In Which Virgil Guides Me Through the Seven Circles of Elementary Education

His glory, by whose might all things are mov'd,
Pierces the universe, and in one part
Sheds more resplendence, elsewhere less.  In heav'n,
That largeliest of his light partakes, was I,
Witness of things, which to relate again
Surpasseth power of him who comes from thence;
For that, so near approaching its desire
Our intellect is to such depth absorb'd,
That memory cannot follow.  Nathless all,
That in my thoughts I of that sacred realm
Could store, shall now be matter of my song. [Canto 1]

I sit in "final stretch" purgatory, two weeks before summer vacation, closing my third year of teaching.

My time in purgatory is soon ended, but my memories of what I have seen are vivid. Despite my passion and my dedication, they are bleak. Allow me to recount my journey through the seven circles of elementary education.

Circle One: Poor Educational Materials.

What is a textbook? In the USA, it is that. A text book. A book that provides information about certain topics within a larger subject. I recall my history textbooks for example -- a heading, several paragraphs of information, fun facts, and discussion questions.

In other subjects, namely language classes (most relevant to my arguments here), a textbook with information, relevant vocabulary, reading comprehension passages, cultural info and more is frequently accompanied by a workbook. The purpose of this is to provide practice and drills for the information covered by the book and by the teacher. This way, books can be handed down between generations of learners and workbooks can be... well... worked in. A sensible solution to the paradigm of both collecting and producing new information.

In Israel, what is a textbook? It is a workbook. C'est tout. Kids are not equipped with a wealth of information -- only practice questions and exercises. Where do they get their information? Why, in the classroom of course.

The teacher's job, therefore, is to not only deliver information in a way that is cohesive, organized and understandable by the entire heterogeneous class -- but also to ensure that every student has listened, understood, and copied the main bullets into their notebooks. Considering that Israeli kids are pretty useless at a) writing things down in class and b) ever looking at it again, this seems like an inefficient way of teaching them important informational stepping stones. Furthermore, if a student is sick and misses a class -- it's now his educational problem. That information is gone forever. Not only that, but a particularly dedicated student who then wants to review the information at home, can't -- there is no organized information file in existence. Only drills.

Circle Two: No money.

It is a well-known fact that teachers are universally paid in salaries that are miles beneath the surface of any other job and that their job requires amongst the most effort. However.

News flash: If you work as a teacher in the USA and are aware of the fact that you are underpaid and under-appreciated, then don't ever move to Israel.

I make almost exactly one third of the salary of elementary teachers in the States. Furthermore, I am dealing with a much more difficult and frustrating national education system, full of blind and narrow-minded people who turn their heads at any problem. 

In Israel, the cost of living is higher, food, etc. Salaries are lower in general, but teacher's salaries are abysmal. A teacher who has been in the system for 25 years and is now head coordinator of this, that and the other, now has a chance of approaching the beginning salary of an American elementary school teacher.

Circle Three: A lack of educational knowhow.

After a very long article on the subject in a previous post, I won't bore you with recounting all the details (or bore myself with rewriting them).

Suffice to say that there are some cardinal problems with the Israeli education system. Details can be found here.

Circle Four: Sneaks, lies, and red tape.

Any problems that I may have with the intra-school dynamic or with the system in general are further exacerbated by the fact that it is impossible to gain support from above. The ministry of education is a maze of unawareness, ignorance and unpleasant interaction.

In the few times it has been my privilege to visit the ministry of education, I have spent over three hours just waiting in line (this after finding the right room which also takes several tries until the task is accomplished), only to be met with "I can't help you" or "come back tomorrow" or "no, you came to the wrong place. Sorry."

Speaking to them on the phone is equally fruitless. I am faced with perpetual menus "for service, please press one" and the like. After following (again, a maze) through the endless possibilities if I am lucky enough to find a live representative, I am told "I can't help you" or "call back tomorrow" or "no, you called the wrong place. Sorry."

You would think that in our fast-paced digital culture that the internet alternative would be very effective.

It's not.

Israeli needs some new website designers.

And a new ministry of education.

Circle Five: R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

It's not enough to not get respect from the system. But there is no respect present anywhere in the Israeli education culture -- from the ministers, to the parents, to the kids themselves. This is possibly the number one issue I find in Israeli schooling (and not just elementary).

It goes way beyond the fact that kids and teachers are on a first-name basis, which is charming in its own way. When I was in school, I greatly respected my teachers (even if I didn't like them) and often feared them as well. There was an undeniable distance between me, the student, and them. That is as it should be. While I enjoy becoming close with my students and developing personal connections with them, I still believe that there should be a certain formality and distance between us. I am responsible for their education and am therefore someone to be respected. My word is important and to be followed.

The entire youth of Israel disagrees with me.

Circle Six: The kids are great. But I'll order them without their parents next time.

Circle six is a meaty circle. Bear with me.

One of the major drawbacks I have discovered this year upon moving to a democratic education system is the barrage of insane parents that comes with the territory.

The system is designed to produce unbalanced parents. The parent-teacher-child triangle of equal voice creates an admirable but unnecessarily complicated and frustrating school dynamic. Add to that, however, the fact that it's purely an elementary school (inviting yet more parental involvement), and even more importantly the fact that we have been principal-free throughout the entire year.

Our school year started with literally nobody in the principal's office. This situation is unthinkable -- only a democratic school, where decisions are made in a collaborative fashion by various committees, would dare even open its doors in such a situation. But we did.

In October, we were told that we were given a new principal. Fantastic. The only problem was, her ability to accomplish anything is non-existent, she has no knowledge of our school or our kids or anything that surrounds them, and not only would she not help us and lead us but she actually went so far as to (unintentionally) destroy many of the things that we, the teachers, set out to accomplish.

We're a young band of teachers, with one exception there is not one of us over thirty five. We require help, leadership, guidance, feedback and direction, all of which were sadly lacking. All year, we found ourselves doing this for each other. In my situation, for example, as the only English teacher in the school and as a teacher in her less-than-third year of teaching, nobody was really able to give me the guidance I needed -- but they did it anyway. One of our teachers, the pedagogical coordinator, did double work and led me, as well as the rest of the teachers, in a completely professional way through this year, watching my lessons, giving me feedback, and sitting with me on a weekly basis.

Recently, things exploded into a full-fledged labor dispute.

I won't bore you with all the details, but suffice it to say that there is a cardinal problem in the existence of our school -- we work for the parents (who head the committee of the organization that owns the school), and the parents are simultaneously our customers. The same parent I must talk to about special education for her child is the one who then decides whether or not I can continue to work here and summons me to a hearing. This is undeniably a recipe for disaster. And in the absence of a principal, this paradox grew more and more obstructive as nobody was leading and both sides were directly exposed to the power and might of the other. I found myself describing my school situation as "Animal Farm" -- a power struggle in which nothing is accomplished and everything is ugly.


The labor dispute is now seemingly ended -- a blow-out that occurred over my position at the school has thus far been calmed. The threat of an imminent strike has currently subsided. But I don't believe all problems have gone away and there is a great deal of work to be done to fix the framework on which the school stands. In order for it to keep standing.

Circle Seven: Upholding my beliefs for the future.

I have a distinct problem now. Although my own family is a far-into-the-future event, I have found myself so scared off by all facets of the Israeli education system (with which I've come in contact, at least) that I find myself constantly worried about the fate of my own future kids.

I have seen the public school system (albeit in difficult schools) and I have seen a young growing democratic one. Both have had a slew of problems that I am hesitant to inflict on anyone, let alone my own offspring. Obviously this is not a concern for today, but I wonder how any Israeli teacher dares to send her children to an Israeli school.

I sincerely hope that things look up and that future me will write only about the divine attributes of the education system. For now, I leave you with this:

There is a place beneath,
From Belzebub as distant, as extends
The vaulted tomb, discover'd not by sight,
But by the sound of brooklet, that descends
This way along the hollow of a rock,
Which, as it winds with no precipitous course,
The wave hath eaten.  By that hidden way
My guide and I did enter, to return
To the fair world: and heedless of repose
We climbed, he first, I following his steps,
Till on our view the beautiful lights of heav'n
Dawn'd through a circular opening in the cave:
Thus issuing we again beheld the stars. [Canto XXXIV]

In Which Every Day Begins With a Peacock

I have an announcement. Jerusalem is the center of the world. (I realize that this has nothing to do with a peacock. We will come back to that later).

Anyway, so sayeth the medieval masses. I have written several papers on the subject, and maps such as this one have been proof enough so far (if you ever feel like hitting my "go" button and hearing a lecture while you enjoy a particularly large pizza or do some spring cleaning, ask me for further details):



But now there is conclusive evidence: those in my most immediate circles, who recently were in Bloomington, Indiana and Cfar Saba are cosmically migrating to Jerusalem all at the same time. My father, now head of the history department at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem (though, granted, he beat everyone -- but me -- in his pilgrimage, now beginning his second year in the holy city); my mother, who arrived in Israel about one month ago; and Alon, whose studies begin in October at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. In fact, with the exception of my sister whose Princeton hiatus can hardly count (and since she spent a portion of the summer living in Jerusalem anyway), I am the sole member of my inner familial circle who is currently resisting the crusade and continuing my residential sojourn in Tel Aviv.

Despite the many reasons to move my center to Jerusalem (besides those mentioned, that is where the majority of my musical life happens, so living there would be decidedly easier) I have decided to stay put. There are several factors in this decision (such as the Mediterranean Sea, most importantly!), but the most recent and biggest is as such: I have climbed another rung in the vocational stepladder of life. Did I say rung? I meant storey. Did I stay storey? I meant rocketship.

I am now an employee of the democratic elementary school "Makom Ligdol" in HaKfar HaYarok, Ramat HaSharon, Israel. As they say, when life throws you lemons, you make... well, an expensive and refreshing lemon meringue sorbet, I think. My getting this particular job while still a novice, fired twice and technically unaccredited is the rough equivalent of Stephen Colbert being inaugurated president of the USA. I think this is a fitting analogy, as I see my promotion as equally awesome, and equally frightening.

Why is this such a step up? Let me explain.

In Bat Yam I was teaching classes of almost 40 kids. At the democratic school the biggest class I've had was 16. The smallest was 5.

In Bat Yam I spent 90% of my class time dealing with (or succumbing to) discipline problems. In the democratic school, the kids don't have to be in your class, therefore those who are there want to learn. There are zero discipline problems.

In Bat Yam I wandered nomadically between different classrooms. In the democratic school, there is an English room which I am licensed to decorate and to which I hold the key.

In Bat Yam I was teaching, both full classes and in groups, a total of 29 hours a week. At the democratic school I'm teaching 8. The rest of the time (with the exception of 3 hours in which I open the English room, sit there, and help anyone who wanders in with whatever it is they need) I am sitting with specific students who are in my individual care -- "nechnachim." Now, it is true that I tried once being in charge of a big group of students... but this leads me to the next point:

In Bat Yam I was thrown headfirst into a class of kids I was in charge of. I drowned. In the democratic school, there is no such "class" -- there is a group of eleven students, all of whom chose me to lead them, each of which I sit with one-on-one for twenty minutes a week. We talk, we play, we read together, we stroll around the village, we buy ice cream or visit the horses... whatever we feel like doing. I mother/big sister all of them on a much more individual basis. They are never gathered as a class.

In Bat Yam, both years I worked there, I cried on the first day of school. In the democratic school, I had a big stupid grin on my face for the entire day, and it lasted long after everyone had left and I got home.

In Bat Yam, I never left the school building unless I was on recess supervision duty. In the democratic school, I spend most of my time outside. And as well as kids, there are dogs gamboling around the campus.

In Bat Yam, I personally taught 360+ kids. In the democratic school, there are 76 kids in the entire school.

In Bat Yam, I made less money. At the democratic school I make more money.

In Bat Yam, the kids (not all) were often mean, violent and rude. In the democratic school, they sit in my lap and hug me all day long.

In Bat Yam, I had to go through endless red tape to make copies or obtain resources for my classroom. In the democratic school I have unlimited access to the copy machine and am given anything I ask for.

In Bat Yam all the teachers were lethargic and embittered and over... a certain age. In the democratic school, the teachers are (almost) all in their 30s, energetic, and still enjoy their jobs, and the children. And sweet. And united. And celebrated my birthday four days after knowing me.

I could go on for hours. But I will spare you. :) The bottom line is it's difficult to believe that the job I'm doing this year is the same one I did last year! I feel as though I'm on some cloud, waiting for the real work to begin (which I'm sure it will!). It is not as though I don't foresee any problems. I don't think the year will be all peaches and cream as it has been so far... but the difference is unbelievable.


(Where's the peacock?)

(We haven't gotten there yet. I feel like I'm building an episode of How I Met Your Mother, like the one with the goat. But at least this one will have an explanation. Because I don't suck like they do.)

On a totally different note, yesterday was Yom Kippur. For those who are unfamiliar with this holiday, it is the Jewish Day of Atonement, a fasting day. I myself have fasted on this day since the age of 11, when I decided myself that I really like this tradition and wanted to do it - I was the first in my family to do so, though I have since been joined by both my father and my sister. I really like the idea of a day of reflection, of apology, of uniting with millions worldwide in a common purpose. I identify with tradition much more than with religion, and like the idea of generations of people sharing traditions over hundreds of years. While there is interestingly no law prohibiting citizens of Israel from going about their lives as normal that day, the entire country takes a day of rest, a day of inner reflection, a day of atoning. In my opinion, other cultures would benefit greatly from adopting this custom.

Even a city such as Tel Aviv is rendered motionless for a period of 24 hours. Nothing is open, no cars on the street. Only people promenading and kids on bikes. After our dinner preceding (my) fast, Alon and I walked in the middle of some of the most busy streets in Tel Aviv, at that moment dormant and peaceful. Babies were crawling on the asphalt and dogs were playing together, unleashed. It is truly an amazing time to be in Israel's otherwise noisy and traffic-ridden metropolis. Yom Kippur is subsequently one of my favorite days of the year.

I feel very relaxed and refreshed after such a day!

In other news, this summer CJ experienced the Mediterranean sea for the first time. It was not her first time at the beach; in fact, CJ on sand is already something pretty cute. But it was her first time in the water. She was inexplicably scared at first and it took a great deal of coaxing to get her in. Alon and I crouched down at the very edge of the waves, with the water barely lapping around us, and called her in every way we could think of. We even threw toys in the water for her to chase. Nothing.

Eventually we gave up and started walking away from her into the water, and that was apparently even more scary than the waves because a few seconds later there was a splash, and then a frantically paddling black dog came toward us, wheezing and looking terrified out of her mind. She climbed right up into my lap and wrapped her front paws around my neck. It may have been the cutest and most heartwarming thing I've ever seen, though my legs were for days covered in really impressive bruises and scratches from having a fully grown retriever scramble onto them. I looked like the victim of domestic violence.

After the first time she stood on my lap, she swam back to the shore. Then she repeated this routine at least fifteen times, sometimes standing on us, sometimes circling us in the water and then returning hurriedly to the shore, but each time she jumped right back in again. Eventually she started swimming to other people and other dogs in the water. I think it's safe to say that the little gosling came up swimming!

As funny as this was, though, I'm not sure it beat the time that CJ first met a peacock face to face.

(Aha!)

My school is located inside what is translated as "The Green Village." This village is part of the Ramat HaSharon municipality, but is really its own little ecosystem. There are five schools inside, including a democratic school, an anthroposophic school, a boarding school, a gigantic high school, and a nature school. There is a cow pasture and dairy farm, a horse corral, fields and orchards; there are chickens who cross the road (but will not tell me why!), cats who sunbathe on top of the cars, and dogs who frolic all over; there are countless wonders in the quasi-farmland!

But my first day in the Kfar, I walked past the entrance, and began my trek down the road to the school. Suddenly, behind me, I heard a terrible scream. Startled, and sure someone was in agony, I whirled around. Instead of a crime scene or a hideous accident, I saw a peacock. (Who knew they were so loud??)

It was ambling along, not paying the slightest attention to me. And everyone around continued about their lives, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

Which, apparently, it was.

That same day I saw three more peacocks. Every morning that I arrive at the school, my day begins with a peacock. One time, a peacock even escorted me for a great deal of the walk from the bus to the school campus.

One day, I brought CJ with me to school. She was thrilled, sniffing the area and exploring. Then suddenly, she came upon a peacock.

She stiffened and stood stock still. The peacock was unperturbed, and continued to strut in circles. CJ approached him slowly and apprehensively. Suddenly the peacock turned and looked at her. Quickly and in terror, CJ tore behind me and hid between my legs. Then,moments later, her black nose peered out again and she stalked out, step by step, to examine this creature, her ears perked up and her tail straight out behind her like a blade. This comedy show continued until I reluctantly pulled her along to my school, not to be late.

Here are some photos of the beauties. Sadly I do not have any of CJ meeting her new nemesis because I was too busy holding her to take photos, but I'm sure there will be other opportunities. And with these photos I will close this entry, but I hope to not wait so devilishly long again to write another!

In Which it's Neither a Bird, nor a Plane, nor Superman

 It's a bird... no, it's a plane... no, it's Superman!...

...no it isn't. So what the hell is it?...

...it's a missile.

 --

I will begin this post by apologizing for the seeming irrelevance of its contents... when I began to write it, this was a very present topic, and one that was occupying the thoughts of everyone in Israel. Sadly, though, amidst all the hubbub, the post was left unfinished, gathering dust in a small electronic drawer in the nebulous e-world, only to be revived by me today. After a bit of arm-twisting, however, on the part of my father, it was decided that you may still find it interesting to read my take on the political situation in Israel, despite the several weeks of peace since the fall of the last rocket. As a consolation prize, I will offer you "two posts for the price of one," so to speak, and conclude with a post-within-a-post about a particularly rewarding tale from my adventures in Israeli education. So, in the meantime, enjoy!

--

When one of the Superman films came out in Israeli theatres, the tagline was "look up in the sky -- you never know what you're about to see!" Shortly after, Israel was bombarded with missiles and the tagline was quickly altered to reduce nationwide panic and retain political correctness. The idea behind the Superman saga was to generate excitement and adventurous wonderment, not to send people screaming to their bomb shelters.

Not since 1991 has there been that kind of excitement in Israel. Until now.

The action started on a sunny Thursday afternoon, when I was on my way to a birthday party to pick up a seven-year-old girl I babysit on Thursdays (a good family friend) and take her home. The birthday party was in the Land of Israel Museum in Ramat Aviv. I had just entered the museum grounds when the first siren sounded.

It is unreasonable to expect a mind that has spent 23 of its 26 active years in the United States to associate that sound with falling missiles. Writing off the wailing as that of an ambulance, I walked around, looking for party action and listening for the sounds of children's voices. All around me, I grew increasingly more and more aware of panic and chaos as several parents tried to find a healthy balance between seeking emergency shelter and finding their kids as quickly as possible. Suddenly the penny dropped and I understood what I was hearing. At long last I happened on the museum's bomb shelter. 40 crying children, hardly any parents in sight, some holding pieces of cake in their hands, unable to see or eat them due to faces covered in streaky tears. A crashed cellphone system preventing anyone from being able to contact their parents and vice versa. A girl in my charge who did not stop crying for two and a half hours, despite the early return of her mother and the popcorn/movie/pajama party in lieu of going to sleep. In short: the birthday party from hell.

But all of this was just the tip of the iceberg. The real drama happened the following Sunday, my first day at work since the rockets began to reach Tel Aviv.

The war with Gaza was all anyone could talk about when I arrived at the school Sunday morning -- teachers, students, administrators. We decided to do a school-wide exercise in the event of sirens in Bat Yam. The students had all been instructed as to the protocol by their home teachers, so at the sound of an erroneous school bell (in my case, in the middle of an exam review session), we practiced the entire procedure. Students began by laying down on the floor of their classrooms, hands over their heads, in silence, until told by the vice principal to run down to the school's bomb shelter. I was in a fourth grade class at the time, monitoring them in proper alarm etiquette. After the exercise was over, the students resumed their seats and opened their notebooks.

At that exact moment, a real alarm sounded outside.

I thank every star/god/deity that I can think of that the kids had just done a safety exercise... without it, the school would have been a chaotic, panicked mess. But this way, through all the screaming, the procedure was fresh in their minds and the kids were able to operate, even under such extreme pressure, according to the rules.

After the stage where they lay down in the classrooms with their hands over their heads, I accompanied my class (fourth grade) down to the bomb shelter. Our bomb shelter is very organized, and there are signs on the wall indicating where each class needs to sit. I stood in front of daled 2 (Israeli classes are numbered by "home" class -- the Hebrew letters alef, bet, gimel, daled etc for grade, and then the number of the class), staring at the faces of crying children, sobbing children, shaking children, completely hysterical children -- in some cases, even on-the-verge-of-collapse children -- trying to comfort them. I kept hearing phrases like "my dad is in Beer Sheva today!" and "my grandmother is alone in the apartment, and can't get to the mamad (safe place, bomb shelter) by herself!" Not knowing what comforting words to say, I simply told them that everything would be fine, and I began reading names from the class roster. Suddenly there was a power outage in the shelter.

Any calm or restraint that may have been present up until this point vanished instantly. Kids were screaming, and nobody could see even their hands in front of their faces. While I (as well as, I'm sure, the rest of the teachers and administrative staff who were in the shelter) knew that nothing would or could happen to us down there, there were five hundred hysterical children -- ranging from the extremely hysterical to the moderately insane -- who thought otherwise. I had been halfway through reading out the names of kids and hadn't the faintest idea if the others were around me, if they were sitting or standing, or running or screaming, or indoors or out. I could only hold the small sweaty hands of those nearest to me and put my arms around shaking shoulders, one pair at a time, until the power came back on, five interminable minutes later.

When the threat was finally over, and all five (five!!) consecutive sirens had subsided, when the power came back on and 500 glistening faces were once again illuminated by the intimate, highly romantic fluorescent lights, we made our way solemnly up the stairs, in a winding crocodile of frightened children, back to the classrooms. The teachers stopped by the teacher's lounge on the way to the classrooms, helping themselves to cups full of sugar to distribute into the kids' water bottles in an attempt to fight off shock trauma, and the school principal, vice principal and counselor were running around crazed between classrooms trying to avoid a city-wide cellular collapse by commanding kids all over the building to PLEASE turn off their cell phones and go to the reception desk to call. Parents were running in at every minute, snatching up their kids and hurrying home to hot chocolate and warm blankets, and everywhere students were poking their heads into their siblings' classrooms to make sure nobody was harmed or had fainted.

Meanwhile, in daled 2, I resumed my exam review session.

Very funny.

There was, of course, absolutely no learning to be had. Instead, I tried to corral the nervous energy into group games, acting games (thank you to my performance past for giving me some of these to have under my belt), songs, and lots of jumping up and down. I was losing students to harried parents right and left, as they filed in the door at a very impressive rate, and by the end of the lesson had a total of seven remaining students.

Through the entire ordeal, of course, it was imperative to keep my cool while fighting off the hysteria. The kids needed a calm and collected mother figure, and they got one.

As soon as I walked out of the school grounds at the end of the day, I burst into tears.

I had been so moved by the events of the day, it had been all I could do to keep it in. In my eyes, despite the unprecedented attacks and my lack of experience with a heated political climate, there was very little logical reason to panic. Not only were the rockets that were aerodynamic enough to actually reach the Tel Aviv area subsequently small and dinky and incapable of any very serious damage (as long as everyone was hiding), but Israel's Asimov-esque "Iron Dome," a computerized interceptor designed to spot a missile in midair, take aim, and blow it up before it ever reaches the ground, was put into play at the very start and was able to nip 99% of the threats in the bud. As my dad pointed out, the entire power struggle between Israel and Gaza can be described by the following statistic: a rocket over Israel costs about $80 to make and fire; each Iron Dome blast costs about $50,000.

I was so moved, though, by the earnest fear of five hundred kids that day. Kids who really believed that the world was coming to an end, that anyone who was not within immediate sight was in mortal danger, that it was, of course, their families that would suffer and that every citizen of Israel who was at that moment in the south was batting off rockets with a stick. There is no way for a ten year old to hold onto proportion in a panic situation, especially when surrounded by so many others who are screaming (a very dramatic snowball effect) and when there are no parents in sight. Whatever I told them, "everything's fine," "shh," "you'll see them very soon"... anything I said was lost on them. But I continued as best as I could, and it was only afterwards, as I was out of earshot of the school, that I let my own emotions spill out.

That was not an easy day.

As everyone can see, however (and as was predicted very impressively and very prophetically by my father), the excitement died down very quickly and life rapidly resumed an average level of normalcy. With the exception of a pathetic attempt to cause panic by blowing up a bus in Tel Aviv, everyone settled down, and the state of Israel has now turned to far more important matters -- preparations for the upcoming elections, on January 22nd. I'm sure a further political update will follow that day, during which all schools and jobs are canceled and everyone in Israel over the age of 18 hits the polls.

In other news, my last blog post did not include the biggest and most important change in my life, because at the time it was being kept secret (I wanted to surprise my dad upon his return to Israel) -- now that the cat is out of the bag, however, it is time to introduce you all to C.J., my new roommate! While the name began as an homage to my favorite White House Press Secretary (if you're confused, you are severely behind on the West Wing -- flip it on and watch it, it will be a very good use of the next 45 min of your time), the wake of destruction caused by a rambunctious puppy in my house has led me to redub her, instead of Claudia Jean as on the show, Calamity Jane. But despite the rubble and rapid demise of everything that I own, she is a lovely addition to my small, one-person house and a very adorable companion!

And her favorite toy...

 And even though she causes this...

...she is well worth the effort!

And now, since I promised you a post-within-a-post to conclude my story about missiles over Israel on a slightly more optimistic note, I give you the following.

In Which Spot is a Dog

Part of my job description as a newly-inducted educator of Israel includes a package outside of the classroom. Israel is delving ever more deeply into progressive education, and is very intent on providing extra support for students who are falling behind or experiencing difficulties. So in addition to 21 hours a week in the classroom itself, I have four hours a week (usually after school hours) in which I teach "partani" classes -- groups of five students at a time, whom I teach basics in an effort to fill gaps and catch them up to the rest of the class.

This week, in my very last partani class with the fourth graders before the groups switch around next week, most of the group reported having other family commitments, and I ended up with one student in an impromptu private lesson.

This student, O*, is in her fourth year of studying English and is still not familiar with any of the letters. I had been giving her worksheets that had gotten progressively more difficult, from basic letter recognition, to knowing the sounds they make, to matching capital with lowercase, and so on, but each time she would stare at them blankly and then fill them out using a big chart of the ABCs in page one of her textbook, not having any idea which letter was which or what she was actually doing. On this day, I had taken an ambitious step forward (as per the instructions of my pedagogical instructor) and brought in a very short text with basic comprehension questions. When I say very short, I mean the following text:

This is Spot.

Spot is a dog.

Spot the dog is not in the box.

Spot the dog is on the box.

This was accompanied by a lively picture of Spot the dog standing on a box, as well as true/false questions (along the lines of ___ Spot is a cat, asking the students to mark a check or an X on the line).

O stared at the page, and then at me. She looked hopelessly lost and had no idea where to start. She did not yet have the ability to recognize letters and associate them with sounds -- we weren't even close to tackling the problem of comprehension yet. So I did the following.

I wrote the text up on the board, in big letters with big spaces under each line. I then demonstrated what I wanted her to do on the first letter by saying "S -- 'sss' -- like samech in Hebrew." I then wrote a samech underneath. She continued ("P -- 'p' -- like peh in Hebrew" and so forth). (The first instance of "th," btw, I circled and explained to her that she was not able to find on her page because the combination of the two letters made a new sound -- so she then went through and circled the rest of the "th"s herself.)

For the first few lines, she had to look up every single letter and often ask me what the sound was. Slowly, however, she began to remember them and move faster. Finally, she had transcribed the entire text on the board.

Here is what happened. (Disclaimer: this video is, of course, private -- not that any of you would repost it anywhere, but it is important to state that it is for your -- and my -- enjoyment only! Also, most of this is in Hebrew, so will be difficult for you to understand unless you are Semitically inclined -- but watch a bit of it anyway, it is fascinating. And for those of you who can't understand it, I resume my explanation of the procedure after the video.)

Finally, O was ready to read. She began sounding out the Hebrew letters she wrote, one by one, forming words. At the end of each line we stopped and discussed what it was about. When she was confident that she understood the sentence, she wrote the translation in Hebrew next to the English, and moved onto the next line. Again, she began moving faster and looking more and more at the English letters each time until finally she had cracked the entire text.

I stood watching her with tears in my eyes. A half hour before, she did not recognize a single letter in English (except O, which begins her name). Now she was reading. And she was just as excited as I was by the end of the lesson, even moving onto the questions (unprompted by me) and reading them without any Hebrew letters written underneath, marking the line victoriously when she knew the answer, until the bell rang to end the lesson.

It was one of the most rewarding experiences I've had to date. I just wanted to share. :)

--

*name omitted for privacy reasons

In Which a Blog is Rediscovered

The carbon dating results have returned from the lab. After careful consideration, we believe the blog to have originated in the early twenty first century. Though it appears to have remained untouched for some time, with appropriate care and gentle coaxing it is now beginning to show promising signs of sensory resuscitation. We remain optimistic that the blog will eventually be able to reach its former level of strength and communicative ability. Please stand by for further updates. Thank you.

--

Within the time that has lapsed between this and the last post that I made, months ago, my life has undergone an extraordinary number of changes. Most of you probably would not recognize me at this point without this handy little written guide to the life of Shani, so I consider it a must to fill it with facts and updates about my most recent escapades.

First and foremost, mobility has found me once again! A little like cracking open a pomegranate and finding hundreds of tiny (albeit messy) rubies inside, so did the physical therapist who took a look at my leg (with its bone damage, its misplaced joints, and its torn ATFL ligament) announce that functionality was lurking just below the surface. After five months on crutches, and two months on a cane, not to mention the intense physical therapy undergone towards the end, I am now once again frolicking the streets of Tel Aviv on two fully capable legs... though one is admittedly still more capable than the other. I imagine, though, that with time, The Peg Leg Incident will be nothing but a distant memory.

This is particularly fortunate, as I have since spent much of my ambulatory recovery time packing up all of my belongings and moving them two streets away to a new apartment, half a floor downstairs, where I am living independently and roommate-free for the first time in my entire life. The apartment is one large L-shaped room, big enough for a designated living room space and also a designated bedroom. A doorway leads to a small kitchen, which in turn leads to an even smaller bathroom. Perfect for a solitary, Tel Aviv-frolicking lady who is currently very much enjoying her new-found independence! It is not completely homey yet, as it is missing a few essential elements (such as a closet and a microwave and living room furniture), but these anomalies aside, it is cozy and welcoming and open (always!) to friends and family wishing to come visit, play, frolic, or spend the night. (I am discovering slowly through writing that frolicking is apparently something that was very blatantly missing from my life in my inadvertent seven month hiatus from health. Don't be alarmed if it continues to crop up over the course of this post.)

In addition to the residential shift in my life, other changes have occurred around it that fit in the general "moving" theme and reflect the plethora of new beginnings in my life (as we celebrated a new year's start earlier this week, it seems appropriate that my life should suddenly include new pages as well). Most importantly, while I am still proud to call myself an educator of English as a Foreign Language in Israeli schools, I am now working at an elementary school in Bat Yam teaching first through fifth grade English. This is monumentally different from the work I was doing last year, mostly in very positive ways, though there were also some startling changes -- namely class sizes (3 classes of 38 students, and my smallest class is 25) and sheer NUMBER of classes and therefore students (12 classes -- approximately 400 students altogether whose names I have to remember and whose work I have to keep track of). Aside from these, however, I am very much enjoying the change -- vivent les differences!

First of all, and most significantly, I am no longer a mechanechet as I was for the seventh grade last year (or rather, for the first half of last year). In elementary school this role is much larger even than it is in middle and high school, because the mechanechet spends many more hours in the classroom and teaches a multitude of subjects -- everything, I believe, apart from English, Music, Art and Science. I am therefore relieved to have been excused from this responsibility this year, especially since last year it proved to be beyond my grasp as a cultured-in-the-USA-brand Israeli. Furthermore, teaching this age is of course worlds different from the stress of the bagrut that I dealt with last year, from the hours and disciplinary problems experienced in middle and high school education... instead of trying to coerce bitter and weathered teenagers to read passages upon passages of mock news reports in preparation for a single exam that dictates their entire future, I am singing, drawing pictures, and teaching the letters of the alphabet one by one, while very young, bright-eyed, still-eager-to-learn faces stare up at me with renewed enthusiasm every day, and copy crooked Cc and Bb letters diligently into their notebooks.

Needless to say, this is very much more up my alley than last year's job. :)

This is not to say that there aren't difficulties and discipline problems. Not remotely. There are certain classes, out of my twelve, that cause me a world of frustration and hoarseness... not letting me speak, yelling, whistling, singing, throwing paper, hitting each other, kicking each other under the table... there's brazen lying and accusing and tattling on friends, and constant cries of "SHANI, TELL HIM TO STOP!" or "can I switch seats? She stole my eraser again!"... there's also the more innocent kind of disturbance, the one I can't get too mad at, with every second in the classroom producing a chant of "I DON'T UNDERSTAND!" or "can I wipe the board???" or "Shani, guess what! I learned how to write an A yesterday! I want to show you on the board!" or running up to shove a notebook in my face, "will you make a big V in my work so I can show my mom? Make sure it's red! No, bigger!"

Furthermore, even without raising my voice or getting angry, I still find that my throat suffers a great deal of abuse (even though YES I am a singer and YES I use my diaphragm and NO it doesn't completely help). In a class of 38 first-grade students, for example, one has to maintain a certain volume level in order to be heard at all. While they are not yet at the age where they feel the need to anarchically undermine the system or start a revolution, they are also not yet at the age where they know what they're supposed to do in school... it's enough that a third of them are surreptitiously whispering to their neighbors, and my little coloratura voice is drowned out, to be quickly forgotten by the masses.

Anyway, we are only a few weeks in... so, the adventure continues! Onward and upward! More stories to follow another time. In between frolics. :)

This post could easily go on for another thirty pages or so, as I strive to fill in all the gaps between my bout of dissecting the Israeli school system and the current need to update everyone on my life, but as I have been warned to take it easy on the blog in its first few days of recovery and give it ample time to relax and recuperate from its period of extreme neglect, I will close instead with a delightfully unrelated anecdote.

This is the story of Alon's and my unanticipated adventure in Brechia.

It seems that every new year must begin with a wild an unexpected adventure. Whether it is delivering a baby on the highway, or waving a chicken over my head, or anything else that may have happened in the promised land over the last two years, this year was no exception.

Having finished our Friday night dinner, Alon and I were blithely on our way to an evening of song in honor of the late, brilliant Israeli composer and icon Sasha Argov, whose family (mother, son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter) did us the honor of attending. We turned on the waze GPS and drove an hour south to the designated location (a small village, Nir Israel, near Ashkelon). After a fairly simple drive, we came upon a big gate, the entrance to a village, where we waited patiently for it to open. After a few moments our patience proved fruitful, and a car came towards us from inside, leaving the village and causing the door to slide smoothly sideways. We waited until it was big enough for us to drive through, and we cruised inside.

After a few minutes of driving, we felt strangely unsettled. People kept giving us nasty looks, yelling at us as they walked beside us on the street, and in a few extreme cases even pounded on the roof of the car. At first we were mystified, until the penny dropped.

We were the only car on the street.

Everyone we saw was wearing a kippa and walking out of a synagogue.

This was clearly not Nir Israel. 

We were in a religious village, not the one in which we had intended to be at all, driving on a Friday night. And as a result being met with a great deal of resentment and hostility. Waze had decided that the quickest way to get us to Nir Israel was through the village of Brechia. While this was geographically correct, the secular and ignorant Waze did not realize that we were driving on a Friday night and that certain, non-logistic rules had to be taken into account as well.

Feeling very uncomfortable, we steeled ourselves and drove to the other end of the village, where we knew there would be another gate -- a way out. After still more yelling on the part of devout pedestrians, we arrived at the other gate to the village. We stood in front of it, waiting for it to open.

Silence.

Now, the gates are all electric. Someone pushes a button and it slides open. But let me fill in the gap for those who are unfamiliar with religious Jewish custom -- electricity is one of those things that is strictly illegal on the Sabbath. Not only was no one around to push a button, but the phone number listed on the gate "call this number for help with opening the gate" was ringing off the hook, unanswered, every time we tried it. Passers by, when asked for help, either laughed and told us that help was impossible, or simply ignored us, glared at us, and walked on. There was only one pair of kids who tried to be helpful, giving us a very fuzzy and garbled set of directions for driving through occupied Palestinian territory... but we decided that we would not attempt that, as they were unable to give us clear directions for getting out of there, only getting in.

In short -- we were prisoners in Brechia.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Why not drive back to the gate where we came in and exit that way? Well, a few things. First of all, that would have meant driving, once again, through a hostile village of people pounding on our car... but more importantly than that, we realized that our entrance to Brechia the first time was pure fluke. Someone had just been leaving who had the power to open the gate, and in our blissful ignorance, we sailed in.

I called Gadi, the host of the evening to which we were headed, and explained our situation. After a great deal of guffawing and disbelief on the other side of the line ("you're WHAT? I've never heard of that situation before..."), he suggested that we call an ambulance. He said in the event of a true emergency, ambulances have the power to open any gate and extract people in need from inside any village. "It's perfectly normal," he said. "I've done it dozens of times."

So I hung up and called the ambulance switchboard.

Me: "Hello? Sorry to bother you, but I'm stuck in a religious village with my car and can't open the gate to get out. I understand you can help me, I was told that you get this sort of call all the time. I'm in Brechia, near Ashkelon."
Him: "What?"
Me: (explaining the situation again)

(pregnant pause)

Him: "This is an ambulance."
Me: "I'm aware of that... I was wondering if you could help me..."
Him: "You're supposed to call this number when you have a crisis. What are you doing?? Why are you wasting my time??"
Me: "It's not exactly a medical crisis, but we have already been stuck here for half an hour, and at this rate, we'll be here until tomorrow at sunset when the electricity powers on again. And I was told that you do this all the time."
Him: "You were told wrong. We have never opened a gate from afar or sent out people to open it from the spot itself, we simply send out ambulances to save people who have real problems. In future, you should get advice from people who actually know what they're talking about."

(click)

Well, after this very helpful exchange with the Israeli emergency squad, I called Gadi back again and recounted the minutes of my conversation with the ambulance. He was astounded at the response I had received, but then remembered that he knew of someone in Brechia who might answer a phone, despite the Friday night situation. He told me he would call him and that I should sit tight and wait for his phone call.

We waited. The birds were chirping. Other than that, no noise.

We waited some more.

I called Gadi back. "He hasn't contacted you yet?? Let me try him again."

I asked him to give me HIS phone number, so I could do it myself, but it turned out this was a broken telephone-style chain of command... calling someone to call someone else to call us and extract us from Brechia. So that was impossible.

We continued to wait.

I called Gadi once again. "Still nothing??? Ok. Here's what you do. Are residents of Brechia getting upset with you?"
Me: "Yes, they've been glaring and yelling and pounding on our car."
Gadi: "Perfect. Call the police, explain your situation, and tell them you feel threatened."

I hung up with Gadi, and at that moment my phone rang. So I answered it, and Alon, in the meantime, followed Gadi's instructions and called the police.

Me: "Hello?"
Guy: "Yes, hi. I understand you're stuck and I can help you." (Gadi's person had finally woken up and called me.)
Me: "YES. We're at the gate that's nearer to Nir Israel and we're stuck."
Him: "Hang on. I'm coming to the gate to help you. Just wait there. Which gate, again?"
Me: "The gate by Nir Israel."
Him: "Ok. I'm on my way."

Alon by this time had finished with the police as well, who had told him to sit tight and wait for them to check out the situation.

So again we waited.

Phone rings.

Guy: "I'm at the gate. Where are you?"
Me: "What? We're here. There's nobody around."
Guy: "I don't see you..."
Me: "Are we at the same gate?"
Guy: "Oh. No, we're not. Ok, I need you to come to the other gate. Just drive through the village, kind of fast so people can't approach your car, and ignore all the yelling."

So, we did just that and arrived at the other side of the village. No one.

Me: "Are you here??"
Guy: "Yes. Where are you?"
Me: "We are in the car. The ONLY car. Standing in front of the gate."
Guy: "Oh. Yeah. I see you now. Coming."

The guy turned out to be a young man, in his 20s or early 30s, who was very sympathetic to our predicament but apparently did not possess as much ability to help in our situation as we had been led to believe. We chatted for a few minutes and then he said he'd go try and see what he could do.

In the meantime, the police called Alon back for further details. He told them we had moved to the other gate, and were still waiting.

And we waited. Ninety minutes, so far, we had been prisoners in Brechia. And we waited.

Suddenly, there was a creak, and the gate began to slide open. To this day we don't know if it was the police or the young guy who had solved our problem, but at that moment we didn't care. We high-tailed it out of there, me laughing and crying simultaneously from the stress of it all, while the gates of Brechia closed once again, symbolically, behind us.

We arrived in Nir Israel a full hour into the start of the event (we had planned to be there a half hour early), entering Gadi's house to the sound of wild, raucous applause. People ran up to us with glasses of wine, warm embraces, and cleared seats for us to sit down and recover from our traumatic experience. There was not a person in the room, the Argov family included, who had not been made aware of what was now referred to in the police station as "The Brechia Incident."

In Which Agency is the Key to Educational Success

Our entire lives we are programmed to think as individuals.

...

I would like to take a moment for everyone to process the irony inherent in that sentence.

...

Yes, it is something we find amusing, once we catch on... I am reminded of Monty Python's Life of Brian, in which a play on this very concept is one of the more funny and memorable moments in the film:

"You are ALL INDIVIDUALS!"
"We are all individuals..."
"You are all different!"
"We are all different..."
(a single voice, sotto voce) "I'm not..."

Yes, hilarious. A very witty joke. I think so too, don't get me wrong.

As a new member of the Israeli education system, however, I find myself re-evaluating a great many things. How can we promote individuality in a system that is designed to produce homogeneous results? In a system where success is judged by grades, numbers, rankings and test-taking abilities? Even worse, why do we expect that people will come out of this environment, after twelve years (an even two thirds of their lives), with the natural and inherent ability to be creative, resourceful, intelligent, and to have the wisdom to make their own decisions?

This is, of course, not limited to the Israeli system specifically. But I find myself in the unique position of being a player in two different worlds... and it is this knowledge base that I would like to now use to my advantage.

I look back on my high school experience as having taken place in a very heterogeneous environment. I graduated with an academic honors diploma; AP (advanced placement, college credit) courses; participation in musical/theatrical/artistic events; a 3.6 grade point average. To name but a few. This paved the way for the choices I was to make afterward: a five-year, dual-degree university program, ten times dean's list, cum laude graduate... and all of this after a year of post-high school academic experimentation and exploratory thinking in a different country.

Others who attended high school alongside me, friends and acquaintances, remember it differently. Perhaps a regular diploma; Science Olympiad; sports activities; a grade point average somewhere in the 2.0 region. Again, to name but a few. In no way am I trying to indicate that these choices are inferior to my own. On the contrary, the majority of the people with whom I have stayed in touch are leading happy, fulfilled lives. Each one of them has chosen a path and is doing things that he or she finds meaningful and important. In some cases raising families, in other cases working, in yet other cases continuing or having continued to advance degrees... but the point is that each one of us has made choices. We have all decided from a myriad of options. And that has shaped who we are today.

It is from this that I draw the following conclusion. What is the key to individuality? AGENCY.

I am now eight years out of high school. What do I remember?

Do I remember how to do trigonometry? Or the capital of Singapore? Or the name of the battle that sparked the American Civil War? Maybe. Probably not. But my strongest memories are those which applied to me directly. A powerful social network, an personalized academic environment, extra-curricular activities, and so forth.

I look back to the day I graduated from eighth grade, at almost fourteen years old. This was it. High school -- the time to move on, to develop, a fresh start, an opportunity for growth, a sense of responsibility. I began to receive scads of glossy paper in the mail... Shani, decide your future! Shani, choose your path! Shani, the time is NOW!

Among other things to find their way to my doorstep that year, I received a hefty booklet listing all of the available courses at the high school, complete with instructions. There were, of course, requirements: for an academic honors diploma, three years of science, four years of math, four years of English, etc; for a regular diploma, fewer academic responsibilities. Within that framework, however, I was able to craft my own class schedule. Beyond the appropriate placement in the required classes, such as geometry vs. algebra vs. calculus or biology vs. chemistry vs. physics, there were elective classes such as choirs, sports teams, art classes, study halls; and elective "academic" courses such as crime fiction, film literature, creative writing, poetry, organic chemistry, and five or six different languages. Each course had its own time, its own block, its own room, and the choices -- after initial fulfillment of the basic requirements, of course -- were all my own.

I remember this as a huge, monumental part of my high school experience. The hours I spent with my friends on the phone, debating, discussing, deciding... coordinating schedules, discussing the virtues of one English class over another, of Algebra 1 over honors Algebra 1, and so forth. Why did we take such pains to determine our high school choices? After all, this is school-related... not something that most teenagers would choose to think about to such lengths during their summer vacation. But I came to the conclusion, eventually, that it was all a question of agency. I was taking my high school education into my own hands, and allowing myself to build something that fit me personally, within the bounds of what was demanded of me by the surrounding system.

Upon observing the classrooms where I currently teach, however, I find that student involvement in their own decisions is shockingly minimal by comparison. First of all, the system of "home classes" (replete with its own advantages, to be sure) creates a very problematic learning environment. Contrary to the -- in this case, American -- system, where each teacher has his or her own room where they wait for each student to arrive for the start of class (allowing the teacher to gain control more easily, and of course, to prep lessons/classes in advance, decorate with appropriate materials, and the like -- an all around sense of control of the space), the students here control the learning environment... and after the sound of the bell, the teacher arrives on their turf, a "guest" in their habitat, to try and regain authority and control over his or her students. This creates a very basic but still wildly problematic power struggle between teacher and students.

Furthermore, the physical act of getting up and moving to a different room, even for three minutes at a time (the legal passing period at my middle school, for example), is enough to clear any American student's head, mentally prepare for a change of subject, change of scene, even change of classmates (a point that I believe is critical and that I will return to later on). Israeli students, placed all day in the same room, sometimes with absolutely no break between subjects, are not given the luxury of three minutes to clear their heads, go to the bathroom, have a drink of water, or anything else they may feel that they need during this time. They sit by the same other students all day long, they have beside them their backpacks with all the books and materials necessary for the entire day, and besides a few recesses in between blocks of classes, they are essentially prisoners -- albeit on their own turf, as we established earlier -- until they are free to leave at the end of the day.

Even beyond these problems, however -- which, I admit, have little to do with agency, but provide the background I need for the following claims -- there is a basic problem with the Israeli system that I believe lays the groundwork for the lack of agency I am finding in Israeli students. Because of the "home class" system, the only classification/categorization of Israeli students is one based on age. (As a note, I would like to mention here that this becomes slightly less true the older the students are -- the existence of the bagrut subject qualifying exams, for example, creates an automatic divide later into 3 points, 4 points and 5 points -- different proficiency levels -- of bagrut testing. But this divide is still confined to the boundaries of what material should be appropriate for any given age, and is only marginally adapted for skill level.)

Why is this problematic? It should make sense that classification is based on age, no? Students who grew up in the same system will have covered the same materials... well, that's a nice thought in theory, but in practice it is fraught with technicalities. In our efforts to create a homogeneous environment, we have forgotten that every student is different. A student who is strong in mathematics and science may have a much more difficult time with history, literature, bible studies... there are a thousand and one different combinations that can be made, even within the framework of his or her age group.

I can anticipate your next question... how can this be fixed by agency? Well, think back to the students who form their own schedules... self-placement takes care of a lot of the problems of students falling into classes where they can't keep up. It's true that not everything is in the power of the students, of course; much is determined by placement testing. But a student can choose to advance his or herself at any point, a maneuver that motivated students will take full advantage of (in the form of honors classes, AP classes and the like -- or the equivalent מצוינות in Israel), and later use as an advantage when progressing to post-high school stages. Students for whom an advanced academic path is not a priority will not feel the need to bring this upon themselves, but will still be able to succeed within the framework of their own high school... and students who wish to progress in the academic field will push themselves, even now.

There is another aspect of this student initiative, too, that manifests socially. We all remember high school... not just in cheesy American films such as The Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller's Day Off (not to mention the very thankfully unrealistic portrait painted to us in Glee), but also in real life. It's a cliquish environment, for better or for worse. Kids at those ages, while maybe arriving on an even plane, soon find themselves naturally dividing, being drawn to others who display similar personality traits. School is a very important social springboard, a place where lasting friendships are formed, relationships that can and will help you through the maelstrom of an otherwise hostile environment.

Therefore, allowing a student the opportunity to take an active part in his or her own high school decisions allows him or her to not only choose the academic environment that is best suited for him or her, but also the social environment. I am not saying that the high school regulations and system should be solely crafted around the option for students to interact socially, particularly not in the classroom, but in many cases, the opportunity to study with colleagues of their ilk will also be a motivating factor for the students who maybe need an extra push. And since students naturally drift towards people who are similar to them, it stands to reason that the same motivated students will find themselves in more "advanced" environments whether or not the choice is ultimately in their hands.

This mention of the "advanced" environment brings me to another important point, a largely psychological distinction that I believe is the solution to a great many problems inherent in the system today.

You will notice that I have spent a great deal of time discussing the virtues of advanced classes, honors classes, opportunities for students to excel academically. Now, I would like to take a moment to step back and observe the fundamentals of the Israeli system.

Words like ometz, etgar, tafnit, the acronym mabar (מב"ר) and countless others are dropped like confetti around schools nationwide. For those of you who don't understand Hebrew, these words mean "courage," "challenge," "turning point," and the acronym for "regular exam route." These refer to classes within the school that are reserved for struggling students, for students who can't keep up in the "regular" class environment, for LD (learning disabled) students with sociological problems, socioeconomic problems, ADD, and the like.

Now, I am not naive. I can hear the wheels turning as you process this information. "What's the difference?" you are asking me. "The segregation that needs to happen between advanced and non-advanced students, about which you've been preaching for the last several paragraphs, is already happening. You HAVE more advanced and less advanced students. No?"

Well, yes. That's true. But my point is that there is a monumental difference between having a standard and an advanced class, and having a standard class and one for "challenged" students.

Now, of course, the first psychological difference between the two is in the minds of the students themselves. In the "American" method (as it shall henceforth be known simply within the bounds of this article), no student has to look upon his or herself as being in a "remedial" class environment. Students who are motivated academically can look upon themselves as having achieved advanced levels of success, and students for whom this is not a priority are still on an even plane with what is widely considered a standard high school experience. Furthermore, this distinction raises the bar for education all over the school, allowing the standard material to be enhanced in certain classes, as opposed to having to, in many situations, water it down for others. While it is true that the aforementioned LD students will not disappear, I firmly believe that their thinking of themselves differently is half the battle. And streamlining, or integrating, them into a regular system (a topic that is very current and constantly in the forefront of the Israeli Education Ministry) will doubtless be easier to do in this context than it currently is.

Even beyond this, though, the "American" method produces a great psychological change that happens in the minds of the teachers as well. There have been a great many debates about streamlining, about whether it promotes advancement of LD students or condemns them to a life of "otherness." One of the topics that arose concerned a classroom known as the "marathon" classroom. Legally, this is something that is not approved by the Ministry of Education, but is still a phenomenon in a percentage of schools nationwide. This class is designed to frequently pull the weakest students out of their home classes, for the purpose of learning the purely "academic" subjects.

Now, on the one hand, in this environment, the very same students who hid in the back of the room, drawing circles on the floor with their toes, are suddenly sitting in the front row, surrounded by other students at their own level, asking questions, writing, calculating, etc. They are given a "success" quiz at the end of every lesson, to test comprehension, retention of information, focus. This definitely has its great advantages. The repercussions, however, are largely due to the teachers. Imagine the psychological difference in a teacher's head between walking into a classroom to teach clearly labeled "strong" students, and walking into a marathon classroom to teach the "weak" students. It is entirely possible, in this case, that the standard is automatically being set to far lower than it need be, condemning the students against their own will -- or even knowledge -- to being below par. Having, instead, a regular class in which students -- and, no less importantly, teachers -- feel that the environment is at a standard level, will go a long way towards, again, raising the educational bar, not only in this particular class, but in the school.

I am definitely not trying to claim that the Israeli education system needs to become an American one. But, drawing on my own experiences as an active member of both worlds, I feel that it is necessary to draw attention to the things which I feel are some of the fundamental problems with Israeli education today. My main grief, of course, is with the students' lack of agency. I believe that their almost forcefully homogenized high school experience is a major deterrent in their subsequent lives, in which homogeneity (thankfully) ceases to exist. Encouraging an active and heterogeneous school environment means building a much more stable and supportive foundation for individual life.

In Which We Choose a Roommate for the Dog

Life is very cyclical.

Think back to my arrival in Israel... those of you who are more memory-inclined will remember the circumstances under which I chose my residence. For those who are not, I will remind you of the beginnings of a fast friendship forged between myself and the Lady Bamba, whose lack of involvement with the actual lease does not deter her from exerting her full authority and dominance over the apartment itself.

Now, just a few weeks before the year and a half mark since my move, Bamba is once again faced with a new roommate. You may be asking yourselves, "if Shani spent so long raving about the apartment, and how easy it is to get to work, why has she decided to leave it?" Well, settle down everyone -- I am not going anywhere. We have added a fourth member into our little household.

Meet Cola.

Cola, five months old (and currently curled up at my feet), joined us two weeks ago. The First Lady was miffed upon his arrival -- she was not so easily inclined to share her dominion with the newcomer, but slowly and surely he has begun to make himself at home, and his predecessor has begun to adapt.

That being said, we had an incident earlier this week in which Cola decided that adventure called... for those of you who don't follow my facebook updates, he managed to get out and we couldn't find him for hours. We put posters up around the area, called every vet in town leaving our numbers, updated on facebook (between the two of us, I think that Einat and I have close to 4,000 facebook friends -- and unlike myself, many of hers actually live in the area). Thanks to the decency of our friends and the wonders of modern technology, word was spread all over the city, and later that night we got a phone call telling us there was a very anxious and frightened puppy waiting to be taken home. He had been found by a little girl who called her mom, crying, and said "MOM! I found a puppy and he's crying and I don't know what to do!!"

While Einat and I are thoroughly relieved that things ended the way they did, we can't help but be convinced that Bamba engineered the whole thing. That dog would make a great gangster.

Cola and I, in the recent weeks, have had a great deal of time to bond... this is a bittersweet affair, however. While I am thrilled at the opportunity to stay at home all day long and play with the new puppy, it is unfortunately due to an incident that took place a few weeks ago, the likes of which I have not experienced since I was sixteen.

Friends who intend to chase after buses in the rain, be warned: sometimes you're better off just being late.

After attempting this myself, I managed a spectacular bodily crumple in the street -- legs protruding in unusual directions from underneath my torso, I stayed stationary in the rain for about a half hour until, with the help of three strangers, I was able to hoist myself onto a nearby bench and call for help. The evening, instead of being spent in a relaxed and enjoyable Pacapella rehearsal and then in busy preparations for one of my most important and most stressful days at work (which was to include a cautionary hearing about one of my students -- who, as of this week, is no longer at the school, a drastic measure that I was admittedly not expecting!), resulted instead in five hours at the emergency room (accompanied by my dear and patient cousin, Shmulik), a pair of crutches (fetched willingly by my dear friend Salit), a small bottle of optalgin (not strong enough), a swollen, bandaged, purple foot, and now close to three weeks at home, completely detached from my job and my students. My only contact with them was last Friday, when, armed with their end-of-semester report cards, I hobbled into the classroom to distribute them, smiling through hugs and good wishes, before I then hobbled back home again for more nourishing -- albeit slightly boring -- rest.

I still maintain my streak of no broken bones -- but it is beyond me how a simple sprain can lead to such sensations, over two weeks later, as that of a foot that has been freshly forged out of liquid steel at the local smithy. Were it not for the distinct lack of smithies in Tel Aviv, I would consider that as a very feasible explanation for the pain. As it is, however, I am sticking with the Sprain Theory. Further hypotheses welcome.

Now, I feel that in recent posts, my blog has been dominated by stories about my job -- due to a desire to discuss other aspects of my life, as well as my involuntary hiatus, I am working quite diligently to provide details about Life, the Universe, and Everything Unrelated to My School. I will, therefore, continue on that track and describe another event that took place this week that you may find of interest.

Saturday afternoon, we celebrated Ilan's bar mitzvah. ("Who is Ilan?" I hear you ask... well, Ilan is Alon's younger brother. "And who is Alon??" is the predictable subsequent question... well, if you don't know that, it's time you logged onto skype and gave me a call. I'm not THAT far away. And clearly we have plenty to talk about.)

For those of you who have been to my family affairs, you know what a production they always are -- especially those of you who are NOT of Israeli descent and are not used to the bells and whistles that many families attach lovingly to their events. In my family, however, those bells have always been a bit shinier and the whistles a bit noisier than in those of most families that I've had the pleasure to meet.

For the first time in my life, I have found a family that rivals my own. Rivals? Equals. Complements. Inspires.

Let us begin with the ceremony itself. I realize that it is counter-intuitive to begin with the end, but bear with me. You will enjoy the ride.

Maybe it is due to the fact that I myself did NOT have a bat-mitzvah ceremony, but I have never seen such painstaking preparations for an event -- let alone an event that celebrates the coming of age thirteen. I am, however, fairly convinced that it is not my lack of experience in this area, but actually an extraordinary set of family traditions that set this event apart.

The ceremony itself included a beautiful dvar torah written by the man of the hour (for that day he became a man). For those of you who don't know, a dvar torah is a talk, or short lecture, relating to that week's torah portion. It often contains a pearl of wisdom, a moral or a life lesson, and is customarily written by the bar mitzvah boy or bat mitzvah girl on the day of his or her confirmation. Besides the dvar torah, there was a charismatic rabbi, a shower of colorful toffees, a service with a lot of family involvement (including family members from very far away, who flew in -- from the USA and from New Zealand -- for the event), and a special performance by Alon's barbershop quartet -- with a surprise appearance by Yours Truly as the tenor in dear Boaz's absence (yes, TENOR. :D). That was inside the sanctuary.

Part one was then followed by a spectacular meal, good friends, an extraordinary number of redheads from the maternal side of the family... and then the real show began.

Step aside, Von Trapp Family Singers -- there is a new family band in town.

After gathering the attention of the guests, after all our tummies were full of the delicious food, the Aviv family scattered across the "stage" in the reception hall -- Ilan on guitar, Oran (mother) on keyboard, Ella (middle sister) on the bongo drum, Alon on recorder, and Uri, the Aviv pater, at the microphone. Together, they performed a rendition of a song, "Nad Ilan," last performed as a family at Ilan's birth thirteen years ago.

This touching performance was followed by an impressive powerpoint about Ilan's bar mitzvah missions (information to follow, stay tuned -- working backwards, remember), speeches made by family members, both immediate and extended, more singing (in which I was asked to participate, which was a great honor for me, especially as I was joined by Alon and his aunt Anna, and accompanied by Ilan on the guitar), a song written and performed for Ilan by three of his school friends, a fully choreographed and costumed vaudeville/tap dance number performed by the entire family yet again, and a movie about his life written, directed and edited by Ilan in honor of the big event. The Reception Show culminated in a surprise for Ilan (though no less of one for every other person in the room as well): an announcement that "someone else" who couldn't make it to the event wanted to send best wishes as well.

The lights then dimmed, and the video turned on. And we found ourselves on the set of How I Met Your Mother. After a private tour of each of the main sets of the show, the camera then spanned, one by one, to each of the actors... and each one individually wished Ilan mazal tov, and happy birthday, and best of luck in the future.

Wow.

Apparently it pays to have family friends in the biz! I have never seen a kid so excited. And I have never seen a group of adults so dumbfounded. And in many cases, jealous. :)

Now, just a word about the missions, and I will leave the subject of the bar mitzvah to rest.

In the last year, Ilan (following the example of his two older siblings who did this as well as a part of their coming-of-age rituals) completed thirteen different missions in preparation for the big day. Among them were family-related missions (i.e. learning to cook, like his grandmother; building a table, like his grandfather), as well as a "roots project" (something that is customary to write at this age anyway, and something that my students, for example, have been working on and will be turning in to me by the end of the year) in which he explores his heritage. There were other various coming-of-age missions, like traveling unaccompanied to a far away city, but the jewel of the entire collection is something that is referred to as a "Robinson Day." On this day, Ilan was released into an unfamiliar territory in the desert, with nothing but a phone (that didn't call out, but to which he received text messages with instructions) and a GPS, and had to "survive" an entire day on his own, reading clues from text messages and discovering answers. At the end of the day, he received an instruction to pack up within ten minutes, and was then picked up by a helicopter and transported to his celebratory end-of-survival party.

Now, think back on all the bar mitzvahs you've been to and tell me if you've ever seen anything like that before. :)

It was truly an amazing event all around!

My last non-school-related news item is that in between bouts of hopping and painkiller-induced delirium, I somehow managed to audition for a production of Guys and Dolls in Jerusalem, and I am pleased to announce that being drug-ridden apparently has its benefits: you are now reading a post by Sgt. Sarah Brown of the Save-A-Soul Mission! :) I am excited to participate, though I will be a lot more excited once I can get to rehearsals without having to hobble on crutches across half of the Hebrew University campus. But stay tuned...

And here we go. It can no longer be avoided. With almost three weeks off, I've almost forgotten where I work, but not entirely -- so time to touch base there as well before this post reaches a conclusion.

First of all, last week was an exciting week, Teach First-wise... Wendy Kopp, the visionary who founded Teach For America 20 years ago was in Israel.

TFI brought her to us on our day of studies last week for a lecture/open discussion about our work. Being an "anglo" myself, I was also invited to eat lunch with her and was interviewed for Ha'aretz Anglophiles newspaper (supposed to come out this week or next -- will keep everyone posted!). She is a remarkable woman and it was a pleasure to get to meet her and hear her speak. I think we all needed a fresh dose of inspiration (although I think she may have left us thinking that the Israel branch is something of a downer... I think everyone could use a three-week hiatus, it's a shame that I had to break myself in order to get one). All in all, she's very striking, and I feel very lucky to have gotten to meet her!

In other news, on January 16th (about a week, I think, before I temporarily departed from the school), all of my eleventh grade students arrived at the school for their matriculation (bagrut) exams.

This was the moment we had been preparing for all semester, after two weeks of not breathing, not eating, not sleeping, nothing but concentrated days... I had several days where I was in the class for many hours, at the expense of their other classes, drilling them only in English. The peak was the "marathon" -- the day I arrived at the school at 7:30 and left at 11:00pm -- we got on buses, went to a building a small distance away from the school, and spent the ENTIRE DAY drilling English with the same students. It was an intensive and exhausting day, but nonetheless (surprisingly) effective.

Now the big day was here... and once it had finally arrived, the school was a mad house. The exam is monitored by external proctors, first of all -- the teachers are not allowed to come near the students when they are taking the exam. Furthermore, in Israel, there are many students who receive special conditions for test-taking; someone to read the test to them, or extra time, or reading answers into a tape instead of writing them down... and each of these students has to be approved and then provided for before the test begins. Also, the listening portion of the exam is not provided on tape (with the exams that are delivered in big gray envelopes minutes before the clock starts ticking), or read by the proctors... it is broadcast on the radio, twice, at a very specific time that is determined in advance.

On the day of the bagrut, the English department was running up and down stairs, plugging and unplugging CD players, tuning radios, re-tuning radios, providing headphones and pens and special conditions to everyone who needed them... we made signs to stay quiet, hung them all over the school, turned offices and closets into personal exam rooms... there were a million and one preparations to throw together before the students arrived en masse, ready to tackle their matriculation demons.

Once the exam started, however, and we were no longer allowed inside the classrooms, the atmosphere suddenly became relaxed. We all retired to the teacher's lounge, made coffee, and then each one of us took a blank copy of the bagrut exam for our own group. We then sat and filled them in, listening to the broadcast for the comprehension exercise, and discussing the answers with each other... and once the students were finished with their own exams, they began showing up at the door. We were ready for them -- batting back questions like "what was the answer to that question about the interview??" with "here are all the answers -- go check them quietly."

This is a very nice tradition, I think. The students can have their fears and insecurities about the test instantly allayed. Of course, for those who did poorly, it can be a big slap in the face to see that upon exiting the exam, but they all seem to prefer that option to the haze of uncertainty.

The students, with all their problems, all their behavioral issues, their LDs, etc, all become very sweet and lovable on the day of the matriculation exams. As soon as answers were right, they jumped on me, gave me hugs, in one particularly euphoric case a big lipstick-smeared kiss on the cheek... it was, all in all (and very surprisingly) a most enjoyable day. Now, together, we are all waiting for the results... but no matter what, now, they are over! Now, onto the second semester, and the second round of bagrut exams!

I need a t-shirt that says "I survived the winter bagrut." I am holding a contest for the nicest design. Please send submissions to Shani, c/o my school. Winner receives a free t-shirt and a signed, personalized plaque. Contest open until May 15th. Please agree to my Terms and Conditions before continuing. Thank you.