It takes a lot for me to be angry. I like to think I’m patient. But there are some things that wind me up.
These are:
- Crunching too loudly in a cinema. Especially in a quiet moment!
- People abandoning their trolley mid-aisle in a supermarket to catch up with someone they’ve not seen in years.
- Drivers who undertake on the motorway to gain what can only be described as three symbolic car lengths of personal victory.
I could keep going.
People waving Union Jacks from lampposts with slogans like stop the boats, without recognising they are amplifying a rhetoric that places systemic issues at the feet of marginalised communities. Policies that speak about families in low-income contexts as if their barriers are purely motivational. School vision statements that claim children “lack aspiration,” when the reality is that many of these pupils carry more hunger, ambition and grit than anyone truly understands.
So, perhaps I am That Angry Guy. That Grumbling Guy.
Or maybe, more accurately, I’m That Frustrated Guy with Nuance.
I’ll stick with That Poverty Guy for the moment before titles make us both angry.
Furious with figures
The phrase ‘Furiously curious’ slipped out of my mouth without rehearsal.
I was sitting in front of the Education Select Committee earlier this year, presenting evidence from our place-based work at Tees Valley Education, sharing how curriculum can be a lever for equity, not just a vehicle for standards or knowledge.
I spoke about developing a poverty-informed curriculum that doesn’t just acknowledge inequality but actively challenges the mental models that shape how society sees children in poverty. I argued that we have to become furiously curious about the complex, entrenched nature of poverty.
Too much policy, practice and even research stops at diagnosing the symptom. The grey literature piles up. Every week I have the privilege and pressure of pulling together a roundup for readers of this very Substack. It doesn’t make me angry and nobody asks me to do it. But it does agitate me sometimes when I see the volume of work out there on diagnosing the issue. The headlines refresh. Reports weigh the problem, again and again, without shifting the system that causes it.
I’m angry at the complexity and deep-seated nature of inequality.
And maybe you are too.
A certain level of anger is not only reasonable, it’s rational. If poverty statistics and stories no longer bother us, perhaps we’ve begun to normalise them. I’m guilty of this. I look at the latest data set and find myself thinking, no surprises there then.
Figures from Loughborough University’s Centre for Research in Social Policy show that around 4.3 million children (30%) in the UK are growing up in relative poverty after housing costs. It should anger us that this is growing and that there are regional nuances to this. What a child can experience can be dictated by their postcode.
But numbers can only irritate you to a point. When I translate numbers into lived reality, the anger spark can be fuelled. And if language fails to describe it, displaced, discouraged, discombobulated, then maybe that itself is evidence of the scale of injustice.
Choose your own adventure
Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure books that were a big deal in the 1980s and 1990s? I was obsessed.
Whether it was slaying dragons, stepping into strange mythical worlds or gripping my way through a Goosebumps horror storyline, they felt different to any other kind of book. They didn’t just tell a story, they invited you into it.
There was intrigue, suspense, a sense of genuine curiosity about what came next, because you weren’t just reading the story. You were steering it. Every decision turned the page in a different direction, and suddenly the ending wasn’t fixed, it was something you helped shape.
So here’s your first Choose Your Own Adventure moment:
I can’t fully describe how poverty and inequality make me feel. I can tell you that the feelings motivate me to imagine a better tomorrow and to dedicate huge chunks of my life to doing something about it. So, beyond the raw hardship and poverty data statistics that we see regularly… how do you actually feel about inequality?
Choose your own vocabulary. How do these insights really make you feel?
- A working mum tells me that cashless school systems, while well-intentioned, make budgeting harder. She divides her cash into brown envelopes labelled by day. If she breaks into Thursday’s envelope on a Tuesday, she knows there will be no food money by the weekend.
- A single dad tells our the media that one of our primary schools saved his life. Stretched health systems missed the signs, his child’s school didn’t.
- A child explains he knows when money is tight because his mum puts items back at the checkout. “When that happens, I work harder at school so she won’t worry about me too.”
- A confident professional tells me poverty is mostly the result of “poor choices.”
- An education leader tells me, “We don’t talk about poverty, because it lowers aspirations.”
- An education organisation says that it isn’t the job of schools to be tackling poverty. They should exist to teach and deliver curriculum.
These are not abstract case studies. They are real people. Real communities. Real systems. Real mindsets. And yes, I am furious.
Curiosity as a counter
Back to those Choose Your Own Adventure books. I loved them. Maybe it was the illusion of control, or maybe it was curiosity. Each decision shaped the story, but I always kept a finger on the previous page. Just in case. A backup plan. A refusal to accept that this was the only possible ending.
Anger can kick-start movement. But anger without curiosity can quickly spiral into cynicism, performance or mood-hoovering. We’ve all been in rooms where everyone is angry, but nothing changes. If we remain only furious about issues then we risk, at best, having a grumble about the systems and lament everything which is out of our immediate control.
I’m reminded how easy it is to hold up inspirational quotes as part of a TED-type talk and highlight moments from the lives of people like Martin Luther King Jr. or Mother Teresa. But when we do that, we risk telling a misleading story, one that suggests their empathy or frustration alone was enough to tip the scales of injustice.
We begin to frame these figures as solo heroes of social justice, as if sheer frustration at a broken system or deep compassion for others was the thing that changed history. It wasn’t. These were not acts of charity by lone do-gooders trying to “make a difference.” In many cases, they were part of coalitions or movements that existed because of a growing discontent at a current system.
In some cases, these were people and movements that were furiously curious. Curious about why systems were designed to exclude, how injustice was sustained, and what new realities could be imagined and built instead. They didn’t just feel something, they pursued understanding, systems change and solidarity.
Furiosity alone doesn’t give us that option.
Anger by itself can turn us into the character who rants loudly in chapter one, only to vanish later in the story. Anger without curiosity calcifies into performance. Curiosity, I believe, keeps us moving.
Being furiously curious
Let’s take you back to those adventure books again. Here are some leadership-level Choose Your Own Adventure moments where being ‘furiously curious’ might offer a different path. You choose which one is your most ‘default’ or preferred response.
Scenario: You’re a school or charity leader trying to understand inequality in the community that you serve.
- Option A:
You rely solely on raw datasets. % of Free School Meals eligible pupils, Index of Multiple Deprivation, Household Income stats. These numbers are tidy and present a case clearly: “there is poverty here. It’s a tough gig” - Option B:
You begin there but refuse to stop. You turn the data into dialogue. You speak with families, partners and staff. You ask: “What does disadvantage feel like on a Tuesday morning when the heating runs out?” Data can speak in numbers. Curiosity can speak in stories of living realities.
Scenario: You’ve been invited to give a keynote on tackling poverty
- Option A:
You open with the hardest-hitting stats you can find. Aerial shots of estates. Headlines about knife crime. A tone that says, “Look how hard my context is. Respect the grittiness of the context in which I serve!” - Option B:
You still speak truth to context. But you do it with dignity. You ask yourself: If a young person or family from this community was in the room, would they feel represented… or displayed? Poverty should never be a spectacle. Curiosity asks, “How do we speak about and with people in a way that gives dignity?”
Scenario: You’re writing and publishing an impact report on the work of your charity, school or organisation.
- Option A:
You highlight your organisation as the leading force of change. Others are mentioned… briefly. After all, funders want clarity, and clarity often looks like centring yourself. You’re tackling poverty and want to show the impact. - Option B:
You still name your impact. But you also name the ecosystem that makes it possible. You show humility without invisibility. You highlight that real change is collective, not performative. You refuse to write a report that sounds like a hero’s monologue because expertise and curiosity doesn’t grow in silos.
Scenario: The media want to interview you about your work on understanding and tackling inequalities.
- Option A:
You position your organisation or schools as “the beating heart of the community.” Your narrative becomes centred on being the solution. It’s a moment to be a voice for the community and the people you serve. - Option B:
You acknowledge your role but refuse the saviour narrative. “We’re a vital organ,” you say, “but this heart beats because of many parts working in rhythm and across many partnerships” Curiosity credits partners. It distributes agency.
Scenario: The government or your local authority publishes a strategy on child poverty. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.
- Option A:
You tear it apart. Publicly. “It’s thin. It’s vague. It’s not enough.” Your anger is justified, but your stance may close doors as fast as it opens them. - Option B:
You say, “It’s a start.” You hold the door open for improvement. You work publicly and quietly, often without recognition. You bring critique with collaboration, not at the expense of it. Your curiosity disrupts, but it also constructs.
Keep angry and carry on being curious
At times, we need to be angry. We need to vent. We need to use collective agency to champion the solutions that are urgently needed in the communities we serve.
The most effective work is done alongside and through the voices of those directly affected. Organisations such as BiteBack, Citizens UK, and The Food Foundation show what is possible when children, families, and communities have the opportunity and support to speak about the issues that impact them.
But alongside anger, we need an equally deep commitment to curiosity. Deep social justice requires deep social listening; learning not just about what is working, but also what isn’t, and understanding the systems that keep problems in place. It’s why I’m encouraged that organisations like the Fair Education Alliance have refreshed their strategy, working with members to explore what it means to have a strategy and membership network rooted in neighbourhood-level realities and national priorities.
Surround yourself with people, organisations, and ideas that cultivate habitual, furiously curious thinking; those who will challenge your assumptions and help you deepen your insight. Without this, anger alone risks making you the frustrated reader in a story that might wish you had chosen a different path earlier in the narrative.
Choose Your Own Adventure books are designed for solo readers.
Tackling inequality is not.
The phrase Keep Calm and Carry On has a fascinating history. Originally created by the British government during the Second World War, it was meant as a motivational poster to encourage resilience and composure in the face of crisis. The intention was to maintain morale in a time of collective hardship, but it also implied doing so quietly, arguably without complaint or collaboration. If we take that message literally in the context of social justice, we risk trying to solve systemic inequality in isolation, suppressing frustration instead of harnessing it for action.
So, go ahead and actually keep angry.
Let that frustration fuel your desire for change. But carry on being curious. Curious enough to listen, to learn, and to work collectively. The worst thing we can do is simply Keep Calm and Carry On doing it and doing so alone.
Your final Choose Your Own Adventure moment:
- Be angry. Be furious. But at some point you’ll probably have to close the book on this. Anger isn’t enough.
- Be curious. Keep interrogating these issues. Keep weighing them. But stop yourself feeling a sense of discomfort or anger at it.
- Be furiously curious. Be discouraged, be angry. But turn this to working with and alongside others to be curious about what needs to change and be part of the solutions.
I’ve made my decision. For now, I’ll happily remain That Poverty Guy rather than That Furious Guy. I’m optimistic that a good ending is possible and that poverty does not have to be an inevitable narrative in the lives of millions of children and families.
Keep the turning the page on poverty with me.
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