The milestone is passed, I am also one year older (as of five days after my last post), and the time has now come to translate my resolutions and challenges -- thus far on paper -- into practice.
I feel as though I have squeezed nine years of my life into the last two and a half weeks.
As far as the staff is concerned, my school is an amazing place. The teachers are nurturing, professional, and spend as much effort in educating me and the other new teachers as they do the kids. After the first afternoon, every colleague of mine who saw my tear-stained face (yes, heavy-handed foreshadowing -- details to follow) called me later that afternoon/evening to make sure I was okay and give me heartfelt reassurance. All in all, I am in good hands. Between my TWO English coordinators (one for the middle school and one for the high school), my 7th grade coordinator (where I am a home teacher -- mechanechet -- as I mentioned before), my TFI mentor (the 11th and 12th grade counselor), the 7th grade counselor, TWO concerned and involved principals (one for each school), two house fathers who have ALL the answers, the rest of the teachers... and of COURSE, not forgetting the ninety other amazing young teachers scattered around the nation who are facing the same challenges as I am and who constitute the greatest pillar of strength, support and inspiration upon which a person can possibly lean, I feel as though I am fully enveloped in a warm, professional cocoon.
WARNING: That being said, dear audience, please take this opportunity to remove the rose-colored glasses that you were handed as you walked in. For those who are squeamish or faint of heart, you may be obliged to leave this post. Exits are located at the top right-hand corner of your browser window. Thank you.
The time has come to describe my students.
We will begin with the students with whom I have the deepest, most intimate connections (in theory, that is). My home class, the 7th grade sports students. To put it lightly, I have a class of 31 chimpanzees.
On a typical day of class, I, the teacher, walk into the classroom after the bell (an obnoxious, teenage, Bros. Jonas-esque song, selected by last year's student council). It is written in the school's regulations that students must rise respectfully when a teacher enters the room -- I am learning, however, that while I can enforce the act of rising, enforcing respect is another matter entirely. From day one, my students are throwing wadded up pieces of paper at each other, spitballs, taking and hiding each others' school supplies, cursing, laughing and talking together, yelling, throwing basketballs around the room (did I mention sports class?), hitting each other, walking around the classroom, walking in and out of the door... all of this while they stand -- respectfully -- to greet me as I walk into the room.
Once I permit them to sit down, do not be misled -- this behavior doesn't stop, it merely worsens. Not only are the students in my own class misbehaving and pretending like I am not there, but the door opens every two seconds and a small, unfamiliar face pokes through it, stares at me for a minute, yells an obscenity at the class, and slams the door again. Also, and to give you a further idea, today I was assigned to watch the 7th grade wing of the school during their first two breaks of the day, and in a twenty-minute period was called to action to rescue a poor bewildered student from a closet, where he was captive behind a school desk barricade and a gaggle of children in utter hysterics; to separate two girls (best friends) who spent their break (and a part of class) stabbing each other repeatedly with lead pencils; and to physically restrain a struggling student from my own class from punching another kid in the face, while he continued to kick and squirm and curse the other student with words that no self-respecting twelve-year-old should know.
This chaos extends beyond break time, however. I don't think that I have ever achieved complete quiet in the classroom while I am talking. The kids shout out anything and everything when they feel like it, whether or not it is remotely related to my lesson. Not an optimal learning environment.
Furthermore, they possess an inherent inability to follow directions. Such complicated instructions as "please take out your notebooks" seem to bewilder even the brightest of students -- that seems to be the only explanation for the pathetic response to this direction, after which a measly 5% of the class actually unzip their backpacks and lay their English notebooks on the table (I teach this class English as well as chinuch). The rest either sit joking together or stare at me in defiance. I begin to approach students individually.
Me: "[name], take out your notebook."
Student: "No."
Me: "No? What do you mean, no? I'm not asking you, I'm telling you."
Student: "I don't feel like it."
Me: "I'm sorry, that's not an option. This is school, I'm your teacher, and you have to work. I'm waiting."
Student: "I don't have my notebook. I forgot it at home."
Me: "Why don't you have it today? You need to come prepared. I'm marking that you don't have your equipment. But for now, take out a piece of paper from a different notebook, and I want to see it copied into your English notebook next lesson."
Student, bellowing in my ear: "DOES ANYONE HAVE A PIECE OF PAPER FOR ME?!"
Me: "In the meantime, get out a pencil. We've started the lesson."
Student: "I don't have a pencil..."
...
Now imagine having this conversation 20+ times. And of course, each time I individually approach a student, (or write on the board, or look at my notes, or do anything other than stare them all down with my best death-rays glare) all 30 others think that they have suddenly become invisible and begin talking again, throwing things, getting up and smacking each other... What did we say? Not optimal learning conditions.
Now, before I continue, I would like to explain to my American readers that there are some basic differences between the American and Israeli school systems that I find not only unfamiliar, but highly problematic (not counting the cheeky and explosive student body, which is in another realm entirely). First and foremost, everyone in the school is on a first-name basis, from the principal, Devorah, to Shimon in the cafeteria. While this is nice in a lot of ways, and a great leveler, its big disadvantage is, paradoxically, as a great leveler -- the last thing Israeli students need is to be put up at an equal level with their teachers.
Furthermore, where American schools provide each teacher with his own room, which he can then decorate, design and in all other ways control, Israeli schools have a classroom for each class of STUDENTS. Ergo, it is my thirty-one chimpanzees who control the classroom, and I (and the other teachers) who approach THEIR territory at the beginning of each lesson. For me, having grown up in an American high school, this is a fundamental difference and one that creates serious problems in the power struggle between teachers and students in Israeli schools.
The last one that I will mention is the bell system. The ringing of the school bell does not mean "you should now be in class" like it did in my own high school in Bloomington. It means "now it's time to make your way to class, break is over." Now, who's to say how long it should take to make one's way to class? While a lesson is supposed to start at that specific moment, after the bell, where ideally a teacher would then immediately walk into a room full of standing, respectful students, kids of all ages find a plethora of excuses to drag out the break a little bit longer... and thus, a 45-minute lesson becomes a 40-minute lesson, becomes a 30-minute lesson... most of which is spent on treating disciplinary problems, and suddenly there are five minutes left of class and we have yet to begin the material.
So, this is what?
Not optimal. As I said.
Now, thus far I have described only the seventh grade. Although they are, undoubtedly, the most challenging student body in the school, it is still an institution that houses both high and middle schools, and therefore encompasses six grades of students (a total of about 1200-1300 altogether). It is only right to address the others as well, as each one of my classes is wracked with its own problems.
As well as the 7th grade, I also teach two English classes in the high school, in 11th grade. For those of you who are familiar with the Israeli system, I am teaching two 3-points bagrut preparation classes (translation into goyish: I have to prepare the weakest English learners in the school for standardized qualifying subject tests -- similar in character to the International Baccalaureate exams in European systems -- at the end of the year, some at the end of the semester). Not only are they 3-points (again, 3-points meaning weak -- but from here in, you're on your own), but one of my classes is a tafnit class.
Now, tafnit is a project that takes place in several schools in Israel, mostly in my area. Meaning "turning point," the tafnit project is designed to help students who are severely learning disabled, behavior-disabled, and motivation-disabled to pass their bagrut exams to the point at which they can successfully graduate from high school. At this point, university is almost out of the question, if not only for the reason that they are disabled from all angles, but also because you need a minimum of a 4-point bagrut to be accepted into higher academic institutions in Israel. All they want is to pass their exams so that they can leave school with a diploma and go find work.
In Israel, students begin learning English in the third grade. I spent my first double lesson (an hour and a half) with my tafnit class teaching 17-year-olds the ABCs. They don't know them, and this concept was -- is -- a big challenge for my class. In a little over two months, they have their bagrut exams, which include unseen reading examples, followed by a series of questions, and a listening comprehension portion. The later exams, in the spring, will also include writing and oral segments.
All very difficult to accomplish if the alphabet is still a mystery.
And if half the class forgets to take their ritalin, as was very unfortunately the case today.
And if the other half doesn't come.
And if nobody brings books, does homework, or pays attention in class.
My job is to get them to pass their exams. Optimal? Still no. But an interesting challenge.
Don't delude yourselves, however. My regular, non-tafnit 3-points class is not a whole lot better. Although the problems do not include low ritalin levels, necessarily, they too find themselves to be homework-and-equipment-challenged, and completely lacking in motivation. I am surrounded, in all directions, by students who have given up on themselves because they think -- based on grades as well as their own personal feelings -- that they can't do it. These kids are no exception. And ritalin or no ritalin, there are behavioral problems here as well.
One girl, for example, was constantly texting during class. After my final warning to her, at which point I told her that if she did not put the phone away and not touch it again I would take it away from her, I continued my lesson... only to turn in her direction two minutes later and find that she had actually TAKEN A CALL and was CHATTING ON THE PHONE during my class. My attempt to go and confiscate the phone was met with defiance, yelling, and an overall tantrum, after which she threw her books into her bag and stormed out of the class.
You may think that this is perhaps a better sitation for my class, her being gone. And in a sense, you'd be right. But she, like everyone else in the class, has to pass her exams, and it is my responsibility to prepare her.
No. Not optimal.
Now, let's journey quickly back to the 7th grade. You may think that I milked this topic to its very core -- but there's more.
Consider the difficulties, at the moment, of controlling and educating a group of students who have come from being the biggest, baddest beings in their old school to the looked-down-upon little munchkins in big-kid land. That, combined with the specific problems with my students that I mentioned earlier, is enough to turn any class into a jungle. But now consider a world in which the school ITSELF is an accessory to the students' deviance.
The mayor of the city of Bat Yam, where my school is, an infamously sketchy character but well known for getting things done in a timely fashion, has decided it is time to upgrade the academic world in keeping with the rapid technological advancement of the 21st century. It was announced this summer that every seventh grader in the city would, starting this year, discard his heavy bag full of books and do all his learning through the iPad.
Now, this has undeniable advantages. First of all, the iPad, being subsidized through the city, will cost each family significantly less than what they spend each year on new books (again, unlike in American schools, Israeli students are responsible for buying their books themselves). In theory, provided this experiment does not backfire, the iPad will accompany the students next year to the 8th grade as well, allowing the parents to spend only a minimal fee in each succeeding year on the e-versions of their kids' books. It is a very financially viable option, to be sure.
Moreover, a kid who, in one day, studies history, geography, English, bible, Arabic and mathematics, as is not unusual in a typical Israeli schedule, will not have to break his back trying to carry all of his appropriate books, but will instead equip himself with a small electronic device that later saves his parents yet more money in doctors' bills and massages.
Despite these advantages, however, let me address my own personal qualms -- or, nightmares -- about this particular experiment.
First of all, we were told at the beginning that these iPads would be blocked for internet use. As it turns out, this is NOT true. While the school can choose to block their own wifi system, the iPad is fully equipped with the features of any regular device, and can access the internet in any other location. Meaning that even if students are NOT surfing facebook during my class, they will go home to where there is wifi, download games, movies and other amusements onto their device, and spend their next academic day exploring them in their classes. Despite what the manufacturers claim, this is NOT the same as us battling the kids and their cell phones during class -- cell phones are not allowed, according to school regulations, and I am well within my rights to confiscate one if it pops up in my class. The iPad is a -- the! -- learning device, and one that I myself have given to my kids. Hence, confiscation is a bit more of an issue.
Secondly, the iPad is a device that has to be charged daily -- it only lasts for about 5-6 hours of net usage before the battery runs out. Supposing some of my kids forget to charge them the night before (and they will, they're twelve), are they then exempt from work the following day? Logic points to NO. However, in all practicality, I don't quite know how a problem such as this one would be dealt with within the school framework.
I mentioned earlier that the 7th graders, used to being top dog at their elementary schools, are now the smallest and most easily picked on of all the students. Now, imagine the genius of giving each of them a very expensive device that is not given to any other group of students in the school. Even beyond the problems of theft, loss and damage, I worry about the kid who is cornered by a high school bully -- and an Israeli one, at that, maybe even just a year away from military service -- and forced to give up his learning device in what can only be described as a very unpleasant fashion.
There is a multitude of further problems I can think of with this plan. And so many other things I could and want to say about my workplace. But you get the idea. And this post is quite long enough. So I invite you to let your imaginations wander.
Definitely. Not. Optimal.
But an interesting job, to say the least...
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