would benefit from Sky's dedicated accessibility service, which provides tailored care and alternative contact methods to support customers who may need additional assistance. We have since outreached to the customer to support with this.' And when it came to the second story she said the company was 'sorry to hear about this customer's experience, which was unfortunately due to an initial miscommunication while resolving a technical issue. We have since spoken with the customer to apply the due credit on their account and ensure they are set up correctly.'

Irish Times
4 hours ago
- Irish Times
Reading Ulysses: Splendid literature that can suck the life out of you and your family
Recently I decided to stop pretending I've read Ulysses . It is January 2025, I am 40 years of age, and when James Joyce 's masterwork comes up in conversation, I have to stay quiet and listen respectfully to whoever is holding forth. 'Oh it's brilliant,' I'll tell anyone who asks. It's not that I haven't tried over the years, haven't skipped hundreds of pages to the best bits (breakfasts, 'Nighttown', Molly), and soaked them up in intermittent bursts of awe and incomprehension. I could tell you that Ulysses begins as 'stately plump Buck Mulligan' climbs the Martello tower for a morning shave, and ends with Molly Bloom in bed that same evening, thinking pleasurably about her husband, Leopold Bloom, possibly while reaching sexual climax. READ MORE Like a lot of people I have started Ulysses and been enthralled, then given up when it became so inscrutable as to alienate and bother me. Ulysses must be the best novel almost nobody has read, and even fewer have finished. To quote the judge in America who ruled against banning Ulysses for obscenity, 'it is not an easy book to read or to understand'. But I make a decision: it is time for this reader to put an end to her ignorance and read what Joyce called his 'damned monster-novel', set over a day in Dublin , with 18 Homeric 'episodes', named by Joyce after characters from The Odyssey in the detailed charts he helpfully drew. Really read it, cover to cover. It is early January, so I hope to finish it in good time before Bloomsday to write this article from a place of high Joycean authority. Five months seems like a generous amount of time to beat through 933 pages. That breaks down to six or seven pages a night, which can easily be fitted around family, work, a bit of a social life and, well, the rest of the chaos. Right? That's what I reckon anyway. The book has been wrested from my late parents' book haul, a Penguin 2004 centenary edition celebrating 'Bloomsday 100″. On the cover is a bleak Martello tower overlaid on to the text of Molly Bloom's soliloquy, oddly spoiling the end. Mum and Dad's copy is in suspiciously good nick. Sandwiched between its weighty pages I find a clipping of an article from this newspaper by the late Eileen Battersby , which I know my mother would have cut out and kept to serve her with some insights before a book-club meeting. So on a friendless winter night, I shove all other books aside and open Ulysses. Wow, yes, it's all coming back. Episode 1, Telemachus, instantly catapults me into the tower with Buck Mulligan and Stephen Dedalus. Buck is a medical student given to rants with sprinklings of Latin, Stephen is a dreamy, self-serious schoolteacher sporting an ashplant. Their banter is so vivid I feel like we're all in the tower together making witty repartee. I'm sucked in, and my only question is: why read anything but Ulysses? A few nights in, I'm lost. We have accompanied Stephen to pick up his pay cheque at school, where he ends up conversing with the dreary headmaster, Mr Deasy. We spend a good while in the schoolyard. At least I think we do. I have no need to read about schoolboys telling riddles and shouting about the church and money. Maggie Armstrong, not contemplating a bunch of men talking about Shakespeare in the National Library. Photograph: Laura Hutton Next then, our Stephen is crunching on shells along Sandymount Strand and philosophising to himself. Joyce's seascape is an intoxicating carnival, it's wonderful. But the famous 'ineluctable modality of the visible' passage comes on an evening my three-year-old has no interest in sleep. Eight o'clock crawls towards 10.30pm and I develop a frazzled unrest I associate with reading great literature while ignoring the call of duty. I resent these effete young men contemplating the abstract while the rest of the world toils at jobs and housework. Then the fourth wall comes down. 'Who anywhere will read these written words?', Stephen asks, and I think Joyce is defying me to read on. In Episode 4, Calypso, we meet the curious Leopold Bloom, a Dublin Jew and advertisement canvasser, and his wife, Molly, a singer, who is having an affair with her disreputable boss, Blazes Boylan. Like Stephen, consumed by guilt over his failure to pray for his mother on her deathbed, there is raging inner conflict and big passion. So much has happened to these characters, there is little need for plot or incident to keep us engaged. [ Chris Fitzpatrick: I re-read Ulysses after 45 years. It did not go well Opens in new window ] Bloom's meandering thoughts make for a change from the doomscrolling I'd otherwise have lapsed into at this hour. He may be best known for eating the 'inner organs of beasts and fowls' but he's a dream husband. He slathers butter on the diva Molly's toast and fusses over her tea while he burns his own breakfast. He carefully chooses books and face cream for her. He lives with tragedy – standing at a funeral, imagining the things he would have done for his late, infant son Rudy ('teach him German'). And even if he does stroke himself on a beach near a group of teenage girls, there are lots of other things to like about him. His inner world is not just a stream of consciousness, it's a gushing whirlpool of perception, ideas, memories, reported speech, with letters from his adorable daughter Milly bringing us teenage text-speak directly from Edwardian Dublin. The voices that jabber through Ulysses are real and magical, the words coined sparkle brightly. 'biscuitfully', 'mighthavebeen' (as opposed to 'hasbeen'), 'occultly', 'fruitsmelling', 'yogibogeybox'. Though you might wonder: does Joyce write the way people think, or just the way he thinks? He being a genius. Maybe some minds are more eloquent company than others. I assume my consciousness on a good morning would be less of a stream than a sad few drops of conscious thought, something like 'coffee, coffee, late again, f**k sake,' or just non-verbal. I guess none of us have anything to compare it to. The irrelevant godawful debates of insufferable bores from 100 years ago feel incongruous On the nights when I'm already spent, or may have had a little wine, I really can't fathom the stream. I know it's full of treasure but that doesn't mean I want to read it. I think back to 2022 when Ulysses turned 100, and it was proposed for my book club. We had the summer to read it. The conversation is quickly located on WhatsApp. 'Can't say I'm enjoying it!' 'Unfortunately losing the battle with Ulysses ... again', 'a bit lost in the woods'. 'There's been a bit of a witch hunt over who recommended it!'. Our book club has about 33 members, all serious readers. For the Ulysses meeting our host welcomed a turnout of four. Ulysses was only ever mentioned again with accompanying sniggers, like schoolchildren pleased to have flunked their exams. In Episode 7, Aeolus, Bloom goes into a newspaper office to sell some ads. That's my best guess, as we encounter a formal experiment whereby sections of text are turned into short newspaper articles. I would rather read anything else at all. We are often told about the parts of Ulysses we should read but not about the parts we shouldn't. In Episode 9, Scylla and Charybdis, a bunch of men are talking about Shakespeare in the National Library, and why should I care? Paging back to get a grasp of Episode 5, Lotus Eaters, the prose seems to mean to confuse me. The layering of speech alongside deepest thoughts can be like reading two books at once, or a whole pile of books at once. I put Ulysses off every day until so late that sleep will be a certainty, mid-sentence, waking to hear the thud of the book as it hits the floorboards. Author Maggie Armstrong with her copy of Ulysse' by James Joyce. She has been reading a few pages a night since January of this year. Photograph: Bryan O'Brien Reading Joyce's damned monster-novel at night-time is not working. It comes with me on the tram, it comes in my suitcase to Ennis, Sligo, Limerick, Dingle. It comes to the football sideline and swimming gallery and playground. I feel pretentious reading such a statement book in public and it wins me no new friends. Ulysses becomes, by springtime, a deadweight, an utter drag, an albatross, creating feelings of endless guilt and homework. Someone, probably my eight-year-old, has decided to scrawl the leaves with a diamond pattern in permanent marker. The cover is cracked and the pages are dog-eared, so at least we have a seasoned copy now. [ At ease with Ulysses: Daunted by this notoriously difficult novel? Here's a good way in Opens in new window ] In the rough, storm-tossed winter that delays the arrival of spring, when a book should bring comfort, I can't bear the sight of it. Something about all the men inside it talking. The irrelevant godawful debates of insufferable bores from 100 years ago feel incongruous in a life already stuffed with nonsense from the internet. The reason I read books is to escape the scintillating company of men. In the bitter winter days of March I abandon Ulysses. The monster novel clogs the nightstand, a useless block of solid gold artistic wonder. Bloomsday draws near and I feel guilty and bad to have failed on the Ulysses front. The only hope for completion is an audiobook. The acclaimed Andrew Scott adaptation is being hoarded from Irish listeners by the BBC, so I download a recording whose narrator ( Donal Donnelly ), sounds oddly like the late Gay Byrne. His delivery is droll, and Joyce is finally flowing in, even if I'm unconscious for a lot of it. I listen in the night, then walking along the street, or driving the car, but the effort it costs to listen to such splendid literature does not make for a splendid experience. [ James Joyce in a dozen great quotations Opens in new window ] I can say for sure that my bustling middle years were not the moment to have tried to read Ulysses. In fact I would be very seriously annoyed with anyone caught doing so. This novel of everyday life sucks the life out of you and your family. It's one to read with time on your hands, ideally when you are young, retired or have a house husband as lovingly servile as Bloom. Read it a la carte, open it at random. But as a book to read straight through for pleasure, it should be banned. Maggie Armstrong is the author of Old Romantics