We are learning about Yetziat Mitzrayim, specifically the part where they don't have time for their dough to rise. We started talking about why they couldn't have waited, why weren't they prepared, and then how to make bread in the first place.
When I was in 5th grade myself I read a biography of Betsy Ross (the designer of the American flag) which talked about her family of Quakers, who did everything from scratch, and how when she got married, she took a piece of her mother's sourdough with her. Something about taking the dough stuck in my mind, although I had never seen real live "sourdough" myself.
I told my students about this, and they were immediately fascinated by the idea that dough rises itself, and we decided to try it ourselves. I turned to my friend Google, who as always had 10 million hits from a cult of people who actually do this, and learned that all you need is flour and water in a glass jar and to stir and add some flour every day for a week. Our EQ for the whole unit on the 10th plague was "Faith and Trust take time and energy to develop," and so soon our sourdough was nicknamed "Faith."
It was a lot of work. It continues to be a lot of work, as I struggle to remember to take it home and feed it in the evenings, and help the students do it in the mornings. Like our own private Shema, it constantly pushes in our faces the idea that the good things in life take time, that in a world of instant gratification, sometimes slow does win the race.
I am sitting in my house now, baking bread from an extra bit, a test run of what we will do tomorrow, and realizing that I have taught all of this, in addition to finally pulling them in to the world of 3000 years ago, all without actually opening a text or teaching a single word. We have learned this by virtue of something we have done, not talked about, and I am content.
I am happy that I finally feel like we have walked in the footsteps of our ancestors, that we have re-enacted Mitzrayim, and surprised that we didn't need a book to tell us the point of the whole story: Bnei Yisrael had to leave behind the leavened bread that was the invention of Mitzrayim, and walk with faith in the shadow of God into a desert filled with matzah, and then manna, until they learned to trust. They learned then by giving it up, we learned now by creating something from almost nothing, and I have learned that something we can touch is the most powerful teacher of all.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
The Siren
Three years ago, on Yom HaZikaron of my first year at Pardes, we were sitting in the Beit Midrash about four minutes before the siren. Suddenly a group of about 10 students start sneaking out, and for some reason I go with them. I find myself on the roof, looking out at the corner of Pierre Koenig and Rifka, and before I can say anything the siren starts.
The siren has always dug into me, the same as a shofar, pulling at my heart and making me feel like I'm both sinking and flying at the same time. But that year I just couldn't settle into it. It felt intrusive to be watching the tiny people down there privately mourning, and it felt even more uncomfortable that one of my rooftop companions was videoing those people with his camera, as if we all were up on that roof as tourists and not as humans who shared the country's pain.
This morning in school we held our ceremony, hosted by the 6th graders and including a videotaped siren. When the moment came, I stood, expecting the famous footage of Har Hertzl that most American schools use. And then on comes the video of my corner, our corner, Pierre Koenig and Rifka, the bus stop, Kinyon Hadar, and the falafel guy. You can even hear the wind rushing and roaring in the silence, the way it always does up there. Suddenly I was inside that moment, only dalet amot from the corner of the camera's eye, on that roof. That roof where I tutored Neima's kids, where I spray painted a model Mishkan, where I snuck up to spend time on my novel.
After the ceremony, the principal approached me, pleased as punch that she had sponsored a trip down memory lane to my 'old hometown'. "Can't you just feel like you're in Jerusalem?" she said. "Didn't you feel like you were almost there?" I was there, I told her, so close that I half expected to see myself in it, caught in a storm of secret anxiety over the making of that very video.
In truth, seeing that that video was like reading an old diary entry and smiling now at the worries I had then. Three years later, the siren (and the ceremony) is no longer for me, but for my students, and I am finally glad the video was made. Five thousand miles away now, that snapshot gave my students the experience of an Israel that is my second home. And it gave me back my lost moment of siren-mourning, three years old, and the gift of thankfulness, knowing where I've come since then.
The siren has always dug into me, the same as a shofar, pulling at my heart and making me feel like I'm both sinking and flying at the same time. But that year I just couldn't settle into it. It felt intrusive to be watching the tiny people down there privately mourning, and it felt even more uncomfortable that one of my rooftop companions was videoing those people with his camera, as if we all were up on that roof as tourists and not as humans who shared the country's pain.
This morning in school we held our ceremony, hosted by the 6th graders and including a videotaped siren. When the moment came, I stood, expecting the famous footage of Har Hertzl that most American schools use. And then on comes the video of my corner, our corner, Pierre Koenig and Rifka, the bus stop, Kinyon Hadar, and the falafel guy. You can even hear the wind rushing and roaring in the silence, the way it always does up there. Suddenly I was inside that moment, only dalet amot from the corner of the camera's eye, on that roof. That roof where I tutored Neima's kids, where I spray painted a model Mishkan, where I snuck up to spend time on my novel.
After the ceremony, the principal approached me, pleased as punch that she had sponsored a trip down memory lane to my 'old hometown'. "Can't you just feel like you're in Jerusalem?" she said. "Didn't you feel like you were almost there?" I was there, I told her, so close that I half expected to see myself in it, caught in a storm of secret anxiety over the making of that very video.
In truth, seeing that that video was like reading an old diary entry and smiling now at the worries I had then. Three years later, the siren (and the ceremony) is no longer for me, but for my students, and I am finally glad the video was made. Five thousand miles away now, that snapshot gave my students the experience of an Israel that is my second home. And it gave me back my lost moment of siren-mourning, three years old, and the gift of thankfulness, knowing where I've come since then.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Asian Mothers
There's an article going around that talks about how Asian mothers have more successful children because they believe in forcing them to work until they get As.
At first glance, it seems the opposite of what we've been taught, all about individuality and personal goals for students.
But on the other hand, I don't think it's so different.
Yes, we don't beat our students, or want our parents to do that.
But we do believe in perseverance, and in not giving up. Just yesterday I told my boss that I was willing to believe that my students could learn to translate, believe it every blasted day until the last day of school, when I was positive they would have learned it. I told her I would not give inflated grades on the report card, I would not be a "fluffy" Judaics teacher, and that instead I would translate a passuk with them every single day, until they made progress. And they will, each one of them, by the strength of me saying they can do it.
The more I teach, the less I believe in learning styles mattering, in pegging students or even understanding them in types, in saying that a kid won't be able to do something because of dyslexia, or ADD, or 'being kinesthetic'. Because I'm seeing students just this week who are all of those things, and who are learning trope, or reading, or translating, because I believe they can, and because they are practicing.
How is this any different from the 10,000 times it takes to learn something? I am learning that 10,000 works no matter what other background you bring to the table, because the determination it takes to do it that many times is stronger than anything holding a kid back. I see my students reach for the stars, and when they do, all 180 days of the year, every single one of them gets there.
At first glance, it seems the opposite of what we've been taught, all about individuality and personal goals for students.
But on the other hand, I don't think it's so different.
Yes, we don't beat our students, or want our parents to do that.
But we do believe in perseverance, and in not giving up. Just yesterday I told my boss that I was willing to believe that my students could learn to translate, believe it every blasted day until the last day of school, when I was positive they would have learned it. I told her I would not give inflated grades on the report card, I would not be a "fluffy" Judaics teacher, and that instead I would translate a passuk with them every single day, until they made progress. And they will, each one of them, by the strength of me saying they can do it.
The more I teach, the less I believe in learning styles mattering, in pegging students or even understanding them in types, in saying that a kid won't be able to do something because of dyslexia, or ADD, or 'being kinesthetic'. Because I'm seeing students just this week who are all of those things, and who are learning trope, or reading, or translating, because I believe they can, and because they are practicing.
How is this any different from the 10,000 times it takes to learn something? I am learning that 10,000 works no matter what other background you bring to the table, because the determination it takes to do it that many times is stronger than anything holding a kid back. I see my students reach for the stars, and when they do, all 180 days of the year, every single one of them gets there.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Happy End of Shemot
That's what the cake said at our siyyum this morning.
Fifth graders are a far cry from the 7ths I taught last year. I used to say, "only kosher at our parties" and they used to bring all sorts of non-hechshered junk food.
Here, I didn't say anything, and a student brought a kosher carrot cake from Whole Foods, with cream cheese frosting that said "Happy End of Shemot." We took a picture with it, and then they brought plates to all the administrators and were wished a "Happy Almost VaEra" in return.
Oh, the joys of students who love to learn for learning's sake.
(And I haven't even mentioned yet the Beshalach-themed music video with my 6th, below...)
Fifth graders are a far cry from the 7ths I taught last year. I used to say, "only kosher at our parties" and they used to bring all sorts of non-hechshered junk food.
Here, I didn't say anything, and a student brought a kosher carrot cake from Whole Foods, with cream cheese frosting that said "Happy End of Shemot." We took a picture with it, and then they brought plates to all the administrators and were wished a "Happy Almost VaEra" in return.
Oh, the joys of students who love to learn for learning's sake.
(And I haven't even mentioned yet the Beshalach-themed music video with my 6th, below...)
Monday, December 20, 2010
Day Off
It's five days before vacation and I am going crazy.
Mostly because of outside, family stuff that has nothing to do with school. But also because we have a semester to finish, report cards to write, and just a lot going on all around.
First my supervisor said "Everyone gets stressed in December." Then she took one look at my pale face and was like, "Have you taken a day off yet this year?"
Actually, I haven't. I feel like I have, because they schedule meetings and trainings and PD days during my classes, so it seems like I'm never there. But I haven't been sick, nobody's died, and I don't have kids of my own.
She gave me Tuesday off. "As your boss," she said, "I ought to tell you to stay home and write report cards. But as a person, I say this day is a gift, just for you." And then she proceeded to fill out the leave slip for me, over my protests about it being two days before vacation. Because I had told her once about the family responsibilities I have on Sundays, and she knew that I might not actually get my vacation for myself.
I have strict instructions to sleep late, eat kosher takeout, and visit a museum, with no sub-plan writing or report card guilt. And to tell no family member I'm not working, and no one at school I'm not sick.
All last weekend and all day today, all I could think of was this guilty secret. Not because of the day off, which is sweet in itself. I'm so gleeful because the person who gave it to me cares about me, not just as a teacher, but also as me. It's wonderful to know that I work in a place where they think I'm amazing but know that I'm human at the same time. And that care about the person I am being healthy (not just physically) and happy, too, every day of the year.
To be here, I am truly blessed.
Mostly because of outside, family stuff that has nothing to do with school. But also because we have a semester to finish, report cards to write, and just a lot going on all around.
First my supervisor said "Everyone gets stressed in December." Then she took one look at my pale face and was like, "Have you taken a day off yet this year?"
Actually, I haven't. I feel like I have, because they schedule meetings and trainings and PD days during my classes, so it seems like I'm never there. But I haven't been sick, nobody's died, and I don't have kids of my own.
She gave me Tuesday off. "As your boss," she said, "I ought to tell you to stay home and write report cards. But as a person, I say this day is a gift, just for you." And then she proceeded to fill out the leave slip for me, over my protests about it being two days before vacation. Because I had told her once about the family responsibilities I have on Sundays, and she knew that I might not actually get my vacation for myself.
I have strict instructions to sleep late, eat kosher takeout, and visit a museum, with no sub-plan writing or report card guilt. And to tell no family member I'm not working, and no one at school I'm not sick.
All last weekend and all day today, all I could think of was this guilty secret. Not because of the day off, which is sweet in itself. I'm so gleeful because the person who gave it to me cares about me, not just as a teacher, but also as me. It's wonderful to know that I work in a place where they think I'm amazing but know that I'm human at the same time. And that care about the person I am being healthy (not just physically) and happy, too, every day of the year.
To be here, I am truly blessed.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Golden Silence
This is my first time writing since I started school.
I feel bad not sharing my thoughts, but even now, I don't feel like I have anything to say.
Unlike last year, where I was processing and reflecting and shouting to this blog all of my thoughts, dreams and imaginings about the start of the year, this year I feel profound silence in the writing part of my brain.
"ישב בדד וידום, כי נטל עליו"
Quiet. Just quiet.
I'm getting a reputation in my new school as "having ideas as often as the Amidah-- morning, noon and night". I still think and play and dream and imagine what might work better and what doesn't work at all. I even have a mentor this year, whose sessions are like therapy :-). Just this week I started rewriting the MaTok that my school uses into something that resembles standards and benchmarks. And my supervisor likes new things more than I do.
The silence is a different kind of quiet. It's the kind that spells content. Content in the four walls of my school, the kindness of the other teachers. Content and grateful to be in a school where the good things are noticed, where my biggest problem is that I get exercise (my body and my creativity) because I have no computer, where everyone has everyone else's best interests in mind and always are supportive, and where at the end of a long week and a long day of teaching the biggest complaint from my boss is that I didn't smile!
I'm content, and my mind is quiet, because it's only my second year of teaching and that I'm in a place where I can feel successful every day, and where growing and learning (for teachers too) is good and healthy and normal. I see now that this is how it's meant to be, and really, after my big needs like that are met, I feel like there's nothing left to say.
I feel bad not sharing my thoughts, but even now, I don't feel like I have anything to say.
Unlike last year, where I was processing and reflecting and shouting to this blog all of my thoughts, dreams and imaginings about the start of the year, this year I feel profound silence in the writing part of my brain.
"ישב בדד וידום, כי נטל עליו"
Quiet. Just quiet.
I'm getting a reputation in my new school as "having ideas as often as the Amidah-- morning, noon and night". I still think and play and dream and imagine what might work better and what doesn't work at all. I even have a mentor this year, whose sessions are like therapy :-). Just this week I started rewriting the MaTok that my school uses into something that resembles standards and benchmarks. And my supervisor likes new things more than I do.
The silence is a different kind of quiet. It's the kind that spells content. Content in the four walls of my school, the kindness of the other teachers. Content and grateful to be in a school where the good things are noticed, where my biggest problem is that I get exercise (my body and my creativity) because I have no computer, where everyone has everyone else's best interests in mind and always are supportive, and where at the end of a long week and a long day of teaching the biggest complaint from my boss is that I didn't smile!
I'm content, and my mind is quiet, because it's only my second year of teaching and that I'm in a place where I can feel successful every day, and where growing and learning (for teachers too) is good and healthy and normal. I see now that this is how it's meant to be, and really, after my big needs like that are met, I feel like there's nothing left to say.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Beginnings, Again
I'm not really back yet from the summer, in case you were wondering.
This time last year I had already had a week and a half of my first year of teaching, in which I took away a recess, gave two amazing lessons that I didn't plan, helped my class come up with their own rules, and had 5 kids suspended (I'm serious! Go read the archives..). I don't think it could have been any better, or any worse. And I was grateful to my school for having started early enough in August that I taught about 10 Mishna rabbis and 6 mishnayot before Rosh HaShanah even started.
This year I'm starting over, in a new school and a new city, and in a new grade level and a new subject. I am grateful for the renovations that mean I will have enough time to plan, for the three weeks of Pardes and the curriculum I wrote there instead over the whole next year, and for having enough summer time until September to move and to think and dream.
Last year my boss told me, "The first year sucks. You just have to get through it to move on to the second year, which will be much better." Well, the first year was definitely about suckiness, but mostly it was about learning to teach, being touched by wonderful people (adults and students) and the many small or unexpected successes that add up to becoming who you really are. It wasn't all bad. In fact, a tiny part of me fears that I will start to be the boring type of set-in-their-ways teacher that comes with knowing what to expect. Good thing I have all these new-nesses to keep me on my toes.
To those of you who just started, or are about to start, your first year: try a thousand new things, make a million mistakes, and sail ahead on the wings of your love and dedication. Don't let those of us who've done it already spoil the adventure of charting out the unknown and bringing home your own souvenir wisdom.
And to those of you who have done this before, be it once or ten times: Enjoy the ride, and stay in touch!
This time last year I had already had a week and a half of my first year of teaching, in which I took away a recess, gave two amazing lessons that I didn't plan, helped my class come up with their own rules, and had 5 kids suspended (I'm serious! Go read the archives..). I don't think it could have been any better, or any worse. And I was grateful to my school for having started early enough in August that I taught about 10 Mishna rabbis and 6 mishnayot before Rosh HaShanah even started.
This year I'm starting over, in a new school and a new city, and in a new grade level and a new subject. I am grateful for the renovations that mean I will have enough time to plan, for the three weeks of Pardes and the curriculum I wrote there instead over the whole next year, and for having enough summer time until September to move and to think and dream.
Last year my boss told me, "The first year sucks. You just have to get through it to move on to the second year, which will be much better." Well, the first year was definitely about suckiness, but mostly it was about learning to teach, being touched by wonderful people (adults and students) and the many small or unexpected successes that add up to becoming who you really are. It wasn't all bad. In fact, a tiny part of me fears that I will start to be the boring type of set-in-their-ways teacher that comes with knowing what to expect. Good thing I have all these new-nesses to keep me on my toes.
To those of you who just started, or are about to start, your first year: try a thousand new things, make a million mistakes, and sail ahead on the wings of your love and dedication. Don't let those of us who've done it already spoil the adventure of charting out the unknown and bringing home your own souvenir wisdom.
And to those of you who have done this before, be it once or ten times: Enjoy the ride, and stay in touch!
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