Windows of Security

After four years living in capital cities outside the United States, living in suburbia is a culture shock. Many Americans I speak with express relief that I'm now back where it's "safe". But I don't feel safer at all. In fact, I feel decidedly less safe in suburban America than I did living in Jerusalem and Dhaka. I find the rows of big dark house spaces along dark, quiet streets rather spooky. (I'm sure the over-enthusiastic Halloween decorations don't help much either. Our evening neighborhood walks include passing by several partial skeletons crawling out of the ground and back-light bodies leaning against windows, watching us walk by.) The quiet, the distance, the darkness, the I-can't-hear-anyone silent aloneness is eerie. Who would hear me scream? And would any of those distant people, my so-called neighbors, care? I miss the lights, the pedestrian life-style, the people out and about, and passing my neighbors in the cramped stairwell. I miss the vibrant lifestyle that comes with proximity.

Houses. We're supposed to be safe inside our large, strong constructions. Strong walls fitted with heavy, solid doors that are closed with metal locks and protected with security systems. But what about the windows? The large glass patio doors? Maybe it is the tree outside my bedroom windows whose frail branches scrap against the windows, giving the impression of a wailing banshee begging to enter that got me spooked about the windows. But they glass seems vulnerable.

Simply put, my experiences and understanding just don't seem to line up with the accepted understanding around me. I feel that the American search for security and safety is buttressed by items: big lonely houses, fancy security systems, strong locks. I think you could extrapolate that to a national level in looking at our search for security in the world. And I feel like here, the goal is an elusive zero sum game: 100% safe.

And I think it's all a fiction. I'm not against locking doors or taking precautions, but I feel like buying into American Safe is buying into an illusion. And being here does not make me safer. With America's crime rates, especially of violent crimes, I feel decidedly less safe in America. And all the times smiling, well-meaning faces express their joy that I'm back home where it's "safe" I feel such a strong disconnect. I don't buy into the illusion of safe. There are dangers everywhere. There are methods of protection and prevention everywhere. And I wasn't living in a war zone and I didn't immigrate to Iraq. And when all is said and done, America isn't the safest place on earth. (Although, the living is quite good in many places.) So, I smile back at those well-meaning people and say thank you.

And I go on my way, feeling even more the disconnected stranger.

I'm an artist!

As a teacher, I tend to get really ambitious in the summer months. Not keeping track of the grades, behaviors, learning trends and emotions of 150 or so adolescents really frees up a lot of brain space.

So, in addition to my blog that focuses on education, I decided to make an art blog to, well, encourage me to do art. It's a personal goal that I've had for the past few years and keep on missing. Art keeps getting shoved aside for work, bills, cooking, cleaning... the list is really endless.

So today, I say "happy birthday" to my new art blog, Not Picasso. So far I have one post, the blog's raison d'être, accompanied by a photograph I took and a conté crayon drawing inspired by the photo.

Speaking of which, today is also my "aliyaversary". I've now been an Israeli citizen for two years.

Please encourage me to keep making art!

New Blog!

This past year was a bit overwhelming- as you might have noticed by the absence of posts on this blog. But as the last school year is done I'm busy making goals for my next year- which includes more writing!

1) I want to continue documenting my musings and observations here
2) I've started a new blog that focus on my experience as an educator
3) I've dug up my journals from Mali and am going to see if they can inspire me to do what so many people have been telling me to do- write a book!

Of course, these come with other ambitious goals- such as making art on a regular basis (another potential blog), starting at a new school (2 classes- so part time), taking a Talmud/ Mishna class and starting my own mini business of tutoring and small groups.

It should be a pretty calm year. :)

Please check out my new blog and share it with other interested parties. (Yes, this is a plug). My goal is to write weekly about current and previous experiences as an educator. And as we all know, teachers are never short of opinions.

turning in a world of risk

Where can I even begin after so much silence?

How about the moment I entered the teacher’s room after being observed by the BIG SHOT- the woman who oversees all English teachers in Jerusalem for the Ministry of Education. This woman is key in getting jobs, and actually, after over a year and a half of hoop jumping, finally becoming certified to teach in Israel. My department head ran over to me, ecstatic. The BIG SHOT had told her what she had told me right after the observation, that I was one of the best teachers she’s ever seen. (Please keep in mind she’s seen every English teacher in Jerusalem.) I look over, distracted, at another teacher on the phone, her eyes moist, her hand covering her mouth. Disjointed phrases in Hebrew flash around the busy room. On a bus. Right outside of the Bineney Ha’uma. Which bus was it? There’s been a terrorist attack. 18 wounded. Was it a bus our students take? The three computers in the room are occupied, people desperately searching for confirmation and more information. Phones are pressed to ears, so much that the network is overloaded; calls fail.

My department head is still bubbly about my recent success and asks me if I’ve filled out my wish list for next year yet. This is the first mention I’ve heard of being offered a job for next year. I never even signed a contract for this year and am still fighting to get paid what I should, to increase my pitifully sad 10 shekel an hour average rate. I’m still walking around the large room slightly dazed, wondering if I’m standing at the entrance of a third intifada. My memories jump back two weeks to the shocking ending to the wonderful Shabbat I spent with the family who has adopted me here. Rebooting computers with cheerful faces only to discover that just north of here a family was slaughtered in their sleep. I log into gmail and quickly find myself chatting with 6 friends all at once, everyone checking in, still alive. For first timers, it’s almost instinct; for those who have lived through so many attacks, it’s routine.

I hold the “wish list” form in my hand after my department head printed me out a copy. I don’t want this, but I’m not sure how or when to tell her that I’m not coming back. I’ve been told time and time again that this school, where I drag myself everyday, is a good school; that this place, that I regard as an unruly mess, is a great place to work; that these students, who argue and fight with me on a regular basis, robbing themselves of learning, are some of the best students. And all this for less than 2 dollars an hour. All this for less than minimum wage. I tuck the form into my bag and wonder if I should take the bus home.

Risk. For a world ever seeking stability and security, risk permeates the air. To stand surrounded by countries of oppressed people challenging dictators so often given a green light by oil thirsty Western countries. Risk, to leave a “secure” although pitiful government job with a pension to start out on my own. Risk, to live in what very much feels like the middle of a region in riots, in a country hit by rockets on a regular basis.

But is it risky simply because it’s unknown to me? what about my normal risks, that seem bland in comparision. The financial markets we’ve be taught to believe in seem so fragile. People risk their lives daily in American too- due to street violence, car accidents- and as much as American would like to believe itself immune, terrorist attacks happen there as well. But only terrorist attacks make international news. Are we blinded to the risks we’ve become accustomed to?

I'm in high school- again.

Today I took a mini version of the Hebrew Literature Bagrut (High School Exit Exam). Let's totally skip over the fact that I've only been studying Hebrew for a year and I have to take these high school level exams IN HEBREW to re-earn my teaching certificate here in Israel. Needless to say, I find rapid fire intensive courses in history, citizenship, Hebrew literature and Hebrew grammar conducted in a level of Hebrew that is easily twice my own ability extremely frustrating. Thus I've reconnected with my 10th grade self that cursed (yes, out loud and colorfully) every time I had to enter a Spanish classroom and bemoaned being forced to learn another language. My dear study partner is very patient with my sporadic streams of cursing that punctuate our cramming sessions. And yes, since we're doing material for four high school subjects in 6 weeks, it's all cramming.

Even so, as we were cramming away last night- but still going slow enough for me to actually understand what we were doing- I realized I really liked one of the poems/ songs we studied. True to Jewish tradition, song and poem are pretty much one and the same here. Here's the song version, grace à youtube:



So, what follows is the original Hebrew text, the best translation I can muster (without online translators because they're EVIL!) and an explanation why I really like this piece. Yep, I'm in high school literature mode. But, it's a good thing considering that I will be teaching English Literature for the Bagrut exam starting this month (yikes!) And I took a couple liberties to help the translation flow, be more clear in English but retain its original meaning (to the best of my understanding.)


כי האדם עץ השדה / נתן זך .......Because Man is a Tree of the Field/ Nathan Zach

כי האדם עץ השדה.....................Because man is a tree of the field
כמו האדם גם העץ צומח............ Like man, a tree, too, is planted
כמו העץ האדם נגדע. ................ Like a tree, man is cut down
ואני לא יודע ............................. And I do not know
איפה הייתי ואיפה אהיה............. Where I've been and where I will be
כמו עץ השדה.............................Like a tree in the field

כי האדם עץ השדה..................... Because man is a tree of the field
כמו העץ הוא שואף למעלה ......... Like a tree, man breaths in, reaching upwards
כמו האדם הוא נשרף באש.......... Like man, a tree burns in fire
ואני לא יודע . ............................And I do not know
איפה הייתי ואיפה אהיה...............Where I've been and where I will be
כמו עץ השדה.............................Like a tree in the field

אהבתי וגם שנאתי ......................I have loved and I have hated
טעמתי מזה ומזה........................I have tasted this and that
קברו אותי בחלקה של עפר...........They buried me in a piece of dirt
ומר לי, מר לי בפה...................... And I have bitterness, bitterness I have in my mouth
כמו עץ השדה............................ Like a tree in the field

כי האדם עץ השדה......................Because man is a tree of the field
כמו העץ הוא צמא למים..............Like a tree, he thirsts for water
כמו האדם גם הוא נשאר צמא.......Like man, a tree also remains thirsty
ואני לא יודע ............................. And I do not know
איפה הייתי ואיפה אהיה............. Where I've been and where I will be
כמו עץ השדה.............................Like a tree in the field


The title, Because Man is a Tree of the Field, is a verse in the Deuteronomy 20:19. The context is rules for engaging in war. The Torah prohibits the destruction of fruit trees, explaining "because man is a tree in the field". Most of the English translations I've found of Deuteronomy 20:19 choose an interpretation of the Hebrew and solidify it in the English version. But, lucky me, I can now go back to the Hebrew and all the juiciness that allows me. So, כי האדם עץ השדה can be interpreted as either a statement or a question (there isn't any punctuation in the Torah scroll). As a question, it implies that the trees are not men, but rather just trees, and therefore have done nothing to harm the approaching army and deserve to be unharmed. They are innocent in the ways of war, to say the least. As a statement, it implies that trees are indeed like men and thus deserve to be treated with respect and dignity of men and therefore not to be cut down when they are innocent. In good Jewish tradition, I choose to accept both interpretations side by side. (Why choose one, when you can have both!?)

In the song, there are three couplets that compare man and tree. The first deals with being planted and cut down, the second with breathing and burning in fire and the third thirsting for water. I interpret this song as dealing with the Holocaust- where men are moved, planted, cut down, starved and burned with less thought than that given to replanting, tending, harvesting, using, and burning a tree. In the Holocaust, the world is afouk- turned upside down and logic no longer reins, but rather craziness. In lieu of the biblical verse that raises respect for trees to that of human status, here humans burn like wood in crematoriums.

The first, second and final verse emphasis that both man and tree are subject to external forces and lack control in their own lives. "I do not know where I've been and where I will be, like a tree of the field." Jews suffering through the Holocaust most definitely experience a lack of control over their own lives as the advancing army of Nazis approached, relocated them, starved them, cut them down and burn them.

The third verse, which follows a separate lyrical pattern, deals with a man's life before the Holocaust and his subsequent death during the Holocaust. In life, he has various experiences and emotions, while in death, he is "planted" into the earth. Planting a man is death, while planting a tree is life.

I really liked this piece with it's beautifully dark and sorrowful feelings. I feel like the analogy between man and tree is one in which I can get lost and turn around in, looking at it upside down and rediscovering it every time I read it. The Hebrew is simple yet poignant, which is characteristic of the language. I also feel that song is strongly rooted in Jewish culture- from it's title to the high level of respect given to trees. (In Judaism, there are four year cycles that run congruently (think academic year, calendar year, financial year). This leads to four new year's celebrations- including one for trees. Yep, that's an entire year dedicated to trees, planting them, celebrating them, loving them. (Some of us like to think of it as the oldest Earth Day ever.) Also, planting trees in Israel is a mtizvah.) I find this poem to be haunting in it's history and the deep meaning of it's deceptively simple words.

Reflections on riding the bus in Jerusalem

The bus: my constant companion. I wait for her. I get annoyed with her. I marvel at her. I wish I could give her directions that would directly take me to my destination in lieu of her circuitous routes that reach out to everyone. I’m grateful for her despite my frustrations. One of my proudest Courtney trumps Israeli style bureaucracy and spiteful office workers was getting my discounted 6 month student bus pass.

I’m back on the bus today after an attempt to have an affair with the train. The bus was against me. She avoided me. When my fellow waiter (soon to be rider) informed me the bus snuck by silently just before I arrived for our rendez vous I decided to splurge for a cab to catch the train. I flirt with the train- it’s smooth ride and fewer disruptions. She has large windows opening to our beautiful countryside, spacious tables, and larger, more comfortable, seats. She doesn’t confine me like the bus does. The bus wants me to stay in my small space defined by chairs covered in blue carpet-like upholstery with electric colored squiggles. But the train is a fickle, infrequent affair. The taxi arrived in time for me to see her sleek body pull out of the station, red warning lights flashing at the crossing.

Frustrated, dejected, I returned to the bus. I had to look for her. And she made me wait, maybe a little longer than usual to make a point. But she accepted me back, ignoring my attempted transgression. So, I board bus 4 Aleph from the south of Jerusalem, to the center. 8 takes me to the Central Bus station and now 480 and bearing me to Tel Aviv, where again, I flirt with the idea of the train to take me to Tel Aviv University so that I can at least catch the end of my class and meet in instructor.

The bus in Jerusalem is a microcosm of society. Strangers talk to each other in these double long busses that haul Jerusalemites and tourists alike. A rich brew of Russian, Hebrew, French, Spanish, Portuguese and English bounce around inside, maybe flavored with Yiddish or Ahmaric on the right bus lines. We ask for help, strike up conversations, make comments on everything, invite strangers home, and run into friends. Strangers can become friends on a bus, trapped for the long halting stops through the congested streets. There isn’t just the assumption that we will help each other, but the expectation. Fellow bus riders are constantly helping mothers with strollers alight and disembark through the rear doors, passing their fares up to the driver. The wheelchair ramp isn’t automated but requires a passenger to lean down to open and close it. Today, I was one of 6 people who, without asking even if there was a need, rose to the expectation to help a woman in a wheelchair navigate off the stiff curb, and up the steep ramp into the bus and then pass her fare card to the driver and back. No words are needed; we all know how we’re supposed to help. I live in that alternate reality where youngsters pop up and insist that elderly people and pregnant woman take their seats. These are the moments I love the bus.

The bus in Jerusalem: I love her, I loath her, I wait for her. But I say my blessings that I do not fear her. The fear of busses still clings to our group consciousness. Today, a reminder of that fear was a black roller bag, ownerless, sitting near the front of the bus. “Is this someone’s black bag?” an older man calls out. No answer. Again, “Is this someone’s black bag?” he shouts louder into the back of the bus. “It’s no one’s bag,” the back of the bus answers him. I can see his nervousness. I feel the tension. He looks around. He studies the bag. The bag stares back at him, silently, menacingly. The bag challenges the man at the front of the bus. The man finally accepts the challenge and opens the bag. “Don’t open it,” a voice floats up from behind me. I’m relieved when he’s finished his search and closes the bag. No explosives. We won’t be tonight’s news, unidentifiable limbs mixed with the metal that once was a bus. That terrible, horrible wall that brings international condemnation as a cheap land grab is working. We are free from the reality of the second infatada that blasted its angry shouts with daily suicide bombs and converted the busses from the most popular transportation to a gamble with your life. Soon an elderly woman is running up next to the bus, banging on the windows with her fists. She runs inside, explains she took a taxi to catch up with the bus and reclaims her bag. We, the bus riders, smile inside with relief. Today a lonely bag is just that: forgotten, but not a threat. And again I hate the need for the large concrete wall I can see traipsing across the east of Jerusalem and I’m so thankful that simple concrete can save so many lives.

Checking in

It’s been too long- in terms of communicating with you and also with myself. The decadently long expanses of solitary reflective time that characterized my time in Bangladesh are distant memories. From a single “single friend” I’ve landed spat into a beautiful, inviting community of single friends with lots of time and energy. From being a teacher and managing my own time I’ve become an overloaded student- Hebrew classes, Torah classes, grammar classes, teacher recertification classes, Jewish thought classes- and neglected homework. I’ve fallen into a long forgotten habit of over committing myself, above and beyond the coursework. I’ve discovered volunteering and dove in- reading to the elderly, helping lone soldiers, doing morale boosting for members of the Israeli Defense Forces and helping to coordinate large Shabbat meals to bring various members of our diverse community together. The hours of silence- without work, to do lists, roommate, phone calls, rushing errands- are gone. So too, it seems, are the blog entries and all the wonderful reflection and repackaging they required.

But I finally, regardless of my own critical judgment about creating a quality, readable, reflective piece starting with a clear direction, I’m letting go of my own expectations and just writting. Letting go of my need to express my anger and defensiveness about the flotilla escapades and journalistic creative fiction and spin that followed. Letting go of my need to provide a documentation of daily events. Writing to reconnect- with you- and with myself.

Shifting through the layers of commitments and conversations, studies and bureaucracy, errands and endless bus rides- searching back to the source, the central experience of my time here- and I find- settled contentment. It’s been the biggest life shift of all. A lifetime of running after new adventures, pushing my boundaries, exploring my ever shifting paradigm, immerging myself in languages and cultures as I bounced and bopped around the globe- the great trips and fanciful adventures have lost their hold on my heart. What started to root in my heart as a traveled around Asia and saw such amazing sites remains- yes the world is an amazing and diverse place, yes I feel very privileged to have seen and experienced so much of it in such a personal way, and I’d rather be in Israel.

And true to my inner voice, everyday as I walk around Jerusalem, watching grapes, olives, figs and pomegranates form in my neighbors’ yards, I give thanks for being able to be here. I marvel daily at the very communal, non city feel cultivated in such a walkable, beautiful city where strangers help each other without question and I always run into people I know. I cringe at the intolerance of the inhabitants of neighborhoods like Mea Sharim who I perceive as perverting Judaism in the conquest to save and preserve it. I flair up at the disproportionately large amount of spinning incorrect journalism about my home. I revel in the glorious walls of the old city and the multitude of invitations I receive into the homes of my fellow Israelis. What are my challenges in adapting? Too many welcoming people creating an outpouring of invitations? Friends always finding new adventures from climbing Masada, eating at Black Out, hiking near Tzfat, listening to the Israeli Philharmonic or simply enjoying the sights and events of Jerusalem? People always trying to figure out how they can help me? Should all people be so lucky to face similar challenges.

And since it’s been a while, I’ll also let you know. Next school year I’ll be gainfully employed teaching English to Hebrew speakers in grades 7 through 9 and also English literature to native English speakers in grade 10.

And since my silence has been echoed back for so long, I hope that my voice can also be echoed back with a small insight into your lives as well.

yom ha'shoah

Upon leaving my apartment in Jerusalem this morning I found myself frozen in place, my eyes darting to follow the movements of a delicate yet majestic humming bird. I smiled, distracted from my task, as I watched it's beautiful black and iridescent green wings flutter and pause, reflecting the morning sunlight as it dashed from plant to plant, investigating. It was a moment of rejoicing in the amazing beauty of the world and remembering my grandfather, who loved humming birds.

But that was not the only time my world froze today. At ten this morning everyone stopped and silently stood as a sirens sounded across Israel. Cars halted in the middle of roads, doors opened, passengers and drivers standing. Talking stopped. Music stopped. Busses stopped. Pedestrians stopped. Students stopped. A frozen 120 seconds as millions of individuals country -wide stood in silent recognition and remembrance of the millions senselessly and systematically murdered by Nazis. Each individual standing in defiance of the Final Solution. Millions of minds simultaneously focused on the collective act of remembrance.

A couple of years ago a colleague of mine commented that he thought holocaust education was 'overdone' and now it's time to study something else. His comment knocked the wind out of me and shook my brain to numbness. Yes, I can understand a level of his sentiment but it seems to me that any logic would undermine it. The world has not learned from the multiple country, continent-wide effort to exterminate an entire group of people and thus, the cycle of mass slaughter and dehumanization continue worldwide. Yes, sadly, there are now other tragedies. However the idea of studying them in lieu of the holocaust seems to be a lesson not learned. What greater example of organized evil and baseless hatred exists? Could we really fathom a cessation of holocaust education in a time when scaringly empowered individuals are calling to wipe Israel, the Jew among nations, off the planet?

As a Jew, of course I'm biased towards remembrance. As an individual, I constantly force myself to look the ugly, evil elements of the world in the eye- form international sex slave trade and devastating poverty to national leaders who punish their people while promoting their own comforts- but why should the world care about the Jews? Why should the world choose to remember in face of active holocaust deniers and passive, simple collective negligence and forgetfulness?

I once read that the Jews are the world's canary in the coal mine. Just as the canary's death when deadly gases start to fill the mine warn miners to exit and avoid the invading danger, Jews are often attacked first, as Martin Niemöller well-known poem "First they came for the Jews" illustrates. From Nazis to radicalized suicide bombers, Jews, and now Israel, often take the first waves and hardest assaults from these destructive forces.

I've also heard people complain about having to hear or read about the holocaust. In comments that stink of "get over it already" many individuals act as if remembering this catastrophe suffered by the Jewish people were a crime in and of itself. With the defensive, "do you think you are the only ones on this planet that suffer?" air, other individuals I have met display an intolerance to learning about such a great loss of human life- each individual a spark with limitless possibilities to contribute to greater humanity. Would some people believe that there is limited space in our human brains to process the suffering of others? Does the act of holocaust remembrance kick out Rwanda or other great catastrophes from our grey matter?

Today I had the privilege to listen to Morris Wyszogrod, a holocaust surviver, tell his story. It was the third time in my life I've had such an opportunity and each time I have been amazingly struck by the vivacity of life displayed in these individuals. When Morris was asked if he told his story soon after leaving Europe and arriving in the United States he said no. Some of the people who lived through it didn't want to hear it and the people who didn't, couldn't believe it was true. As Eisenhower stated upon visiting the sites of destruction and mass murder, "The things I saw beggar description...the visual evidence and the verbal testimony of starvation, cruelty and bestiality were so overpowering. I made the visit deliberately, in order to be in a position to give first hand evidence of these things if ever, in the future, there develops a tendency to charge these allegations to propaganda. Ohrdruf April 15, 1945."

During Morris' speech, he stopped, overcome with tears and emotion. The tears were not fueled by hatred or revenge, or waves of pain. He was choked up by mentioning his children and grandchildren, who all live their lives as Jews. Tears of pride and joy left him speechless after calmly or even humorously describing the tortures to which he was submitted or witnessed. At the end of his speech, a question from the audience prompted him to mention that the words coming out of Iran remind him of listening to Hitler's rhetoric.

Just as humans are capable of amazing acts of kindness and grace, giving and gratitude, creation and discovery, we too are equally capable of masterminding and executing the most sinister acts of dehumanization, torture and hell known on our planet. To forget or blissfully ignore the destructive capacity of man is just as sinful as failing to cultivate our creative grace.

As the well-known adage states: All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.

I stand with Israel, with the Jewish people and with the world, if you will have us, in remembering.

The adventure of a kosher kitchen

Some changes happen at imperceptible rates, others are more visible and seem to avalanche upon us or act like walls, mountains, fortresses of separation. My decision to "go kosher" and the consequential steps of that decision have been both. Did anyone truly take note when I started to exclude shellfish from my diet? (But all creatures in the seas or streams that do not have fins and scales--whether among all the swarming things or among all the other living creatures in the water--you are to detest. Leviticus 11:10) After years of being an on-again off again vegetarian who generally avoided all seafood- including the scaled and finned variety- I could barely even call it a sacrifice. And the most widely known non-kosher animal? An emblem of all things not kosher in the American mind? The pig? I've pretty much avoided the consumption of this creature after my unappealing introduction to pork skins- which are indeed deep-fried puffed-up pieces of skin of a pig. (Thanks, Dad.)

Of course, there is the idea of kosher meat, which is defined not only by the type of animal (Every animal that has a split hoof not completely divided or that does not chew the cud is unclean for you Leviticus 11:26) but also by the type of slaughter. (Not to go into too much detail, but the general way a cow is slaughtered in the US, by sliding down a ramp and having rods gorged through it's eye sockets and into it's brain doesn't quite make the kosher cut.) Again, with my already vegetarian tendencies (At 7 I thought I was having the best hamburger of my life, until my mom pointed out that I forgot to put the meat patty in it.) the avoidance of non kosher meat, regardless of country, shouldn't be too difficult. (However, I decided to wait to adopt this step until I made aliyah to the land of kosher meat.)

Here's my personal challenge: Separation. I must admit that this very common theme in Judaism (the 7th day from all other days, the Jewish people from all other peoples, and meat from dairy.) I alternately struggle with these ideas of separation. Shabbat (literally "seventh" in Hebrew) is a joy to separate and make different. No work allowed, sorry, God said so. (For six days, work is to be done, but the seventh day is a Sabbath of rest, holy to the LORD. Whoever does any work on the Sabbath day must be put to death. Exodus 31:15) It might sound a little extreme at the moment, but please separate a moment now to say thanks to the creation of what you now know as the weekend. For me, it is a full day dedicated to family, friends and food- with no TV, Internet or phones.

But the separation of food is challenging. It's not only challenging for the new habits, double (or triple, thank you passover) sets of dishes, multiple labeled sponges, dish rags, etc. It's challenging because separation of food means separation of people. One could argue that keeping kosher reenforces Jewish communities- a person is obligated to find a kosher butcher, etc and thus, the community. But what of more worldly yet observant Jews who don't want giant barriers in friendships with non-Jewish friends? I know that many Jews find this balance- I just spend Shabbat with a lovely family whose grandfather is a world renowned physicist. He and his wife have managed to keep kosher in many places around the globe and seem to do it with upmost joy. Surely an inspiration.

But back to separation. This is a part of kashrut (or kosher laws) that many people are less aware of. And, one of the more challenging aspects, at least for me.


The Rabbis have taken this pasuk (verse in the Torah) and ran with it. It has become that no meat is eaten with dairy. If physical separation were not enough, a temporal one is also invoked. After eating meat one must wait somewhere between 1 and 6 hours (depending on one's family's tradition) before consuming dairy. (I've opted for 3 hours. It seemed the happy medium.) And, a Jew keeping this commandment needs, so say the Rabbis, separate dishes, pots, pans, utensils, etc. in order to avoid any accidental mixing.

So labels are a good idea.

Side note- food in judaism is divided into four categories- traif (unclean and inedible), meat, dairy and parve (being edible but neither meat nor dairy. Fruits, vegetables, eggs and fish fall into this category.)

Also, all the dishes must be "kosher" or permitted. The Rabbis ruled that certain materials absorb the flavors that were in them. Ceramic dishes must be new- one they have touched both meat and dairy, or anything traif, they're done for. So, before leaving Bangladesh I sold all my ceramic dishes (okay, that was a sacrifice) and bought three new sets- meat, dairy and passover. Metals and plastics must be boiled.


But, pots and pans that have used to cook traif meat or mixed meat and dairy- they get a blow torch treatment; which took place in my living room. (Let's just say I wasn't the calmest person on earth with the blow torch being waved around my living room. )


After all the fun of burning and boiling, glass and metal items need to be taken to a mivkah for dishes. (a pool of water that has a natural source) and have a prayer said over them and be dunked. I happened to do this around midnight with the help of a guy a never met before but who insisted he wanted to be helpful. (Another guy, who helped me move my furniture put us in touch.) He was, indeed, very helpful.

So now, I'm in the process of washing everything (by hand). Basically everything is getting submitted to the soapy sponge. (Color-coded of course.) And I'm labeling my kitchen items. (Because, you KNOW I do not want to repeat any of this process again!)



And I've borrowed a book to help me out with the technicalities of separation.



As far as the more personal aspect of separation- like my favorite pastime of cooking with friends- I don't think there is a book to help me with that one. I am inspired by Jews who observe kashrut (keep kosher) and still travel to their hearts desires. I originally planned to avoid this internal confrontation for a while by hanging out in the land of kosher kitchens and restaurants for an extended period of time before voyaging back into the not-so-kosher world. But, I'm Texas bound in 8 days. I guess finding my equilibrium (albeit a temporary one) will happen sooner than later.

consuming my time and my money....

No, I didn't all of a sudden get kids- those classic money/ time consumers- I got an apartment. Well, rented, an apartment, rather, which already makes me dread the moment I need to move again. That event needs to be avoided at all costs. So until I marry and/or buy my own place (what dreams!) I'm hunkering down. I'm happy to let you know that I am no longer camping out in my apartment, but sleep in a real bed. (What luxury I tell you!)



The living room has also much improved, as evidenced below.





I've also taken one giant step towards turning the enclosed balcony into an acceptable dinning room with the acquisition of a table. (Yeah, below the giant purple table clothe.) And no, I didn't find invisible chairs, I just haven't found chairs. But we'll ignore that issue at the moment. This is the "progress" update.



My magnets have found a happy home on my new fridge, which is now neighbors with my much beloved magnetic white board which totes the remnants of my "to-do" list.



Not to be forgotten is my favorite feature- the magnetic fort door, covered in postcards I've received since moving to Israel. It's a lovely sight to see before going out in the world every day.



And my grand finale- a simple reward to myself- flowers. The first I've bought for myself since coming to Israel. And they're in a beautiful vase gifted to me by wonderful friends on what may be my most memorable birthday to date. (And a very hard act to follow!)

New City; New Transportation

Back in May I posted a video of a colleague's drive to work in Dhaka. To give you a little taste of the difference between my current city and my previous home, here's a video made by a fellow oleh (immigrant) of taking the bus down Yaffo Street in Jerusalem. You'll notice lots of construction as well as Yaffo is in the process of becoming the main street for the new light rail train. Enjoy!

Bragging Rights

Freshmen year of college my roommate, Liz, and I established a few rules. One of them was bragging rights. We both understood that no one really likes a braggart but, it's also important to have someone with whom you can share your accomplishments in that 5-year-old, "Look what I did, Mommy!" kind of way. So, today, I am claiming reverse bragging rights. Now I can tell everyone, "Look what my MOMMY did!"

Here are three very different creative pieces from my mom. (Yes, she would be the one of Gypsy Queen fame and blog title inspiration.)

Functional art: a window at my brother's house that Mom painted to avoid the need of a window treatment.




Cool, funky elephant. (Yeah, and who said math teachers are not creative?!?)



My favorite, an awesome quilt. (I have to say, she can do a lot with a few piece of fabric!)



May you all be blessed to find pride in your loved-ones' abilities! Long live the bragging rights!

Shawn is at it again

In my travels, I have been blessed with meeting many interesting people. People who see the world just a bit differently and maybe, aren't willing to accept the world as it's presented. While living in Dhaka, Bangladesh, I came across Shawn, a rather optimistic Canadian with ties to Bangladesh who was willing to turn his life on his head to make a difference.

I have to admit, I'm not quite the optimist as he is, but I'm sure glad he's out there. Here's his lasted youtube video. I think his work speaks for him. Enjoy.

Camping out in my apartment

I think one of the deepest yet least contemplated about cultural characteristic is TIME. Sure, there is the classic "Spanish time" where people arrive hours after the hour stated on the invitation (woe to the punctual American) and I've also discovered "African time" which has no concept of a linear progression. "I'm coming over now" could have the speaker arriving in five minutes or five days. I'm not quite sure I understand the concept of "Israeli time" although it seems to be just as unidentifiable as the population that creates it, the blend of Ashkenazi Jews from western (European) countries where seconds matter, Sephardic Jews coming from Arab nations, Ethiopian Jews, whom may never have seen a clock before immigrating, and of course, Arab Israelis, Beduins, and Druzes. But what I do know is this- settling into my apartment is taking .way. .too. .long.

Maybe everything is just that much easier when not navigating cultural norms and a language that are neither "normal" nor natural for me. Every step is at least five times as difficult when functioning off of only 5 months of Hebrew study. (Blessed be the friends who are also my translators.) Simply knowing where to go to purchase items and know what is a "good price" in this economic environment- so small, but so challenging.

To put this in perspective- between hunting for an apartment, negotiating and signing a contract, getting the shipment delivered, searching for appliances, searching for appliances, buying appliances, waiting for appliances, complaining to store about lack of appliances, waiting for appliances, delivery of appliances, waiting for appliances to be installed, painting walls, cleaning, etc- has taken over a month. At this point I'm still 1) without a mattress (it came from Bangladesh moldy) 2) without a functioning kitchen 3) without a roommate with whom I could split the expenses.

But not to be on a kvetch-fest; at least I found a place, have a wonderful landlord (who actually ending up taking me appliance shopping), have been supported and aided every step of the way by wonderful friends. I'm just ready to hang the pictures and be able to walk across the floor without navigating the homeless objects and bedding in my path.

And I still get frustrated because for all my travels and adventures, I still tick by an American clock. But in the face of my frustration, my Israeli friends say, "le-at, le-at"- "slowly, slowly".

So, without further ado, my current campsite:


STUFFED- the wall unit that made this place look so appealing. Which is good, since I forgot how much I owned!


STUFFED- The floor artistically decorated with as-of-yet still homeless items.


Primary campsite, i.e. the living room- complete with make-shift floor-bed.


The still unusable kitchen, including a band new fridge (delivered an hour ago). Exciting but not pictured; an oven and range (hooked up a couple of hours after I almost cried on the phone when informed of the "three or so days" it would take) and a washing machine (still in a box, on the attached balcony). And yes, all the dishes still in their boxes waiting for the exciting trip to the mikva.

StuffED!

After six months of living out of three suitcases (plus carry-on) I have be reunited with my STUFF. It's a day I've been alternately anxiously awaiting and dreading. As you may well know, I seem to have a complicated relationship with my STUFF. Finding a space for my STUFF was a large part of the apartment hunt, and even as I cut tape, open boxes and try to organize, I feel comforted and suffocated. I can't help but feel that if I've lived half a year without it, none of it can really be that necessary. Yes, I like my framed highly complex woven silk textile from the mountainous kingdom of Bhutan- it reminds me of my lovely trip there- but I don't need it. Even before everything was carried up the stairs by the moving company, I'm already dreading the day I'll need to re-box it and schlep it all out. I'm still digging around looking for the transformer so I can plug in my 110V massage chair- a decadent and thoroughly enjoyed item no doubt- but the world wouldn't end if I didn't own it. I was just giddy to pull out the handmade fair-trade puppets and play with them- so many items I could list here- countless pieces of wall art, piles of clothes, boxes of dishes- maybe once everything is in it's place and nicely tucked away and I can actually see the floor again the weight of the STUFF will not overwhelm me. Not until the next time I need to pack it up-

I watch my peers here in Jerusalem with envy- for them, stuff seems to come and go with so much more ease. I still feel incredibly lucky that I had my shipment from Bangladesh to Israel included in my previous work contract. I'm happy that I don't have to start from scratch- or three suitcases. But I can never seem to shake the feeling that for one person, I own too much. But selling it all off doesn't seem that appealing to me- not quite yet. There is still something freeing in the feeling that the choices I made are not as controlled by the quantity I own but rather the quality of my relationships and the improvement of my spirit. Even as I write this, and how weighted I feel with my STUFF, I guess it's never really stopped me from going anywhere. Maybe I'm doing better with my STUFF than I imagined...

Courtney goes to the Paint Store in Jerusalem

Above is one of the most beautiful sights I've seen since moving to Jerusalem- the KEY to my very first apartment in Israel! That beautiful piece of metal and plastic is the result of many hours of work- many with the help of a wonderful Israeli friend since everything is in Hebrew- from reading postings for apartments online, making many phone calls to set up viewings, traipsing across Jerusalem to find the places, contract negotiations, more contract negotiations, understanding rental obligations in Israel and finally check writing and contract signing. I'm absolutely thrilled with my new place- although there is still much to be done to transform it from random apartment to HOME.

First stop- The hardware/ paint store.

I have been told that for only studying Hebrew for four and a half months that I can communicate pretty effectively. It still frustrates me to no end- and I feel I have a pitifully small vocabulary. Also, I realized that I probably couldn't say some of these words in Spanish or French either- much less try to explain what I want in Hebrew. So, instead of setting myself up for a game of Charades in the paint store, I opted for Pictionary. (The top half is trying to describe plaster putty to patch up the holes form nails and the second half is a list of items.)


Needless to say the guy at store was well humored when I said in Hebrew, "Can you help me? I need these things" and then pulled out my drawings. I would have to say though- extremely effective way of communicating. He also went and showed my pictures to the other men working- and my favorite part- gave me a discount off the sticker price. :)

So, I'm in the process of painting and cleaning. I have a lot to do before my shipment from Bangladesh comes out of storage on Monday (so excited! I get my massage chair! - which my back desperately needs after all this work!) Also, it's pretty normal that apartments don't come with washer, stove, oven, or fridge- so I'm also on the look out for those items. And a roommate.

Rain in Jerusalem

It's raining in Jerusalem.

This is not the powerful storms that I grew accustomed to in Bangladesh. Rain that pounds the earth, overwhelms the land, floods homes while suffocating and washing away desperately needed crops. This is not rain that yells furiously as it pounds, causes the roads to swell with knee deep muddy water that bone thin rickshaw wallahs peddle through, plastic bags on their heads, desperately pushing and looking for riders. This is not the rain that seems to come both from the sky and the earth as the rivers overflow their banks, accenting the tenuous life of delta living. This is not rain that pushes you inside, searching for cover...

... this is rain to dance in.

The soft, slow drops plop on leaves and drip down into the parched Jerusalem soil. The touch of rain and soil gives raise to the most refreshing and blessed smell- a freshness that could never be captured- It enters into a soul and refreshes the many voices that have been desperately praying for rain, to relieve a parched land. It is tranquility, comfort and joy.

This is Jerusalem rain.

For all the joy that the rain brings, maybe the sky is crying- today is a day of remembrance in Israel for the Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin. Today during class time the students put on a small assembly in his honor and his memory. Such a light and hope of peace, shattered.

But rain in this land must always bring joy- regardless of political alliances and religious beliefs. Rain is life. The soft comforting sounds of drops dancing and bouncing on leaves and branches combined the pleasures of the sweet smell of rain on wanting soil must bring out that childlike glee- which for me is accompanied by my mother's voice telling me, "Rain is liquid sunshine."

I too want to join the rain, to seep deep into the soil, to be soaked into the reaching roots and brought up through the tree trunks and reach upward, while simultaneously growing into the land.

As of three months from my aliyah date I am able to apply for a temporary Israeli passport. The date came, and went. I didn't even think about it. I'm not going anywhere. I'm quite content to wait for the one-year mark when I will receive my official Israeli passport.

After a lifetime of flitting from one place to another- a childhood where ever move had a defined start and end date- that matured into personal lifestyle defend by the same bookends of time- my mind argues that is should feel at least a tad bit strange to not have an exit date, a moment from which I'll move onto the next adventure and leave the life I have built for another- But nothing about my choice to commit myself to Israel feels odd to me. It's exciting as well as comforting.

Next week I start the government funded year-long course to become a certified English teacher. Also, as we roll into November, I'll be searching for roommates and an apartment. I'm excited to move out of the bubble of the absorption center and closer to integrating more fully into Israeli society.

Throughout my process I feel such gratitude- mostly towards Israelis who have welcomed me into their country and their homes. Just today I spoke for half an hour on the telephone with a woman I've never met. She explained the various options of for English teachers, offered to make a few phone calls on my behalf and then invited me to come spend Shabbat with her family.

My friends here are equally amazing. One Israeli friend, a few weeks after I immigrated said, "Just let me know when you want me to speak to you only in Hebrew." She's constantly helping me learn. Another friend presented me with Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes in English and Hebrew and sat with me for close to two tedious hours as I tried to read out-loud and understand the poems presented. Next week, another friend will sit down with me and our computers and guide me through the Hebrew language Craig's List like sites as I hunt for a place to live.

Up and moving to another country is not the easiest task in the world- although I'm getting surprisingly good at it. But it's never before been this pleasurable.

Gush Katif Museum/ Israeli Disengagement of Gaza

Yesterday, as part of a goal to visit a different museum every week, I went to the Gush Katif Museum. Gush Katif was one of the Jewish settlements in Gaza that was forcibly dismantled by the Israeli government in an one-sided effort to proceed with the peace process.

The museum did not take a political stance- and the rights of which people to live where is not what I would like to discuss here. I left the small museum with very strong impressions- not on government, political definitions or territory lines- but rather on the nature of the Jewish Israeli population. The part of the museum that struck me most was the video of the forceable removal of Jews from their homes by Jews. Yes, it was the fact that it took place- but I didn't need a video to tell me that- but more so, how it took place.

As I said, the hot political argument is not what I want to share or discuss here. I recognize that the question of land is a hard one. There is another story here that I would like to try to tell in words, although the video footage was so powerful I do not think myself properly capable.

Start with the settlements. For clarification points, settlements are not made by taking Arab families out of homes and then putting Jewish families in. They are built, from scratch, on, well,- controversial land. The neighborhoods of the many now-dismantled settlements in Gaza were lovely white houses with red tile roofs that give one more of the impression of a beautiful beachside suburb in California. Obviously, the people who chose to create these settlements felt very strongly about their right to the land on which they build - again, a point that I do not choose to discuss at the moment- but so strongly that they were willing to stay there regardless of the years of living under quassam rocket fire.

Then take the police and military personal that were required by their government to take these families out of their homes. They were following orders and had to take the hardest job in, the most personally trying aspect of, a very emotional decision. Everyone was told this was for the sake of peace. Whether or not dismantling the settlements in Gaza has taken us a step closer towards peace or set us back is a thorny and complicated issue that I do not want to discuss here.

So- What do I want to talk about? What impressed me so deeply? Not the "How did we get ourselves into this position?" Not the "What is politically right" Not the "What is morally right?" Not the "Who has rights to which land?" I'm sure if you care to explore those topics, you can find plenty of perspectives on these issues floating around. What impressed me is this: two groups of people, the settlers and the military sent there to remove them, whose very specific goals in this moment are exactly opposite- to stay, and to remove those who try to stay. Two groups from one people- the Jewish people. A hard place of strong beliefs, masses of people, right next two each other who are pulling in opposing directions.

What would one expect to see? What happens when two groups clash like this in many parts of the world? Rock throwed? Knifes yielded? Guns fired? How many people in the world, individuals and groups, value their own belief structures more than than human life? How many people are willing to kill or be killed for their idea? To not listen to "The Other" because their own ideas are right- Think of protests, mob scenes, terrorists, suicide bombers, war- It doesn't even have to be a life or death matter for people to die- how many people have been killed or injured due to sports fanatics? My team, your team, burning cars, we lost, kill the player that accidentally scored on his own team? When emotions and beliefs run high, bodily injuries and body counts can too.

But, that is not the story here. First- start with the government that let the entire process be filmed. (In fact, all Israeli military units are filmed constantly- there are video cameras on all the vehicles, one on each side.) Then take the settlers, who were literally pulled from their homes, carried out by the military as they hung onto objects, door frames and each other. Each person, thousands of them, carried out, yelling their perspective. But, did they try to physically harm the people tearing them from their homes? No. It was peaceful resistance of the most compelling sort. And the removing forces, did they try to beat the resistances into submission? No. Both sides, opposing, value life and agreed to no violence.

I feel my words cannot capture even 30 seconds worth of the footage filmed- of screaming, yelling, crying, praying, morning, weeping, pulling, carrying, lifting, removing, clinging, hoping, resisting- settlers holding onto settlers, weighted bags on their backs, bodies wrapped together, holding onto each other, clinging to their beliefs, yelling them out- military men and women reaching down, trying to pry their hands away, to pick up the resistant individuals, again removing hands that had once again grabbed on, four military personal per resistance individual, carrying them carefully so with all the kicking, resisting and trying to break free, to go back to the ground, injuries would not result. The moments before- trying to break into the buildings, to gain access, soldier next to soldier listening as settlers mourned and prayed. Settlers crying out the Shema, praying with all their might, tears streaming, clothes rent in mourning- and the soldiers standing there, some crying, some stone-faced, as they too said the Shema, praying. United and divided, divided but still united. Emotional torment, beliefs crashing, conflicts rising. And in the heat of the moment, in the sea emotions tormented in a storm of conflicting ideas, maintaining respect for human life.

One film I saw focused on a specific family being removed from their home. The father of the family also wore his army uniform. Why? As he explains to his children- yesterday when a soldier approached you, you ran away in fear. You mustn't be afraid of this uniform. Although we don't agree with the actions of these men in removing us, people in this uniform as also the ones that will protect and defend Israel. This film segment also includes the stricking moment of the father of the family and the head military commander hugging and crying together- not just dripping tears- clinging to each other and sobbing, gasping for air. Then they both do what they feel they are obliged to do- to remove the man you have just cried with by physically carrying him out of his home and to resist as much as non-violently possible every effort to be removed.

Raging for a Woman

As I read the email I had to keep tears back- not tears of happiness, not tears of sadness- tears of RAGE. The sender is was just passing the information along and had no idea that her little tid-bit fit into a much larger, much more complex story.

Where is the line between yelling for Justice and Lashon Hara (Evil Tongue)? In this whole event, I've been careful to guard the name and identity of the person I think is playing foul- To not drop hints to others but rather to address him directly; to not expose his identity, to not spread rumors. I am just so upset! I'm not raging because any injustice has been done to me personally- but rather the injustice that is habitually committed against women in many places in this world. The part of the story I loath at the moment is this- the underlining expectation a specific man has that a certain women who is routinely beaten up by her husband- even as she works to provide food for him, his parents and their children- should just remain silent and take the abuse. How dare she bother anyone else with her personal problems? The woman in this story lives in a world where her voice has no value, her gender, no rights and consequently, today, her children have no food.

Misogyny is not just an irrelevant textbook word- it's a foundation, a base assumption, a unquestionable cultural norm- all over the world- it's simply the depth of misogynistic beliefs that vary from place to place. A quotation on a t-shirt without attribution reads, "When men are oppressed, it's a tragedy. When women are oppressed, it's tradition." Ironically enough, the t-shirt was being sold in Bangladesh. Why are some societies so reluctant to value women? I'm even more saddened that some of the worst reports about women's rights come from countries where Islam has a strong influence on the culture. "Cultural clash" cannot even come close to summing it up. More like cultural non sequitur that leaves me shaking my head in confused frustration.

I am so proud of women who are fighting for their rights. In many places, their insistence and persistence is a life-threatening and arduous battle. Even simple rights, like wearing pants or more dramatic ones- like repercussions for attacking and deforming women with acid. Unfortunately, the world as a whole is silent to the culturally accepted bias against women that leads to bride burnings in India, marital abuse all over the world and ridiculous restrictions on women's movements. The control exercised by men over women in Saudi is appalling- women cannot even travel short distances without the consent of their 'gaurdian' male!

I have no illusions about the control exercised over grown women or the advantages given to young boys (education, access to health care, food) over their sisters. At one point in my world wonderings, I was discussing female genital mutilation (FGM) or "female circumcision" with my host father in Mali, West Africa. He was very blunt about why he was going to circumcise his newborn daughter: "Women must be controlled to prevent the perversion of society." Still, seven years later, his words burn and I rage.

Where are the protesters? The meetings at the United Nations? The voice of world leaders? Does the Universal Declaration of Human Rights not apply to women? Why is the world so silent?

Here's one of the monologues I wrote about my experience living with a host family in Mali.

N Bah

This is for my mother
The second wife
I don’t know
How to thank you
I don’t know how to comfort you
Because our worlds don’t touch
And I can’t bring them together
Because we don’t speak the same language
Nor the same culture

This is for my mother
The house servant
I tired to say thank you in bambara
I ne ce
But I don’t think you understood
Because you just smiled a smirk
Your husband explains that I don’t need to thank you
For cooking my food
For washing my clothes
For drawing my bathe water from the well
For fanning me when I was sick and hot
Because that is your life
To serve
Without thanks

This is for my mother
Whose beauty is hidden away
Under rags
Next to my sister’s new clothes

This is for my mother
The first to rise
The last to bed
Who sells the food she makes by the open sewer
So that she can provide for her family
And listen to her jobless husband
Complain of fatigue

This is for my mother, n bah,
Who is half the age of her husband
And who carries his child
Yet never relaxes from work
I don’t know if you want me here
Yet another child who is not yours
But you have no choice
Because your husband has decided

This is for my mother
The second wife
The household servant

i appreciate you
i recognize you
i see you
i thank you
i love you

From Language Teacher to Student

Okay, I have to start with a title disclaimer- of course, all teachers are students (well, all good teachers) in the sense that we keep on learning. I'm constantly discovering more and more, often at the bidding of my students or my curriculum. But, in the formal, titled, roles, I have made the great SWITCH!

I like the idea that I'm learning to learn, that my gauge is that I know more today than I did yesterday. I'm not checking off credits for a degree or jumping through hoops to appease a teacher, a program or a school. I am a learner in the freest, most natural sense. My goal is to acquire as much language as possible in order to provide ample foundation in establishing myself in Israel. In less stuffy terms, play with the language, hang out with people, and point to things and ask friends, acquaintances and total strangers to identify them in Hebrew for me.

Towards the end of the previous school year when I was discussing my transition with some of my then students, one commented, "Geez, I feel sorry for your teacher!" I laughed, but now I'm kinda wondering what she meant by that comment. Was she worried that I'd overwhelm the class with my energy, or try to teach it myself? Was it just a meaningless sideways remark? But I must admit, as a rather opinionated language teacher with a decade of instructional experience (I love saying that- here it is again- I've taught a combination of Spanish/ French for the past ten years- Five of which have been in a classroom and five summers in Concordia Language Villages, and a couple of years one-on-one tutoring at the college level... just in case you wondered how I got a decade of experience in) So, where was I? Oh yes, opinionated (read critical) with a very defined sense of the most effective instructional methods.

I happened to be in the absolutely lowest level of Hebrew possible (I'm quite proud of my accomplishment, thank you). The great part about being the bottom of the barrel is that everyone knows more than I do and can be pestered with questions. I'm actually quite happy that another former Concordia Language Village staff member is here (and thus, we have similar language passions, nerdy love for grammatical details, and instructional philosophies) and he happens to be an expert in Hebrew grammar (bonus!). As another student told me just this evening, being in the lowest level I get to learn the most... or rather, I have the most I have to learn! At this moment, 4 weeks into the 5 month program, I'm thinking that doing a subsequent 5 month block would be the most beneficial. (Aka, if I don't have a solid hold on Hebrew when I walk into my own classroom next year the students will eat me alive!)

So, I have to say, despite what my own students would think, I'm a very nice student to have in the classroom. I still remember my 10th grade Spanish teacher taking me aside and telling me share the airtime with the rest of the students. (I was just so excited to have finally busted through my language failing trends, thanks to Concordia- I didn't really mean to have diarrhea of the mouth... but at least I was spewing Spanish!) Needless to say, I let the other students speak and content myself with writing ridiculously long sentences in Hebrew in my notebook. (Although today the teacher had to ask me to stop explaining additional grammar concepts to my neighbor so that we could both rejoin the class... )

As far as teaching pedagogy, I agree with a lot of what takes place in our classroom. (Which is nice, because as a student, I don't get to direct the class... alas) We have two teachers who alternate days. I had to laugh to myself because one has such a similar teacher style to mine- the same hand gestures, questing style, and way of over-enunciating words- that it was almost like watching myself teach. I understand too, the emphasis on verbs, in lieu of nouns, and general sentence structure. (Although, I must admit, at this point I have a pitifully small vocabulary.) At the same time, I have to wonder at the choice of vocabulary taught. I can tell people where I'm from, what I used to do, and where I study and where I'm going-- but I can't ask for directions or understand the answer. (Since obviously, every single person I meet will be exclusively interested the information I can share with my autobiographical skills but I won't actually want to know how to get anywhere and will never get lost.) If I could make one change to the curriculum, I would throw a directions unit in sometime soon (like now).

The goal is that by this time next year I can have diarrhea of the mouth in four languages- now won't that be fun!