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.

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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.