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.

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... :)