In Which English in Israeli Schools is "On the Face"...

REVIEW CHECKPOINT (20 points):

QUESTION ONE:
Who said knowledge is power?

...

(10 points if you said Sir Francis Bacon. Go to the top of the class.)

QUESTION TWO:
And who said that with great power comes great responsibility?

...

(Uncle Ben to Spiderman? A further 10 points. Well done. My star student.)

BONUS QUESTION (100 points):
Assuming, then, that these two statements are true, what can we deduce?

...

Yes. You are correct. With great KNOWLEDGE comes great RESPONSIBILITY.

It's true. It's not my claim, it's basic math (if you're thinking transitive property at this point, you'll get an extra bonus. I'm a very generous teacher).

We're in the month of November. I am currently a little over two months into my educational journey. As is the natural way of things, it is impossible to spend such an amount of time somewhere without learning anything. The sixty day milestone behind me, however, I am now faced with a much bigger concern.

So my eyes are further opened than they were when I began. My education system toolbox is no longer lying empty, gathering dust in the far reaches of my subconscious. I am on almost even footing (at least as far as the students are concerned) with my colleagues in the educational hierarchy -- even to the point of saving a lesson at the last minute by buying a pack of paper cups on my way to school, an admittedly unusual (and cryptic, I know) skill that I was certainly not capable of at the beginning.

Am I in a better place than I was?

On the one hand, things ARE improving. There is no doubt about it. It is not physically possible to stand up in a classroom, in front of the same groups of students, every day for two months, without the students being forced to see you as something of an authority figure. Even if they have no respect for you whatsoever, the system is designed to keep you in a place of power -- at least as far as you're able to realize it -- in front of your students.

I am finding that I am spurred on by small successes. As far as I'm concerned, a minuscule success with a specific student -- even at the basic level of his showing up to class and taking out a notebook, assuming of course that this was not the case beforehand -- is worth the ten disappointments and hardships that I experience in a comparable block of time. That particular light has not gone out of my eyes, for which I am very grateful (and, for that matter, of which I am quite proud). As a self-affirming exercise, I will even share two specific cases with you (lulling you into a sense of calm and security -- which happens to be another skill that I need to practice, with qualifying exams in the not-so-distant future):

One of my students, a problematic child in the 7th grade, has a great deal of issues at school. First of all, he has a whole host of learning disabilities; after a great deal of psychological testing, it was determined that he needs extra time on exams, he needs someone to read them to him, dictionary usage... to name but three. Furthermore, he suffers from a handful of social disorders and behavioral problems. As the self-appointed class clown, he prefers to do things that will make his friends laugh, even at the cost of his own academic standing; punishments are meaningless, parental involvement is not a threat, teachers' opinions of him are bouncing off the bottom of his list of priorities... as long as his friends see him as "cool." Not a day goes by when I don't hear from some teacher "he doesn't work; he doesn't bring his stuff to school; he fought with so and so in class; he plays on his phone the whole period; he's a HUGE PROBLEM IN CLASS." And I cannot refute any of these statements; this child sits in my English class and behaves in the same fashion. So how do I reach him?

Last week, as a present simple exercise, I led the first half of the lesson as normal... standing in front of the class, writing on the board, shushing the troublemakers, and so on. I then announced to the class that we were leaving the room -- I told everyone to take a chair, follow me out, and set them up in a circle in the lobby. We proceeded to play "A cold wind blows..." using only phrases in the present simple. (For those of you who are not familiar with the game, it is as follows: there is one less chair than there are people. The chairless person stands in the middle of the circle, and says, for example, "a cold wind blows on anyone who eats breakfast in the morning"... anyone who does in fact eat breakfast in the morning then has to rise and find a new seat. There is always someone left over standing in the middle who then makes up a new sentence.)

At one point, the student in question found himself in the center of the circle. Panic stricken, he looked at me for help. Slowly and deliberately, I said each word that he needed to say and he repeated it after me (with about 70% accuracy), while the class tittered behind him. Once he had completed the sentence, the class jumped up and searched for new seats, myself among them. As I was busy participating in the game, it wasn't until relatively late into the process that, seated, I looked up at the center of the circle and noticed my student ambling aimlessly around the circle, making no attempt to find a seat. A few moments later, when the chaos had died down and he was once again in the center, he looked at me with big, obvious eyes and said "oh... was I supposed to sit down?"

I smiled at him and said yes (amid the cries of "duh, idiot" that followed his statement, all of which he pointedly ignored), and once again slowly began a sentence in the present simple for him to repeat after me. Again, he struggled but emitted something that resembled an accurate sentence, and the class jumped into a flurry of frantic activity, students giggling and trying to find seats. This time I watched the perpetrator, however; while the whirlwind was going on around him, he stood in the middle and stared, unmoving, at an empty seat in front of him, until it was nabbed by a wayward student who collapsed in the chair and gave a sigh of relief. The former then dropped into a seated position on the floor, legs crossed, looked at me and said "oh... in a CHAIR?"

He ended up in the center of the circle a total of four times until I gently convinced him to sit down and let someone else have a turn. After class, I took him aside and told him how proud I was of him for participating in class that day, to which he responded "yeah, it was fun. And tell my parents I was good today."

--

The second tale I will share with you is that of an 11th grader and his vocabulary quiz.

My weakest class, in the eleventh grade, is preparing for matriculation exams in January. At this point, it is unrealistic to expect that I can actually teach them English by then, considering we spent the first class day on the ABCs, so I do the best I can and try to quash the perfectionist inside me who is trying so desperately to be heard. Some days we focus on reading practice, some days on listening, and some days on writing. On the day in question, we had worked with a text, practicing reading. When one hones reading skills, vocabulary enrichment is a natural side effect. I decided, therefore, to give them a vocabulary quiz.

I announced this fact in class, prepared them, did exercises... and then showed up to the next class with the quiz (all of ten words, in the context of the passage that they were already familiar with). What should have been a ten minute quiz ended up taking the whole lesson, and I found myself looking out at a sea of discouraged students, most of whom were staring blankly at the half sheet of paper in front of them, desperately clicking their pens on and off in what was perhaps an attempt to snap the answers back into their heads.

Once I had collected them all, I decided to obey the mercy rule. I told my class that I would count what they had done as classwork, that we would review the vocab in the next lesson, and then retake the quiz. Which is exactly what we did.

While the quiz (take two) was going on, the next day, I happened to glance over at one of my students. Backpack on the table beside his quiz, he was bent over his work, busily writing. As I watched, he lifted the backpack slightly, peered underneath it, put it back down, and resumed his writing.

I was very weary. It is written in the school handbook that any student caught cheating must be dealt with -- first and foremost by an immediate zero on the work in question, and secondly through his mechanech/parents/the principal.

Now, there is a facet of the educational system that I find confusing. Any student who misbehaves must not, according to my TFI mentor, be allowed to sit in my class under any circumstances. Now, I know that logically speaking, the ones who act out, cheat, or otherwise disrupt class are the ones who, generally speaking, are farthest behind in the didactic process, and the ones who most need the lesson. So, what is the use in removing them? Not that I don't do this ever, but it seems backwards to me.

I didn't want to take action. The class had caused problems all day and I was tired of it.

I walked up to my misguided student.

Me: "What are you doing?"
Him: "Umm... taking the quiz..."
Me: "Mhm. And what is under your backpack?"

Silence. A stricken look. A pair of eyes waiting for the axe to fall.

Me: "How about I bring you a blank quiz and we start over?"

I cannot describe the relief that flooded across his face. "Yes, yes, of course" was all he managed to say, but his expression said so much more. I gathered up the half-completed quiz and the fully corrected one from under the backpack and brought them to my desk; he removed his bag from the table without being told, sat quietly in the corner and didn't open his mouth until he was finished working.

At the end of class, he brought me his quiz. As he handed it to me, he said "Shani... I am so embarrassed that I did that. I promise you, it was not in my nature and it will never happen again. I really like and respect you and will work well from now on. You'll see."

It's not always 100% true, but now a glance at him is all it takes to get him to settle down and start writing. A monumental success as far as I'm concerned. As well as the fact that he does not attempt to cheat at any point during my class!

--

Are we feeling fuzzy? How lovely. But don't get too comfortable.

My main grief with the Israeli school system, I am discovering, is its inherent lack of organization.

Now, it's not that I am the world's most organized human being. Far from it. Send me on a scavenger hunt in my own bedroom and I will yield very mediocre results. But even I am appalled at what goes on in my school.

Exhibit A: 11th grade Tafnit, a little over a week ago.

Now, as a reminder, Tafnit is the program in my school that houses the weakest students, with the most emotional, academic and behavioral problems. It is designed to gear exclusively towards qualifying exams, meaning that the goal here is not to learn, but to get a reasonable grade. Attendance, therefore, is crucial (if frequently overlooked), and the group dynamic is very important, as learning otherwise becomes very difficult.

Imagine my surprise, then, a little over a week ago, when I was preparing for class, and two unfamiliar faces showed up at the door.

"Shani?" they asked.
"Yes?" I replied.
"Hi. We're taking the Module B exam and are supposed to be in your class."

Now, I remind you that we are over two months into the start of the year. The exams are in January -- meaning that half of the prep time had gone by before I was aware of the existence of these two students. I told them to come in and sit down, handed them the worksheets and included them in my lesson. Then, at the sound of the bell, I gathered my belongings and stormed off to the Tafnit office to speak with their mechanchim.

Me: "Are you aware that two students showed up TODAY and informed me that they were supposed to be in my class??"
My colleague (serenely): "Oh? Who?"
Me: (Their names.)
Him (checking his records): "Oh, yes. They are supposed to study with you."
Me: "Are there any more students I should know about?"
Him: "No, no, of course not, but we'll check it out right now."

Now, the lists of students I was sending to exams had already been turned in to the ministry of education -- a list that I had checked, double checked, and triple checked just that morning in the secretary's office against the list of students that I had in my grade book. Since the exam is divided into modules, I had intended to meet with this particular colleague anyway to find out which student needed which part of the exam, but they did not need to sign up for those in advance. It was imperative, however, that the students themselves be registered for the exams in general!

I opened my grade book and added the two wayward students who had made me aware of their existence that afternoon, making a mental note to talk to my coordinator asap to get them added to the official exam list, and hoping that nobody would freak out that two students had been overlooked. Then, I read off my students one by one. The other teachers confirmed that my information was correct. When I was finished, my colleague looked up at me. "What about Moshe?" he asked.

Me: "Pardon?"
Him: "My student, Moshe. He needs Module B. Doesn't he sit in your class?"
Me: "No..."
Him: "Yeah, Moshe... and Danit, and Zuri, and Stav..."
Me: "Where on earth have these students been all this time?!"
Him: "I guess they haven't been coming to class. I'll make sure they come next time."
Me: "So, who's been teaching them English and preparing them for exams?"
Him: "They haven't been learning English yet this year. But don't worry."

Don't worry.

I walked out of that office with six students more than I had had that morning. Six more extremely weak students, with learning disabilities, behavioral problems, and broken homes. My class size was increased by 25%. And I was left with the task of mainstreaming six students who had not touched an English book since last June into my classroom.

Don't worry...

The good news is, my coordinator hit the roof and laid to rest my worst fears -- she confirmed that this situation was, in fact, NOT MY FAULT. And took care of adding the students to my list. Now all I need to worry about is their academic situations and behavior in my class. In other words, the usual.

How very refreshing that is.

I won't bore you all with the details of every hiccup experienced in the school, but as I have given the high school a great deal of time in the spotlight, I will venture briefly to the middle school before I sign off.

Over the past few days, I have had to deal with one case of violence after another -- violence towards my students (those that I am in charge of, in my chinuch class), violence on the part of my students... basically, a lot of violence involving my students.

To name a few: there is the student who was ambushed by three of my kids, as well as a few from other classes, and kicked and beaten mercilessly when he went out of class for a drink of water; there is the girl who was sitting and playing on her tablet during a recess when another student of mine (plus some others from other classes, again) dumped the class trash can on her head and kicked her -- after which a circle formed around her, and she was kicked around it until the teacher on duty came in and broke it up; and the student of mine who, in a fit of teenage venom pushed another girl into the street in front of a passing (and thankfully vigilant) vehicle, who swerved abruptly out of the way to avoid hitting her. Yes, these acts all happened, and all involved my twelve-year-olds.

The same student, by the way, who pushed her friend into the street was caught the very next day roaming around a different school in the district and causing a ruckus, after which she showed up to OUR school two hours late and told her teacher that the reason she was late was because she wasn't feeling well and had just gotten to school (without a doctor's note, a parents' note, or any other kind of note authorizing her tardiness)... upon inquiry, it turned out that her mother had intentionally taken her to the wrong school so she could hand out invitations to her bat mitzvah. So nice to have the parents on my side.

There is a great deal more I could say... about the nightmare that is the tablets (not to mention the fact that Eric Cohen Books, the main English book publishing corporation in Israel, refuses to cooperate and none of the kids have had English books since the beginning of the year and may never get them), about the high percentage of students who turn in blank exams; about the fact that I can't keep up with all of the misdoings and issues surrounding my groups of students... but we must leave some of the fun for next time...

Anyway, on this note.... I would just like to say that my feelings about the events at my school can be summed up in a simple phrase, one that I will steal from a post-exam student of mine: in Hebrew, we have a slang phrase, על הפנים, meaning that things are in a dismal state. This student of mine, after I asked him how the exam went, tried to be clever and translate it into English to impress me.

How am I doing at my job thus far, and what is the progress from a pedagogical standpoint?

To quote my student, it is "on the face."

His next exam is on Wednesday. Yeah, this is going to work.

In Which Every Day is a Challenge

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...

In Which the Eighteenth of August is a Milestone

Today I am a teacher.

I have finished my training and have been sent home to await the first of September, during and after which time I will teach four different English classes, in the seventh and eleventh grades, and be a מחנכת in the seventh grade (a homeroom teacher who is so much more – a mentor, a mother, a leader – who meets with the kids for about three hours a week). The next two weeks hold a remarkable number of meetings, with coordinators, principals, teachers, parents, and other school personnel; and the year itself will hold many further adventures and discoveries as I finally receive the opportunity to come face to face with – and educate and inspire – my own group of kids.

Moreover, and equally significantly, today I celebrate one year of being in Israel.

In spite of the allergy that I – and the rest of the Teach First Israel cohort – have developed to the word “reflection” over the past five weeks (having been made to reflect on every activity and thought process undergone in that time), I would like to take this opportunity to do just that. This year has been dynamic, enriching, and full of adventures. At the risk of over-sentimentalizing, allow me to ruminate on the events of the last 365 days.

There have been events ranging from the expected to the unexpected… from the musing to the amusing to the musical… from the implausible to the impossible.

In just 365 days, I have transitioned from a familiar culture to a more unfamiliar, from one lifestyle to its opposite, from home and family to an apartment – where I was chosen by a dog – in central Tel Aviv (having, of course, bypassed the opportunity to live with a crazy out-of-work meditation coach in the Nes Tziona alley by the beach).

I have experienced the local culture first hand in the form of a piyut festival, two thrilling performances by two of Israel’s finest musical artists – Nurit Galron and Matti Caspi – and a relaxing holiday with my cousins at the Sea of Galilee; not to mention the more unexpected cultural phenomena such as the very high number of (almost daily) romantic propositions and the day that I atoned for my sins by waving a live chicken over my head.

I have also experienced the local culture at its most artistic; public sing-alongs, private sing-alongs, and vocal ensembles of all shapes and sizes. I recorded with one ensemble and performed in a music festival with a varied collection of prominent Israeli artists, including collaboration with Israel Gurion, one of the figureheads of Israeli musical history. And, of course, unbeknownst to myself for a scarcely believable period of time, I hobnobbed with celebrities at the farmer’s market, the most generationally distant of whom I was excited to see and the most current and famous of whom I did not even recognize, much to her shock.

I managed, too, to use Israel as a springboard for absorbing other cultures as well. I performed in two American musicals, one of which I stumbled upon by accident – by “kismet” – and during which I broke a tooth, caused torrential blood streams from my head, and had a violent allergic reaction to the makeup; and the other of which I jumped from a decidedly treacherous chorus position to the more thankfully uneventful roles of both music director and leading lady. I also attended a concert given by Renee Fleming in which she ranged from her beautiful classic soprano repertoire to an astonishing alto rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Halleluljah.”

I have looked backwards and looked ahead… from the moving memorial event organized in honor of my cousin Tiltan, at which I sang, to the day when her younger brother Yuval shed his (metaphorical, we’re in Israel) cap and gown and joined the Israeli Defense Forces. And most impossibly of all, in a family different from my own, I have even witnessed the beginnings of life by personally helping to birth a baby along the side of a highway.

I have grappled with real life, embarked on a journey of professional ups and downs, ultimately making a full circle – from my beginnings as a volunteer at a youth center in an underprivileged neighborhood… to my failed – or, rather, foiled – attempt to better myself by working at the Israel Opera… to my involuntary resignation and reluctant commitment to working, instead, in an unpleasant and pretentious local café… to my self-comforting vocational expansion which includes a flower stand at the local farmer’s market… to once again, as in the beginning, finding my niche in a profession of commitment to underprivileged youth, this time within the framework of a high school.

I have become reacquainted with the splendors of this land through visitors of all kinds, ranging from dear college friends to equally dear college professors... and I have seen, first hand, its hardships as well, most strikingly by visiting an institution for teens who would otherwise be either in prison or on the streets – even engaging them, albeit artificially, in conversation.

In one year, I have so spread my wings, so explored and discovered both myself and my surroundings, that I received a call, to my cellular phone, from television producers on Channel 2 who heard of me and wanted to meet me in person, and perhaps to feature me on their show.

In addition to the friends and support pillars I have found and appreciated along the way, I have – at long last – become a part of a framework in which I have befriended ninety extraordinary people. And each and every one of these people I respect and admire from the bottom of my heart.

Let us raise our glasses to an exceptional year. May the next be as rich and rewarding for us all.

In Which One Person Can Change the World

The other day, at lunch, while I was engaged in conversation with a few of my friends, the coordinator of the entire Teach First Israel summer training program (who had been surreptitiously concealed behind some of my colleagues, to where I could not see him) leaned back in his chair and said "so, Shani... what about your blog??" Considering I did not know that he even knew my name, it took me by surprise, but after the initial shock I took it as a pointed sign that it is once again time to update you all on what is going on in my life, beginning of course -- for the gratification of the chotam team, naturally ;) -- with the most pressing and integral part of my current daily routine.

Two weeks ago, ninety young crusaders set out to change the face of education in Israel.

People from the fields of science, language, mathematics, history, geography, biblical studies and several other subjects gathered together, from all corners of the state of Israel, in Haifa University's Student Building Lecture Hall and were introduced to their challenges for the weeks -- months, even years -- ahead.

Since that first day, all ninety of us have immersed ourselves fully in our work. Our days are filled with lecture classes (including youth/adolescent psychology; mainstreaming kids with learning disabilities; familiarization with the Israeli education system; familiarization with national curricula) and applied courses (subject-specific didactics and a hands-on studio in which we learn the practical information, such as how to give a lesson, how to prepare a lesson, how to inspire motivation and how to deal with discipline problems in the classroom). After this, we head back, en masse, to our residence and engage in an evening activity designed to promote critical analysis and introduce us daily to new ideas.

We are currently working to squeeze 2-3 years of education studies into five intensive weeks. For those of you who are mathematically inclined, you will have at this point figured out that such distribution is not possible. Undeterred, however, we -- the "chotamistim" -- continue to absorb and process information, tapping into our jumbled minds every night to try and make some sense of all of the new terminology and conceptual information that we have received over the course of the day. I find that mostly I am building an idea bank, internalizing possible lesson plans and ideas, and trying to categorize everything efficiently enough for it to come in useful on and after September first. I have realized that I can study study study, I can prepare and practice and discuss with my colleagues, I can sit in on lecture after lecture and write endless lesson plans... but nothing in the world can prepare me for the moment I walk into my classroom, shut the door behind me, and find myself face to face with forty Israeli teenagers.

Good luck to us all.

In addition to discussing school-related topics, though, we are also being exposed to relevant yet varying experiences and media. Three days ago we watched the film "Waste Land," an inspiring and touching account of a world-renowned (and therefore wealthy) modern artist who decides to give something back to the underprivileged community using the mundane thing that surrounds them every day -- in this case, garbage. The film is highly recommended, and left me strangely at peace, but the heavy nature of its content forced me begin to feel the weight of the project that I am taking upon myself.

The next morning, our lecture classes were replaced by a collaborative tour entitled "Youth at Risk."

Since we are ninety plus the chotam team, we were split into groups for the tour. My group was lucky enough to visit Haifa's "meitar," a Hebrew acronym indicating a day help center for youth of all different ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds. We were also the only group that actually got to meet and speak with actual students.

Until we walked in the door and saw the place for ourselves, I could not fully comprehend what the term "youth at risk" actually meant. I knew, of course, always, that there are teenagers that, due to one reason or another, have strayed from the straight, clear path that is frequently drilled into young minds from a very early age -- whether it be due to difficult home conditions, lack of personal motivation, or the 101 other reasons that could contribute to a child's internal struggles. Before Tuesday, however, I had only visited -- and seen for myself -- situations in which a child's earnest ambition is quashed by the lack of appropriate tools or support from his or her surroundings. A child's own ambivalence to success, and even conscious tendency to make bad choices, was something I had heard of but not yet been exposed to.

After taking a tour of the meitar, visiting its many facilities (such as the kitchen, the weight room, the music room, the recording studio, the art studio, and the work room with its eight new computers), our group sat down in the art studio, along with our chotam team representative and the manager of the meitar, and smiled at the seventeen year old boy who agreed -- or was volunteered -- to sit with us and tell us a bit about himself. I am using this particular example (though we spoke to a few others) to illustrate the depth of the experience for me.

The boy spoke freely, smiling and friendly, telling us his name and his age, and a few other details about himself. He told us he had been at the meitar for four years, and that it was a great place to be able to move forward and make friends, and other lasting connections. When asked about his plans for the future, he told us that he planned to join the army (a mandatory and not at all unusual activity in Israel, for those of you who don't know), after which he wanted to make up any school he had missed, pass his exams, and then continue his studies, so he could find a decent job. After he was finished talking, we thanked him and wished him luck, and he left the room.

Then, the manager of the meitar said "as you all know, not a word of what he said is actually going to happen."

Maybe I am naive, maybe I am inclined to always believe in people, maybe it was wishful thinking on my part... but that statement took me by surprise and left me sad and disheartened. But she continued.

The boy in question, at this point having already been under the influence of at least three joints (our meeting with him took place before 11am), has forty five open police records. Some of them are trivial, charted only because his record already exists, such as peeling a logo off of a domestic car and stealing a pack of cigarettes from a kiosk; but others include stabbing, drug dealing, robbery and a number of other crimes that I would rather gloss over than mention in this post. Having no parents or family of his own, he spends every night -- literally -- sleeping on a different city bench, though he does wake himself up every morning and makes his way to the meitar for the feeling of a framework and a structured routine. The manager of the meitar, with whom he's made a personal connection, is the only person that he has in the world that cares for him as a family member would -- but last week he tried to flip a table over onto her head when she asked him if he was high.

Besides this particular youth, there were others whose stories we were also told during our visit. Besides a murderer and several girls between the ages of 12-18 who deal in prostitution, another example is a sixteen year old delinquent with severe gender confusions. I learned that day that there is no institution in Israel that can accommodate multiple problems inherent in youth at risk -- the institution that is designed to help kids through their gender transitions refused to accept him on the grounds of his criminal record; and the meitar, though open to all and happy to help, is not adequately equipped to address any issues related to the boy's sexuality, leaving him confused and dissatisfied.

I left the meitar on Tuesday impressed and inspired by the work that is put into helping these kids achieve success in their own domains, whatever their definition of success may be; but naturally, of course, the nature of the place and its members left me morose and subdued throughout the entire bus ride back to the university (and the rest of the day). While I knew that even if one kid would be able to quit using drugs, or if another would take it upon himself to get a job sweeping the floors in a night club, that those would be considered successes... but all I could think of was that day that I was in Jackson, Louisiana -- the day I decided I wanted to be a teacher -- when kids were falling over themselves to be the first ones to shout out their wildest dreams for the future. As far as I'm concerned, the lack of resources is a problem with a solution, and one to which I am beginning to personally contribute; but the lack of ambition or any kind of a spark is one that is infinitely less penetrable to the outside element who so desperately wants to make a difference. That, to me, was among the most upsetting realizations that I had ever come to.

Now that I have given a healthy spectrum of emotion and information that are part of our chotam training, it's time to move onto happier things before this update draws to a close.

The Music Man closed almost two weeks ago, and was an undeniable success. Good fun, good friends, good reviews and good audiences made every performance more fun than the last (including my very sweet and talented costar who brought me flowers to every single show!). As well as the fun of the show itself, I would like to state that my favorite moment at the farmer's market this morning was when a customer asked for my name, while I was wrapping her flowers... and when I told her what it was, she said "oh, Shani. Yes, I thought so. I want to tell you that I saw you in The Music Man and you were phenomenal."

I love Israel. :)

(I think it's also appropriate to mention at this point that there was a day a few weeks ago that a thirteen year old boy stopped me on the street and said "hey, do you sell flowers at the harbor farmer's market?"... so it goes both ways. And is equally fun in both directions.)

In keeping with the musical theme, though, I got to see one of the world's most iconic sopranos, Renée Fleming (along with the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra under the direction of Zubin Mehta), in concert in Jerusalem last night, thanks to a very generous gift from my dear aunt Nomi. She was, of course, spectacular, both on the standards (including a spine-tingling performance of "Vissi d'arte" from Tosca) and on the more obscure repertoire (such as "J'ai versé le poison" from Massenet's Cléopâtre). Her tenor companion was also very good (though, in my humble opinion, more sleek vocal technique than actual feeling and emotion), and joined her for a few beautiful duets throughout the program.

More astonishingly than her wonderful performance, however, was the forty minutes it took for the concert to end.

Ms. Fleming took three encores and -- 15? I'm not sure, I lost count -- curtain calls. Even beyond this fact, however, one of the encores was completely unexpected, but no less stunning. After "O mio babbino caro" as the first encore, she then glided effortlessly into a belted alto rendition of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." Seriously? The woman can do anything. What an experience!


The final story I will tell you is one that I can barely believe actually happened.


Two weeks ago, I was sitting in my room, on a Saturday afternoon, packing and trying to mentally prepare for the start of my chotam studies the following morning, when my cell phone rang (which on shabbat in Israel is quite rare, especially since it was a number that my caller ID did not recognize).


I answered. "Hello?" A male voice on the other end said "Hi. Shani?" And once I confirmed that I was, began talking to me like we were old friends.


Not wanting to admit that I had no idea who he was, I went along with it for a bit, waiting for some clue as to his identity, while he asked me questions about how I was feeling and what I was up to. Finally, the small talk ceased, and he said: "Ok. My name is Alon, and I am one of the producers of the Israel edition of the TV show 'The Voice' that is coming to channel 2 this fall. We have heard of you, and wanted to know if you were interested in appearing on the show. If so, we'd like to jump you to the head of the line of 10,000 people who are currently waiting to audition."


...


There is no need to elaborate on my exact reactions to this piece of information; suffice it to say that all of them were extreme. But after the initial shock, I decide to give him the green light, while I remained carefully commitment-free, to go ahead and pass my interest on to those in charge of auditions. (Incidentally, how do I know that I'm currently doing the right thing with my life? I get a phone call, to my cell phone, from channel 2 telling me they've heard of me and want me on TV, and my response is "I don't know if I have time. I'm going to be a teacher.")

For those of you who don't know, The Voice is a reality TV show not unlike American Idol; the difference is, at least as far as they claim, the professional level of the contestants and judges alike, who regard this one as "a cut above" the others. It is literally all about "the voice" -- the judges do not get to actually see the contestant sing until they decide (or not) that they want to be his mentor. The judging panel is comprised of the creme de la creme of the Israeli music world, and it is unbelievable exposure even for those who do not make it past the first episode.


Anyway, to make a long story short, they stayed in touch over the course of the week, and I showed up to my audition on Tuesday evening (yes, the same day as the tour at the meitar -- talk about a long day). Unfortunately, I don't think that I represented myself very well at all, and am doubtful as to my chances of passing it, but whether or not I continue past this level, it makes for a very good -- and remarkably humbling -- story. It would be nice to at least make it to the first episode and get that exposure myself, but I will not be heartbroken if it doesn't work out. It is funny to me that I actively avoid reality TV shows -- ESPECIALLY those about singing -- but was definitely willing to make an exception for those who seek me out!


Anyway, we shall see what happens... and let the chips fall where they may... :)

In Which Fluency in English Finally Pays Off

Having recently emerged from another fairly severe bout of Jewish holidays, encompassing this time two separate remembrance days (one Holocaust-specific, the other more general, always a week apart), Israel's independence day, and most recently, Lag Ba'Omer (a day of Kabbalistic celebration, in honor of the life of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai), I am choosing to spend this current moment blogging with my laptop on my knees, some strawberry-jasmine tea, and a particularly succulent brownie. It is most definitely a well-earned respite... and hopefully your approach to reading this post will be as relaxing and satisfying as my approach to writing it.

Being a member of multiple music-related projects, I was of course pressed into service during several of the aforementioned holidays, having performed in services on both Holocaust Memorial Day (Yom HaShoah) and Remembrance Day (Yom HaZikaron). While it was perhaps not as financially worthwhile for me to do so as it was for the Israeli artists who were asked to perform all over Israel on Independence Day, Yom Ha'Atzma'ut (each artist having traveled to a ready location, performed for half an hour, and moved on, about 6 or 7 times over the course of the night, making at the very least about $200,000 dollars), both events were, for me, very powerful experiences. Having grown up in the states, my visits were almost always limited to summertime and winter breaks, so this is actually one of the first times I have gotten to experience any of these days while in Israel. I'm very glad I've gotten to be a part of that.

One of the more significant Jewish holidays that recently passed, of course, was Passover -- but that one, unlike the others, I did not take part in here, because while Israel was beginning to shut down for the holiday, I took the opportunity to fly home for a visit. That was a great decision. I got to be home for the Passover Seder, which was glorious, but also to see my family and all my friends, most of whom I had not seen since before I left in August. I even had a voice lesson with Caroline, something I had not done since last June, and apart from all the nostalgia and crying on both sides, it was very successful and so much fun. :)

Upon my return to Israel after Passover, I had a day and a half to recover from my flight before my presence was once again requested at a Dominanta event -- this time as a participant in the Holon Festival, in an homage to Shlishiat Gesher HaYarkon, a popular and influential musical trio from Israel's Zionist past. Dominanta was given the honor of performing alongside some of Israel's top artists, both nostalgic figures from Israel's history and rising new musicians in mainstream media. The featured soloist of the evening was Israel Gurion, a spritely and energetic man in his 70s, who has been actively performing for the better part of forty -- even fifty? -- years. The very last number in the concert was his rendition of "When Peace Comes" (sung to the tune of "When the Saints Go Marchin' In"), performed with Dominanta as backup singers. He was dancing and bouncing all over the stage, making everyone smile and applaud raucously. I deem it a great honor to have performed with Israel Gurion as part of the Holon Festival -- and am very geekily excited to announce that backstage before the show he needed to call his wife, and borrowed my cell phone to do it, so I do in fact have his home number saved in my phone, and am resisting every urge to call it and gush my adoration to him over the phone.

At this point you're probably wondering what the title of this blog post has to do with anything that I have mentioned thus far. Well, it doesn't. You're quite right. I have been sneakily tantalizing and have saved the most important news item for last.

Some of you may know parts of this, some of you may not... so for the benefit of those who are now staring at their computer screens in bafflement, wracking their brains for any information I might have given them about this, I will explain from the beginning.

It all started on the DePauw Chamber Choir tour to Louisiana in January 2010. (I know, you weren't expecting that. Bear with me.)

As part of our tour, our sixteen-person choir + two amazing chaperones, Gabriel Crouch and Amanda Hopson, performed at an underprivileged K-12 school in Jackson, Louisiana. This gig was arranged for us by Gabriel's friend Allison, the principal of the school, whose foray into education began when she was assigned to teach French at the school as part of the program Teach for America. Upon her arrival at the school, she discovered that the statistics were appalling -- approximately 50% of the students who entered the high school graduated, and those that did did so at the eighth grade reading level.

After having had an open conversation with the sixth grade class myself, as part of the choir, I can attest to the fact that the lack of education was NOT due to a lack of ambition. After asking the kids what they wanted to be when they grew up, the words "astronaut," "doctor," "lawyer," "famous sports figure," "actress," "veterinarian" and countless others were left hovering in the room, even long after it was vacated.

Allison's reaction during her Teach for America term was similar, and she stayed past her two years to keep teaching. As I mentioned, now she is the principal, and through her passion and her dedication she has completely turned this school upside down, and has almost single-handedly gotten the kids back on their feet.

I was so inspired after our visit to the school that I started to research Teach for America myself, as a possible option for after college. As my then tentative decision to come to Israel became more and more realized, however, the idea of teaching for America became, naturally, less relevant. It was then that my good friend Cora, a graduate of the Teach for America program, told me that TFA is actually part of a worldwide organization called Teach for All, an organization of sixteen participating countries. I looked them up online and discovered that one of those participating countries is Israel.

Over the past few months, I have engaged myself in a long and very harrowing application process, passing many obstacles along the way. The first, which almost deflected me right from the start, was my lack of qualifying exam grades, customary in Israeli high schools -- since I grew up in the United States, I took the SAT and other standardized tests, but was not required to take subject tests (for those of you who know the European system, the Israeli tests, or bagruyot, are similar in style to the International Baccalaureate exams). TFI, or Teach First Israel (known in Israel as the Chotam program), differs from TFA in that it is specifically geared to prepare students for these exams. This means that participants in the program teach only relevant subjects, and only at the middle and high school levels. My request to be considered as an English teacher was, therefore, denied on the grounds that my lack of subject testing and my background in music and French leave me grossly unqualified as an English teacher.

After some interventions, however, mostly on the part of my family's good friend Eitan, a professor in the English department at the Beer Sheva University, it seemed that my fluency in English, my experience both learning and teaching languages, my extensive experience with kids, and my degrees from an American university were enough to override the problems with my candidacy, and I was allowed to apply.

After two separate applications (one extremely lengthy and taxing), a demo lesson, a one-on-one analysis, four different interviews and a group assignment (all of which, incidentally, were timed militarily to the second by a girl in the back of a room with a stopwatch), I am pleased to announce that I have been accepted as a teacher for Israel... for two full years of teaching English! With this program, I get the structure that I have so been missing this year, a social network, job security for the next two years, a full salary, a teaching certification, a grant to continue my masters degree, and above all, the chance to really make a difference. All that's left now is to hook me up with a school.

I'm terrified. But could not be more excited. :)

In Which Discomfort Becomes Empowerment, the Resident Becomes a Tourist, and the Soprano Becomes a Librarian

So, it has been a while since my last post. You all know by now that I started working at Arcaffé, a Starbucks-in-disguise that was founded by my honorary relative. What you may not have heard is that for a long while I was not, per se, the branch’s happiest employee. While I am generally an upbeat person, the corporate, soulless aspect of the company that I was working for was beginning to take its toll on me. I have worked at a café once before, but where at the Bakehouse I got encouragement, here I get criticism; where at the Bakehouse we would tackle problems together, here every person who thinks that he or she is in charge barks orders at everyone else, until the cacophony of conflicting orders and instructions could out-distance the Twilight Bark; and where at the Bakehouse I immediately befriended all of the employees, here, about two months in, I still have not learned everyone’s names.  

One of the questions that I have been asked most frequently over the past two months is “with the number of cafés, restaurants, and pubs in Tel Aviv, why on earth would you want to stay in a job that you find frustrating and unwelcoming??” And you know what? I really don’t have a good answer to that question. But I have felt that it would not be right to walk out of something, even when it is so distant from my actual dreams and ambitions, because of initial discomfort. I decided, then, to stick it out for a while to see if it would get better.   

While there are some people I still find to be unnecessarily rude and brusque at the branch, the social aspect of the job has improved. The other employees are beginning to treat me like one of them (for example, I knew I was in when one day, on my break, while I was eating and reading the paper, one of the baristas pushed the newspaper into my face every single time he walked by my table – an action that was socially encouraging, if a little annoying). Furthermore, I have passed my three written tests and have been allowed to upgrade to cashier, which has allowed me some actual interaction with real people – no offense to my coworkers – and has made the time pass much more quickly. Finally, though, and most rewarding of all, the branch manager went out of his way to come over to me and give me a compliment – a phenomenon that I have not witnessed from him since the day I first donned my white-collared shirt, apron, and the “passione d’espresso” pin with my name on it. To paraphrase the Hebrew, he told me that “it is such a pleasure to watch [me] during my shifts. [I] am friendly with the customers, always have a smile on [my] face, talk to people and connect with them on their level, and make them want to come back.” He thanked me for my attitude and told me to keep up the good work.   

Overall, I feel very empowered. I took a situation that was out of both my comfort zone and my personal interest level and turned it into something positive. While there are still people there that make me want to scream and smash one of the fifteen or so different varieties of cups that we use on the floor (all of which I was tested on and get yelled at for mixing up, despite the fact that sometimes the only difference in the beverage is the amount of foam), I am starting to reach a point where I’ve realized that I can turn negative feedback into positive energy, and personally channel it into motivation rather than frustration. That, as far as I’m concerned, is an important lesson and I am glad, even in such vexing conditions, that I got a chance to learn it. 

In other news, I had, last week, my first international visitor! (I am, of course, excluding my family in this statement.  International they may be, but visitors they are not.) My dear school friend Jessi burst through the metaphorical wall of her academic institution, despite the resistance from the guards and surrounding officers, and spent her spring break, masters-free, frolicking in the Holy Land.   

Jessi’s visit, as well as being oodles of fun and such a pleasure for me, also marked an important shift in my mindset. I knew that Tel Aviv, and really Israel in general, was a fantastic place to live; but seeing the country through fresh – and EXTREMELY enthusiastic – eyes made me appreciate it all over again. (And I really mean enthusiastic – I have never in my life seen someone get so excited over a Super Pharm.) It was a perfect blend of hard-hitting tourism (the old city of Jerusalem, camel-riding, Herod’s Masada fortress, the Dead Sea…) and relaxing vacation activities (good food, lounging on the beach, and aptly-timed Purim celebrations). Over the course of the week, as Jessi will attest, I frequently uttered the phrase “Wow! I can’t believe I actually live here!” as I was re-acquainted with all of the sites and sights that make Israeli such a unique place. All in all, the week was too short, but it was spectacular, and I am so glad that she came!   

And, in keeping with my inherent, masochistic need to over-exert myself, I have just begun work on the Music Man. Produced by the same company that was responsible for Kismet, my original intention was to simply audition and see where that would take me; a few weeks before auditions, however, I received a phone call from the director. He wanted to know if I was interesting in joining the staff, and co-music directing the production. As I have experience in this area, and do enjoy it quite a bit (especially since this show has kids in it, and music directing kids is something of a field of expertise for me, much more so than adults), I agreed, but told him that I would still like to audition for the show. He told me that of course, he and Assaf (the choreographer) and I would all be in the show, even if we’re just rocks or trees or benches. With that flattering image, I was not optimistic about the outcome of my audition…   

But the end result? I am now both co-music director, and the lead role! I was cast as Marian the Librarian (following in my mother’s footsteps, I hope she is very proud). So my duties in this show include playing the central figure, and teaching the rest of the music to the entire cast. It’s a lot of work, but it’s so fun and I can’t wait! We’ve had two rehearsals thus far and I am completely in my element. :) Performances are in the first two weeks of July, so we even have a luxurious amount of time to get this show on the road!   

Those were all of the things that I had intended to mention/discuss in this post, but yesterday something happened while I was selling flowers at the farmer’s market that I felt merited a… postal coda. ;)   

I have a number of regular customers at the market. I acquainted myself with them all within a few weeks. One of them is a middle-aged lady who usually comes in every day around 10ish with her large Jackie Kennedy sunglasses and makes all sorts of demands – about how to wrap her flowers, about how much eucalyptus she wants in addition, about wanting that bouquet over the other one, and not the yellow, it’s ugly… etc etc etc. Well, yesterday, she arrived at 7:30am. Tom commented on it as she was choosing her flowers, asking why she was there so early, and her response was “I have rehearsals later in Beer Sheva.”   

So, while I was wrapping up and cutting down the stems of her flowers, I took an interest. “Rehearsals for what?” I asked. She told me it was a musical. “Company.” I exclaimed that I really like that show (which surprised her – apparently most Israelis are not familiar with that show; in fact, I think this may be the first time it will actually be performed in Israel). I also told her that I am involved in the Music Man, right now, in Jerusalem. And then I asked “so, do you sing?”   

My customer stopped everything she was doing (tugging on her little dog’s leash, glancing around at the market, etc), and just stared at me. After a few seconds, she said “did you just ask me if I sing?”   

“Yeees…” I replied, slightly wary. She continued to stare at me, and then said “you have no idea who I am, then, do you?” My head starting to pound with the pressure of the social faux pas that I was committing at that moment, I had to respond with “umm noo…”   

After a very pregnant pause, she said “have you ever heard of Ricky Gal?”   

(Now while the Israelis are freaking out, let me give a translation for my non-Israeli readers: it is the local equivalent of having Kristin Chenoweth or Lea Michele shop at your stall, while you ask them if they sing and tell them that "oh!", you're also involved in a musical right now... Except it’s even more significant than that, because not only is Ricky Gal a huge star as far as musical theatre is concerned in Israel, she’s also a solo artist and has spent the last several seasons as a judge on Israel’s version of “American Idol” – “Cochav Nolad,” or “A Star is Born.” I’d say she’s probably one of the 10 most famous singers/music figures in Israel. And I asked her if she sings, and told her that I do too. FAIL.)   

Of course, as soon as she told me who she was, I started babbling and apologizing profusely, telling her that of COURSE I knew who she was, I have even seen her on stage (I saw her perform in “Chicago,” several years ago, as Matron Mama Morton), and that she was phenomenal. I tried to explain that the reason I didn’t recognize her was that I didn’t grow up in Israel, and therefore the fact that I even knew her name was conclusive proof of how famous she really is, because I’m so out of the loop as far as Israeli artists are concerned. I couldn’t tell if she was amused or offended, or some combination of the two, but she told me that that would explain why I knew of “Company,” and that I should come see it when it goes up. And then she left.   

I told Tom everything that had happened after she left (he was busy with other customers and hadn’t been paying attention), and he started cracking up. He told me that there is absolutely no way an Israeli person wouldn’t recognize her, and while it is true that I just moved here and am therefore a new Israeli citizen, I sound like a native and so she probably had no idea what to do with me. It is entirely likely that this is the first time she has ever encountered an Israeli who has asked her who she is. But who knows? Maybe she’ll forever enjoy telling this story at dinners (or in her blog) as much as I will!

In Which Dominanta Opens Doors, and a Few Things Happen Which are Entirely Unrelated

Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Last we read, I was getting ready to sing at an evening of foreign songs in Hebrew translation, a gig that I found courtesy of Dominanta...

Well, I learned not only "La Vie en Rose," but also another song that I was given the night before the event, a lovely little number translated from Italian. The evening lasted from 10pm until 3:30am, and was arguably the most fun I have ever had in my entire life. Even after five solid hours of singing, I didn't want to leave, and found myself wishing it would last forever. The morning after, I felt like Cinderella the day after the ball, still dreamy and starry-eyed, floating around as though on a cloud... that night, at Rami's event, I remembered what it was like to be in love with music. It was a feeling I had lost sight of for a while, but on Friday, January 7th, at Keren's house, I fell in love again. And this time, I'm not letting it go.

Well, it turned out that this was the gift that keeps on giving. As a result of this evening, as well as some woman's unsuccessful attempt to fix me up with her undoubtedly charming and talented nephew, I have been drafted to TWO further vocal ensembles, both a capella groups. (You'll recall that the evening itself was the result of having joined Dominanta, which was because Zvika brought me to a rehearsal, which was after I met him during Kismet, which I found by accident on facebook, which chased the cat, which killed the rat that lived in the house that Jack built...) The first, Pacapella, is a five-person group, the founder of whom was at Rami's foreign song event. Their soprano had JUST left, and somehow I had officially taken her place before I had noticed or consented... but it should be fun, nonetheless, to give it a shot, especially now that I have an uncharacteristically large amount of time on my hands! I have been to one rehearsal so far, and am optimistic -- while very different from Dominanta in atmosphere (and once I convinced myself that I am not betraying Dominanta by being a member of more than one ensemble), Pacapella is fun and upbeat and I am looking forward to some tight, one-to-a-part choral harmonies.

The second ensemble, formerly called Intonica (the current name is still under construction), has not yet met for rehearsal, but is another five-person a capella group, and another instance in which I was introduced to the group as the lovely and talented new soprano before I could either deny these virtues or agree to join. But once again, I will see how it goes and make my decisions and cuts later on in the process -- this is the first time I have ever known sopranos to be in such high demand, and I am going to take advantage of it while it lasts! :)

On a final Dominanta-related note, we recently participated in a national competition. When I joined the ensemble, the group had just risen to the semi-finals, and after only two rehearsals with them, I was asked to go ahead and participate in the semi-finals (and then, happily, the finals). I am happy to report that we placed second in the entire country, and are the proud owners of a silver medal and a tidy little cash prize. Yay Dominanta! I am very proud to be a member. At the moment, rehearsals are the highlight of my week. And since they've already decided they're going to sing at my wedding, I feel that I am, shall we say, in for life, if I so desire. :)

And now for the entirely unrelated.

I recently had the very good fortune of being able to tag along with a DePauw winter term trip to Israel! Led by drs Anne Harris and Rebecca Schindler, two professors with whom I was closely acquainted at DPU (and their boys, Oliver and Simon, the latter of whom was my Hebrew student for three years), twenty five students came to study the political and theological history of the state of Israel. I spent a few thoroughly enjoyable days with them, visiting the old city of Jerusalem, walking its ramparts, touring the Holy Sepulchre, singing "Dona nobis pacem" with Anne in the notoriously resonant basilica of St. Anne's Cathedral (appropriately), and spice shopping in Jerusalem's Machanei Yehuda marketplace. That was such a treat for me, and I am so grateful that it happened!

And in other news, after almost six months of vocational roadblocks, including the Great Nepotism Disaster of 2010, I have decided to shelve my pride and settle, albeit temporarily, into a job at a big Israeli cafe franchise. The company in question, Arcaffé, was founded fifteen years ago by a woman who is almost a relative of mine, being the significant new other in the life of my father's cousin Rami (yes, there is a plethora of Ramis in this post, I apologize upfront for any confusion this may be causing). Today, I went in for an interview, and will start my training shift tomorrow. Like the job I once held at the Scholar's Inn Bakehouse in Bloomington, everyone at this cafe does a bit of everything -- including, in this case, working the cash register, the barista, waiting tables, busing tables, and a number of other things that I am sure I will find out about tomorrow. I will grant that it will be nice, not only to have some kind of regular income, but to spend some time in the company of people who share my general age group, which has admittedly been a rarity since my arrival in Israel. And hopefully once/if something comes along that is more directly related to my range of interests/skills, I will be able to transition gracefully with, perhaps, a new group of friends, peers and supporters, in addition to all of you. :)

Let's see how this goes!