Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Every Girl's Dream

Winter vacation has come and gone, and third-graders still send forth hilarity. Just about every day.
Lately, however, I've noticed a theme to their hilarious comments: gender. I don't really know what to make of this, except that I am fascinated to watch how gender socialization starts to manifest at such a young age. I find myself thinking: What is contributing to their concepts of gender? Do I, the non-influential teaching assistant, get any input? How can I prevent them from thinking that boys are Y and girls are X? But if boys are at least partly Y and girls are at least partly X, is it worth trying persuade them otherwise?

Here are a few examples of what I have heard recently:

*     *     *

We have been learning how to describe eyes and hair in Hebrew: blue eyes, brown eyes, glasses, blonde hair, red hair, short hair, long hair, curly hair, straight hair, there's-no-Hebrew-word-for-wavy hair, etc. A wiry little boy (let's call him T) who is either giggling and giddy with energy or mortally angry because someone took his [insert coveted object here] today, decides to offer his input about hair. E, a very bright but socially awkward boy sits next to T. Depending on the day, T and E are either best friends or arch-nemeses. After we learn that "long hair" is שערות ארוכות (se'arot arukot), T says,

"My sister wants long hair. That's every girl's dream." 
E has a different opinion: "My sister's dream is to overrule her mom," he says

So here we have two eight-year-old boys waxing scholarly on the hopes and dreams of girls. I'd say they've got it about right. Except that they obviously don't know about angled, asymmetrical pixie cuts.

Um, that's a boy. Click if you don't believe me.

*   *   *

Here's another:

An incredibly sweet and kind boy -- you met him a few posts ago -- loves spicy salsa and thinks he becomes "a man" if he eats it without drinking water. He remembered that I laughed heartily at this joke (which I probably shouldn't have if I wanted to discourage him from thinking in gender stereotypes, but it was just SO CUTE) and has since continued with his "be a man" regimen -- mostly to make me laugh. When the class made Hanukkah cookies, he asked me to peel his dreidel-shaped dough off of the table and put it on the cookie sheet.
"I'm a man," he pronounced, "and I can't do delicate things! That's why YOU need to do it for me." I pointed out that he was already deep into the baking process, which might be construed as 'delicate' if he wasn't careful.
A few weeks later, the same child comes in from recess yelling,
"Morah Naomi! I'm the manliest of the manliest and the craziest of the craziest!" I have yet to figure out exactly what that means, but I think I get the gist.

She made the cookies, of course.
As you can see, the concept of "manliness" is already evident in eight-year-olds, even if they don't have a complete grasp on what it can mean. When I ask the boys what they want to be when they grow up, they say things like: engineer, scientist, IDF soldier, police officer. During lunch, one of the boys sometimes pushes around a trash can and says in a deep voice: "Hey, I'm a janitor!" At this point, it seems that the boys are just modelling what they see in their own lives. It doesn't occur to them yet that men can be bakers, artists and teachers -- even though some of them love art class and others greatly enjoy explaining things to others. Hm. They will learn.

Venus Flytrap! The sides close and the fly gets trapped.
But my favorite gender comment by far came from a girl. She has quite the sense of humor and consistently badgers me to buy her a dog. She got a Venus flytrap for Hanukkah and, in addition to her obsession with carnivorous things, has a great sense of style. On one lovely occasion when I had lunch duty, she got up from her boy-heavy table (totally breaking a rule -- the kids are supposed to raise their hand if they need something) and made a request of me:

"Morah Naomi, can you make the boys be less boy?"

I knew exactly what she meant. Unfortunately, I had to say,
"No, I can't."
If only! But now I know what every girl's dream is: not to grow long locks, nor to overrule a parental figure; rather, to make third grade boys act less like third grade boys. To make them stop burping, teasing, and launching food particles off of their spoons. To make them move off the soccer field so the girls can practice cartwheels and back-bends. To make them stop tackling each other at every possible moment.

Because one thing I have noticed is that, at the third grade level, boys are distinctly "boy" and girls are distinctly "girl" and there is very little overlap. They do not play together, and a girl will even submit a request "to sit with more girls" at her classroom desk cluster. The girls bring in dolls and stuffed animals to play with at recess, and the boys bring in toy cars, Gameboys, and spy watches. And so I come back to the questions: Where did they learn that? Did their parents teach them? Did their siblings teach them? Did society teach them? When? They're only eight!

Well, eight years is plenty of time -- plenty of time for norms to take hold. And dare I say that these norms will always exist? I dare. And when they come to an end, every girl's dream will be... a Venus flytrap.



Sunday, December 28, 2014

The Journey -- It Goes On

Since Facebook did such a terrible job of summing up my year, I'll have to do it myself. 


This year contained a lot of "firsts" for me, so I'll start with those. Then I'll move on to the constants -- mostly struggles, states of being, ideas and people that continued to be present throughout my year. I hope you enjoy!

So, here goes Part I: 2014 is the first time I...

1.     Moved to Boston
2.     Got a full-time job (I am not a full-time student)
3.     Am fully funding myself! (rent, food, transportation, bills...oh, wait, I'm still on my parents' insurance. Never mind).
4.     Created a budget spread sheet (see #3). 
5.     Spent the entire summer at a Ramah Camp (and lived to tell about it. Remember that other summer when I didn't live to tell about it?)
6.     Had a three-week period when I didn't know when I was leaving West Hartford because I didn't have plan for the next yearTalk about scary moments. I was considering getting on a first-name basis with the Noah Webster Librarians. Thankfully, that didn't happen and they currently remain cheery faces spouting Dewey Decimal System numbers on request.
7.     Had a serious relationship.
8.     Had a seriously terrible break-up (see #7). I have never used the "Block" function on so many websites. Oof.
9.     Am officially "on the dating scene." Turns out that there are a ton of people in Boston. Half of them are men. Three point six percent of those men are Jewish (Shalom Boston). Of the 3.6 percent of men in Boston who are Jewish, about 70 percent are involved Jewishly. About half of those are what I might call 'religious.' And maybe I will find 10 percent of those men (those who are straight, mind you) attractive. And of the 10 percent I find attractive, at least half of them will already be married. And then maybe 50 percent of the Jewish, single men whom I find attractive will find me attractive. And maybe I can have an interesting, sustainable conversation with 20 percent of them. So, evidently, when I've dated approximately ten people in Boston, it will be time to move to a different city. But for now, I'm "on the dating scene."
The first couple on their first day on earth.

10. Have to work to create a social group. (Unlike high school, college, and Pardes, where like-minded peers were built in to my daily life, I have to find my people!! It's hard work, but it's rewarding.)
11. Choose my tefillah spaces based on kavannah and religious comfort level, giving a slight priority to kavannah. This means that since May (read: since Jerusalem), I have prayed in numerous traditional and egalitarian spaces. At Ramah, it was egalitarian by default. In Boston, sometimes I choose egalitarian services on Friday night because the davening is just better and I want to sing and pray and be with other people who also want to sing and pray!!      *kavannah = prayerful intention, which usually manifests as focus and spirituality
12. Wore my tallit since I was 12. The shema just makes so much more sense when you have tzitzit to kiss.
13. Made vegan, gluten-free black bean brownies! Recipe here.
14. Went to the wedding of one of my best friends!! And was honored to be placed in the role of bridesmaid and spiritual tefillah leader.
Best friend's wedding

15. Got a pedicure (included in #14)

16. Have been asked over 50 times: "Are you making aliyah?" The answer is still: I DON'T KNOW. I love Israel, especially Jerusalem. I love the spirituality, the Torah, and the holiness. I love the natural beauty. I love my brothers. I love kosher everything and city-wide Shabbat and chag. But... I want to be high school English teacher. And I don't want to teach English-as-a-second-language; I want to teach English literature. And (most of) my family is in America. And so are my best friends. And I don't want to forget about the Western world. And do I want my children to be Israeli? (Is that a selfish question?) And will I ever feel Israeli? Or... am I missing out on the "main event" of the Jewish people by staying in America? If Israel exists, why shouldn't I enjoy it every day of my life?...........(to be continued)

17.  Had a Skype siyyum.

18. Am spending more than 40 hours a week with children and I LOVE IT. I love them. Right now, other people's. One day, my own.

Yep, they're all perfect.

19. Am a guitar-playing song-leader!

20. Wrote a short story in the style of Etgar Keret (stay tuned for this one).

I'm sure I could spend hours sitting on my gray-blue carpet and thinking of firsts. And so could you. But lets move on; 2015 is coming and I have to be done by then. Here is Part II: 
Continuations and Constants

1.     My parents. I love them. My brothers. I love them.
2.     My Skype dates. Ask any of my past and present roommates and you will know that I spend, at the very least, an hour a week on Skype with my close friends.
3.     My love of teaching.
4.     My love of reading. And writing.
5.     My love of Torah.
6.     My religious journey. It goes on. Who am I in relation to Hashem? To other Jews? To Israel? To the Torah? To halacha? To myself?...
7.     The Israel question. See above.
8.     Walking. Yoga. Biking. Running. Hiking. 
9.     Gilmore Girls (a huge thanks to my mom for sharing her Netflix account with me. See #1).
10. The attention I pay to apostrophes, semicolons, periods, commas, dashes, hyphens and interrobangs (I always like to play around: is it What?! or What!? or What )
11. My love of newspapers.
12. My drive to always be doing something productive.
13. My inability to sleep when I am stressed or excited.

    
14. TEA
15. Peanut butter
16. My struggle with IBS (gluten, dairy, meat, veggies, lunchtime...) and eating in general. If you feel like guessing, then the answer is yes, I have a stomach ache today. I did yesterday, too. And I will still have one tomorrow.
17. I am still a morning person!
18. No smartphone. Although....we'll see how long that lasts. I have been pondering it recently ...pondering...pondering...Uber...pondering...GPS...pondering...
19. Introversion.
20. Reflection. For example, right now I am reflecting on this post and wondering if it is so very self-centered of me to write a post about my year. What about everyone else's year? What about the economy? What about global warming? What about all the poor people I could be helping if I just stopped writing and did community service instead? Sheesh.

A Happy New Year to all!! (excluding my super Zionist and/or religious acquaintances to whom January first means nothing). Here's to more firsts, lasts, and continuations. 


And to realistic goals!

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Children are Cute (especially when they eat spicy salsa)

It's 8:40 in the morning. As usual, the day has gotten off to a loud start. After 40 minutes of scream-davening, I am debating whether I should bring a megaphone or a whistle to tefillah. During Aleinu, one of the last prayers, I stand next to the kid pumping his vocal chord the hardest so at least I'm not battling with his tempo. All of a sudden, he turns to me with a mischievous smile on his face.

"I'm tired. Can I have a snack?"
"No," I tell him, "It's the middle of tefillah."
"That's what I was doing in the bathroom," he informs me, referencing his ten-minute absence. "I was having a snack."
I pause, marveling at the simultaneous genius and stupidity of his plan. Genius: He found a place to secretly have a snack. Stupidity: He told me about it. I reply with a simple "Oh."
He continues: "Sometimes I don't go the bathroom when I say I'm going to the bathroom. I just go in there and eat." He is still grinning at me, almost laughing, as if he has just told me the funniest joke. But thanks to the empty chocolate wrappers in his pockets and the smell of his breath, I know he isn't joking. Just being himself.

Later in the day, he gave me one of his prized candies: a Ghirardelli milk chocolate with caramel filling. To keep me quiet? Or to simply illustrate the decadence of his secret snack? Who knows. Either way, it was delicious.

*     *     *

More on food: A few weeks ago, we finally finished one chapter of Breishit so of course we had a siyum (a "finishing" party).  Five kids from each section were selected to bring a snack. Five snacks seems like a lot, but at least two of the assigned students completely forgot their contributions (and then yelled really loudly when they realized that they had forgotten). So the amount of food was reasonable.

One kid decided to bring chips and salsa. Spicy salsa. I retrieved plastic cups from the cafeteria and offered the fiery-mouthers water. When I proposed the water solution to one kid in particular, he replied,
"No water. If I eat all of this without taking a drink, then I'm a man!" 
This kid is one of the cutest, sweetest, kindest and funniest eight-year-olds you will ever meet. When I was out sick, he asked how I was feeling when I got back. When he comes in late, he davens to himself to catch up. He invited me to his B'nei Akivah Shabbat group. He makes puns and jokes on a very high level. He has two high-school-aged brothers and hates being called "cute."
One day during art class (my time to purely have fun with the kids) he made some adorable comment and I told him, "You're so cute!" He replied,
"No I'm not! I'm a man! The salsa, remember?"
Oh yes, I remember. "Right. The salsa. You're not cute, you're ugly!"
He grins. "Okay, that's better."

Except this child.

*     *     *

For the first time this year, we watched a movie in class. It is called "Lights" and I recall seeing it multiple times in my day school career. An animated film about Jewish assimilation in the time of Alexander the Great, its trademark features are dancing Hebrew letters and repetitive, tinny guitar (sitar?) music. It's a classic.

When a certain peppy child heard that we were watching a movie, he spouted the line, "I only watch
movies that are farm-raised!" When I began laughing, he continued with the joke: "And organic! And whole wheat! And vegan! And nut-free!" Somehow, this energetic child understood our society's obsession with niche foods and applied it to movie-watching.

The famous octet of suburbia
This same child is from New York City. When we crossed the street to head to gym in the Upper School, I told him to wait for me before crossing.
"But I'm a New Yorker!" he proclaimed. "I've crossed streets much busier than this! I can cross by myself!"
In addition, when he lingered picking out a snack and was almost late to a special program run by two Chabad-nicks from New York, he said,
"It's okay, I'll talk to them! I'm a New Yorker. They'll understand!"

Understand what? I don't know. But I do know that when you're in Boston, people (even children) get really proud about being from New York.

*     *     *

We've moved on to our second chapter of Breishit, in which two angels tell Lot that God is going to destroy Sodom and he has to run away and not look back. Why not? Because he might experience schadenfreude. He might feel some sort of pleasure at the ill fate of his evil comrades, and God does not want that to happen. 
Time-out never looked so boring

The teacher used a sibling analogy to help the kids grasp this concept. "When your sibling gets time-out, do you feel sad? Or do you feel good that they're in time-out and you're not?"

Absent-minded-topographer child answers: "I only get sad when my brother's in time-out, not my sister."
"Why do you get sad when your brother's in time-out?"
"Because he's really cute."

*     *     *

We're splitting up into reading groups, and one of my favorite girls scoots her chair right in next to mine. 
"Did you teach before this year?" she asks me.
"Nope," I reply. (Can't you tell?)
"This must be the best year of your life!" she says.
Either this or when I was in third grade. The jury's still out. I'll keep you posted.  :)  Until then, enjoy Calvin and Hobbes!


Saturday, November 22, 2014

Things Heavy and Light

Every year, Maimonides School picks a middah (character trait) to emphasize. This year, the trait is kavod, which means respect or honor. Interestingly enough, the root of kavod (כ.ב.ד.) also means "heavy," the opposite of which is "light" or "easy" (kal in Hebrew). Therefore, if you are honoring someone, you treat him or her with gravitas; this person's presence has weight. If you choose to dishonor someone, you treat him lightly, just as Sarah was "made light" in the eyes of Hagar.

The words "heavy" and "light" have been drifting around my headspace recently in numerous ways. Specifically, I have been thinking about the phenomena of framing, storytelling, and perspective: how one event can seem so serious one day and so inconsequential the next (or vice versa). To illustrate my point, I have decided to do a writing exercise in which I describe situations from a "light" point of view and a "heavy" point of view. Here's the first scene:

That's not him, but you get the idea.
Take One (light): Our favorite question to ask is, "What is Alan* doing?" The kid is a chronic pencil-breaker and fidget-er. He is always twirling something in his hands, tipping backwards in his chair, singing to himself, screeching during davening, or making facial contortions up at the ceiling. He's tall for his age, and often wears an orange sweatshirt. In fact, he wears the sweatshirt so often that the cuffs are becoming permanently gray. The kids like him, but they often move away from him with the declaration, "Alan farted!" He does his homework -- sometimes (he's actually pretty smart). One night, he called the teacher to tell her he hadn't brought the right book home and couldn't do the assignment, so could he do it tomorrow in school? Oy vey, what a hapless child. One day, he threw a gummy ball at the ceiling and it didn't come down. The next morning, all the other kids were asking me if they could throw things at the ceiling to try to get the gummy ball down. I said no. Later, as Alan tipped back his desk chair with scissors, a rubber band, and heaps of mechanical pencil lead in hand, I asked the famous question in my head: "What is Alan doing?" The answer came to me immediately: probably farting.


Take Two (heavy): Alan is hungry. It's time for morning snack, and he's forgotten to bring one -- again. While the kids are out at recess, the teacher tells me, "I'm going to get Alan an apple from the teachers' room. He's so hungry. He needs to eat." Alan is one of six children; five girls and a boy. He wears the same raggedy clothes to school every day, including a sweatshirt that just gets dirtier and dirtier. He can't focus on anything for more than three minutes, and he is trained to entertain himself -- hence the weird preoccupation with objects that are definitely not toys. Sometimes, we scold Alan for talking or wandering or fidgeting or doodling or distracting other kids; we forget that these are only symptoms of a neglected child, and that such a child needs nurturing as well as discipline. On Wednesdays, Alan gets hot lunch. The teacher has bought it for him. "Pick a day," she said. "I'll buy it for you every week." A secret indulgence for a child who receives few gifts and not enough good food. A child who hungers for hot dogs and chicken nuggets, but also for attention and love. 

*name has been changed


*     *     *

Here's the second scene:

Take One (light): Last week, I had a break-down. Us girls, we're always having break-downs, and they're for all sorts of reasons. Our nail polish came off. The electric bill is too high. We put on three pounds. How are we supposed to deal with co-workers who are so annoying? But the main reason we have breakdowns: Men. Guys. Boys. Males. Whatever you want to call them. They suck. They're
stupid; they don't realize we're pining after them; they're 26 and don't want a serious relationship; they're irresponsible; they wander around waiting for the perfect job, the perfect girl, the perfect life. They want you to cook for them. In this modern era of liberalism, they've even given up their historic role of "provider" and taken on the role of teenager, constantly hinting that they have no money, they're hungry, and they just want to be taken care of (oh, and of course they want sex, too). So, what, now women are supposed to take care of their men emotionally, physically AND financially? That's a lot of work. Where are all the men who buy us flowers and take us out to dinner without commenting that they are spending their entire meager paycheck on us? Where are the men who are sensitive, caring, AND mature enough to take care of themselves? Seriously, it's a crisis. It's enough to make a girl have a breakdown at least once a month. Probably more. As Flannery O'Connor once said, "A Good Man is Hard to Find." 

Take Two: I haven't cried that much since the night I broke up with him. Full, heaving sobs; warm, coursing tears; the infinite desire to not talk -- just to cry and cry against someone's loving shoulder.                It has been a full eight months, and it is still with me. He is still with me. Heavily and guiltily. Still living on in every potential relationship and every empty moment. And every night that I fall asleep alone. 
               I had been dating someone for less than a week, and the warning signs were already blaring out at me; the flashes of him were fast but obvious. So I crumpled inside and put up a wall and accepted the small guilt sooner rather than wait for the bigger guilt later on. But it still made me cry and cry and wonder how one ever leaves something (or someone) behind. Because what is life if not shared? What is life if not full of love? What is life when it is dotted with holes and emptiness and a fishing rod that tugs you back again and again? Sometimes, the "what-ifs" are almost too strong to bear -- especially when those "what-ifs" meant the comfort of someone loving you. 

*     *     * 

So, you see? Lighthearted or heart-breaking -- it's only a matter of how you spin it.

Some events, however (and you knew this was coming) can really only be felt and described with heaviness. Take, for example, the terrorist attack in Israel this past week. Whenever I speak about it, read about it, or hear it spoken about, a chilling heaviness weighs down my arms and hands, and my heart -- well, my heart is always in the east.

The day of the attack, my mom and I exchanged text messages about how we had talked to both of my newly-Israeli brothers that day. Nothing like sheer terror to make you pick up the phone.

Imma: I hate how I feel when something terrible happens in Israel. So heavy and sad and scared for the boys. It is a new normal for me and I have to get used to it.

Naomi: Me too. I literally just wrote down the word "heavy" as a way to describe how this feels.

When all we can do is mourn for the lost, we must try to lift the weight off of our shoulders. And the first step to hefting the weight is feeling, intensely, its heaviness.

But then there are the moments we all live for. The ones where the only the response is laughter. Remember "Alan"? Well, despite whatever might be going on at home or deep inside of him, sometimes the kid is just hilarious:

Alan: Look Morah Naomi, I have two quarters!
Naomi: That's nice.
Alan (wedging one quarter into each ear) Look Morah Naomi! I'm listening to fifty cent! 

*     *     *

Sunday, November 2, 2014

The Mark of Cain's Wife

ויצא קין מלפני ה' וישב בארץ-נוד קדמת-עדן. וידע קין את אשתו...
(בראשית ד', טז-יז)
Cain went out from before God and settled in the land of Nod, east of Eden. Cain knew his wife… (Genesis 4:16-17)

            And thus we have one of the biggest problems in the Torah: Where did Cain’s wife come from?
            It is a simple question, often glossed over, and enough to unhinge our entire belief system (which might be precisely why it is so often glossed over). The discussion comes up a good deal in Christian theology, and most famously in Inherit the Wind, Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee's dramatic adaptation of the Scopes Monkey Trial of 1925. Henry Drummond, the lawyer defending Cates' right to teach evolution, interrogates strident creationist Matthew Brady:


DRUMMOND: Listen to this: Genesis 4:16. "And Cain went out from the presence of the Lord and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the East of Eden. And Cain knew his wife!..." Where the hell did she come from?
BRADY: Who?
The movie adaptation of Inherit the Wind
DRUMMOND: Mrs. Cain. Where'd that extra woman spring from? Ever figure that out?
BRADY: Never bothered me.
DRUMMOND: Do you figure somebody pulled off another creation, over in the next county?
BRADY: The Bible satisfies me. It is enough.
DRUMMOND: It frightens me to imagine the state of learning in this world if everyone had your driving curiosity...
(Inherit the Wind, Act 2, scene 3)  


Call me a creationist or call me a heretic - but please, read on and get ready to be unhinged.


The first option regarding the question of Cain's wife is that God created her and the Torah omitted this act of creation from the narrative.  The Torah omits lots of things, and our job is to figure what is important and why. In this case, we must ask the questions: Why did the Torah omit God's creation of Cain's wife? Was she created from the rib of Cain? Did the Torah omit other things that God created? Who wrote this book, anyway? etc., etc.


The second option is that God didn’t create her. She evolved from monkeys. This, however, leads to further problematic inquiries: Can evolution and divine creation exist in the same world? Can a product of one pro-create with the product of another etc., etc.




The third possibility echoes Drummond's theory above: Another “god” created her somewhere else (perhaps in the land of Nod, where Cain eventually settled). This leads to a faith-breaking problem however; namely: there goes monotheism.




The fourth possibility is one supported by the  majority of midrashic, rabbinic and other (read: Christian) sources: In Genesis 5:4, it says that  Adam had "sons and daughters." One of these unnamed daughters became Cain's wife. Aside from the incest issue, this answer is relatively easy swallow - except for one other thing: chronology. Cain gets married in chapter four, and these sons and daughters are not recorded until chapter five. According to the medieval commentator Rashi, however, this poses no problem because איו מוקדם ומאוחר בתורה - the Torah is most definitely written out of order. And the mention of Adam's sons and daughters was part of a long summary of many generations, so they really could have been born at any time. But then... why didn't the Torah record them at the time they were born? Who wrote this book, anyway?


And thus we come to the fifth option: Adam, Eve, Abel, Cain and Cain's wife did not exist. The story is completely fictional, and inconsistencies don’t matter because they can be attributed to human error. It's just a story, written by humans in an attempt to explain how they got to this earth and why they practice some crazy religion called Judaism (or Christianity or Islam). 


And this is where I put my descended-from-Adam-foot down. Because if this story is fictional, then why do I believe in God? Why am I Jewish? Who am I???  Well, the fact is that I love believing in God, I love Judaism, and I love who I am. And that is enough for me.

Case in point:  
Yesterday afternoon, as Shabbat mellowed into a rainy, cozy evening, my roommate decided she had
 to “catch  up” on the parsha—which meant that we read ten chapters of Genesis together. After reading and discussing the two distinct creations of humanity, she asked me,


“Do you ever find answers to these questions?”

I replied swiftly and happily: “Nope!”

 Because what is Torah for if not asking questions? Discovering the midrashic and rabbinic answers are an amazing exercise in intellect and logic, but they are neither complete nor satisfactory, and I will not accept drash into my understanding of the peshat. I accept the Torah as a divine book that is simply asking to be discovered and explored ("Turn it and turn it for everything is in it!" Pirkei Avot 5:24), and if we find all the answers there is nothing left. If we keep asking questions, however, we have everything.
*     *     *



Sunday, October 12, 2014

Songs of the Third Grade


Piping down the valleys wild,
  Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
  And he laughing said to me…”

Although William Blake (Songs of Innocence, 1789) put it much better than I, sometimes I feel like the children I see every day gain their energy from the fluff of clouds. I so greatly enjoy hearing whatever comes out of their mouths -- because eight-year-old mouths are losing their baby teeth and through the gaps flow unfiltered thoughts. Below are a few of the conversations that have recently brightened my days. Of course, not everything the students say is wonderful and cute. There is bullying; there is disrespect; there are fart jokes. But in a world full of deadly viruses, warring Middle Easterners and the pain of aging, the beautiful moments are the ones that need to be recorded. Here are some priceless quotations and the reflections of mine that often follow:

*  *  *
7:44 am. I walk down the hall towards my classroom. Three third grade boys run at me.
“Morah Naomi!”
“Thank God!”
“Where were you?”
“Why are you late?!”
“The classroom’s locked!”
I am, in fact, not late. Teachers are supposed to arrive by 7:45, at which point kids are allowed in the classroom. I had been making a point to get there early, thereby raising the early-comers’ expectations of me. In any case, one of them gives me a huge hug and says,
“I’m so happy today!”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I’m trying to be happy about everything!”

Evidently, we do not need positive psychologists and self-help books to instruct us about achieving happiness. We just need third-graders.

*  *  *
7:52 am. The classroom is bustling with students preparing for the day. A dark-skinned, curious half-Israeli student who had gone to a Celtics game and brought his foam finger to school pipes up with,
“Would you believe me if I said I went to the Bahamas and kissed a dolphin on the lips?”
“Yesterday?” I reply. “No.”
“No, last year.”
“Okay, sure.”
A few minutes later, the same student has found a red feather in the craft supplies cupboard. He is now standing next to the electric pencil sharpener.
“I wonder what would happen if I tried to sharpen this feather.”
Me: “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
The student sticks the feather in the pencil sharpener. Whirrr. Two seconds later, he pulls out a mutilated feather. His face falls.
“Oh.”

Obviously, some things must be experienced first hand. Let’s pray he limits his experiences to the realm of indoor, non-fire-related activities.

*   *  *
7:58 am. A blond, spiky-haired boy who could intermittently power a Prius with his energy walks into the classroom two minutes before tefillah and bursts out with:
“Some idiot from Africa brought Ebola into the US!”

Later, on NPR, I hear about Thomas Eric Duncan, a Liberian who unknowingly contracted the disease, traveled to Texas, and died there.

It seems I am now getting my news from third-graders (granted, it is biased third-grader news. The word “idiot” has not appeared on any official news reports about Ebola.)



*  *  *
8:40am. We say the first two words of the last of the morning prayers and the fire alarm goes off: our first fire drill of the year. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. The kids know what to do. They put down their books and crowd toward the door. One of them, the absent-minded professor who is always doodling complex maps and sitting calmly as his papers and markers fly everywhere, starts dancing as if in a disco club. After we are back inside, I ask him,
“Do you like fire drills?”
Pause. (He always pauses to think and fidget before responding): “First I freak out, but then it’s pretty cool.”

Another of my favorite comments of his:
“Do you know why I always get to school so early?” he asks me.
“No, why?”
“Because I live six houses away!”
“Oh, that’s great!”
“And sometimes I run! And leave my sister behind.”

And another:
“Want to know something freaky?”
“Of course.”
“This morning, I went downstairs before my mom and dad were awake and smelled the lulav and etrog! And they never found out!”
“Oh wow!” I reply. “Is that at 5 am when you usually wake up?”
“No, it was at 4:55.”

Apparently, smelling Jewish ritual objects is “freaky” and waking up before the sun makes for a very easy six-house commute.

Not this kid!

*  *  *
In class, we discussed the question: Why did Sarah laugh when she found out she was going to have a baby? The kids arrived at two answers:

  1. Because she was like, “What?!? I’m so old!”
  2. Because she was so happy that Hashem would do this for her and she laughed out of joy that a miracle was being performed for her (actually, this answer was more teacher-supplied)
The teacher told everyone that “Sometimes we just have to ask questions. We’ll never know which answer is correct!” At which point one of the kids muttered under his breath:
“Unless we had a time machine!”

When he gets the Nobel Prize for Science, Religion, and/or History, I’ll be able to say I knew him when he was eight, and witnessed the beginnings of the newest form of Bible scholarship: Torah Time Travel.


* * *
In addition to their sparkling words, I have come to the conclusion that most children are exceptionally beautiful. The wave of hair that falls across a face. The bright hazel eyes with flecks of gold. The long lashes that flutter softly over the pages of a book. The soft cheek that looks as smooth as milk. The sturdy, healthy little limbs that run around on the grass and carry strong bodies from place to place. Essentially, all of the physical attributes that adults work for, the children already have. Yes, we are chasing youth.

Don't we all want to look like this??

*   *   *
Above, I quoted a small piece of William Blake’s Songs of Innocence. My appreciation of Blake was rekindled recently when I read Tracy Chevalier’s novel “Burning Bright.”  The book tells the story of two English children whose friendship Mr. Blake observes and weaves into his creation of Songs of Innocence and of Experience. As the book progresses, the children predictably mature from an age of innocence to one of experience--but they do so in an unpredictable manner: they notice and are thrust into the struggles of those older than them, thus learning about selflessness, loyalty, and the beginnings of love. A truly enchanting tale, this book fell into my lap at just the right time: I am surrounded by children who are growing and observing, yet who are also enjoying the peak of their innocence.


I recommend it!