The first week, I had their attention. The second week, they barely listened to anything I had to say. “I know you want to have a fun environment in your class,” the education director told me. “But in order to create and sustain that, you have to be tough at first. You have to set the bar high. It’s easier to be firm and then fun, and harder to backpedal.”
In the third week? That’s when I became a teacher. I asked a student to stay after class and told him his disruptive behavior was totally unacceptable. How could we work together to change it?
He was responsive. I went home that night feeling great.
From September to May, I taught one Tuesday night each week at Midrasha, a Jewish studies program for eighth- through 12th-graders at four locations in the East Bay. I was an instructor at the Oakland site.
The program aims to keep kids engaged with Jewish life after their bar or bat mitzvah by introducing them to provocative and dynamic Jewish topics — much cooler than my own Jewish education. Students can choose electives about meditation, feminism and tikkun olam. I created a class on short stories by contemporary Jewish writers. I read stories aloud in a candlelit room, then led students in a spirited discussion.
My friends thought I was crazy to commit to such a venture; heck, even I thought I was crazy. Each week, it required me to devise a lesson plan and commute one hour each way to Temple Sinai’s temporary site in the Oakland hills — in addition to teaching for two hours.
It is perhaps the most worthwhile thing I have ever done.
I took the job because my own profession is shifting (or dying, depending on your perspective) and I wondered what else was out there.
The experience didn’t clarify for me any future job aspirations. It did, however, change the way I think about education, Judaism and adolescence.
I taught ninth-graders, and I grew to love my students. Entering high school had forced them to really think about who they are and where they belong. It opened them to new ideas, which and allowed my classes to resonate with them.
My students energized me. They inspired me.
Admittedly, with their frequent side-chatter, sometimes I wanted to tape their mouths shut (I refrained). More often, their vigor and enthusiasm made me feel alive.
My frustration as a journalist has always been with the distance between writer and reader. Right now, you’re reading my column, but I will probably never know what you think of it or how it makes you feel.
With teaching, I watched every light bulb. I saw every question, the development of every answer. I got to watch my “readers,” or students, learn, and it was the second-most satisfying feeling I’ve ever had (publishing a story I care about remains the first).
The experience gave me a new appreciation for teachers and the work they do. Sure, it’s exhilarating to have a great class; it’s also debilitating to have a terrible class. Most Tuesdays boosted my mood.
When my lesson plans failed, which they sometimes did, I was frustrated, angry. Still, I had to come back the following week and try again. Can you imagine doing that every day?
The experience also showed me how powerful a Jewish education and community can be. Most of my kids came to Midrasha because they wanted to learn and wanted to see their friends. And through that, they created a true community. I know it’s real — more than 60 Midrasha alumni of all ages gathered June 21 for a reunion in Oakland.
Midrasha gives me great hope for the Jewish future. As a teacher, I saw teenagers eagerly wrestle with ancient ideas and accept (or reject) the tradition as it fits (or not) in their modern lives today.
Toward the end of the school year, after my education director observed one of my classes, she told me, “You’ve grown so much,” she said. And then, “You’ve really become a teacher.”
Thank you, Midrasha, for helping me be a teacher, and thank you, my students, for inviting me into your community.
Stacey Palevsky lives in San Francisco. She can be reached at [email protected].