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Aug. 31, 2012
Keep calm and carry on
The mantra that soothes new school-year fears.
EMILY SINGER
This fall, I begin teaching English at my kids’ school on nearby Kibbutz Sde Eliyahu. I was a teacher for more than 20 years in Canada and the United States. I know I should do fine here too, but I’m worried.
Israelis don’t like to worry.
“Yihyeh b’seder,” they are fond of saying. “It will be fine.”
“I haven’t registered for school and it’s the first day!”
“Yihyeh b’seder.”
“Termites have eaten away the foundation of my house!”
“Yihyeh b’seder.”
“A boa constrictor is swallowing me whole!”
“Don’t worry! Relax. Yihyeh b’seder.”
Why am I so worried? A year and a half ago, I agreed to substitute teach in an inner-city school in Afula. One of my classes was comprised of 39 eighth-graders who made a collective effort to ensure that I would not learn their names so I couldn’t get anyone in trouble. They would text on their cellphones (that I was supposed to take away from them but, often, they were physically bigger than me), paint elaborate murals on their desks and hurl chairs across the room, without consequence. When I turned to the principal for help, she would tell me, “Relax. Yihyeh b’seder.” Then she would walk into the classroom, where everyone would immediately find their seat, open their book and look studious and busy.
The good news is, I only taught there for a few months, just long enough to conclude that teaching English in Israel is not for me. Good to rule it out before wasting more efforts and resources on that hopeless profession!
So, as I was saying, I have now begun teaching English at my kids’ school. I know it’s crazy. I fear I will regret it, but there is a big demand for English teachers in our area and it’s something I really think I can be good at. Someday.
My new supervisor, Ruti, is very supportive. She thinks I will be fine. Her mantra is, “Yihyeh b’seder.”
I mention to Ruti that I am concerned about my ability to discipline a class. She tells me not to worry – every teacher has trouble disciplining. Yihyeh b’seder. She says that some classes are lovely, others are very hard, and “Ein mah la’asot,” there’s nothing you can do about it. She adds that when you get a class of seventh-grade boys, really and truly, “Mah la’asot?” I wait for the part where she convinces me not to worry. It doesn’t come.
I ask her what she actually does when she gets a class of seventhgrade boys. She responds helpfully, “I cry. A lot. But what can you do? Yihyeh b’seder.”
Ruti takes me to print out my 10th-grade class list, still repeating like a mantra, “Don’t worry. Don’t worry.”
She looks at the list, gasps, and says, “Oh my!”
She takes a deep breath and repeats, “Don’t worry. Maybe it’s not the final list. Maybe it will change.”
This is the most optimistic thing she can think to say?
Then Ruti notices a list of students at the bottom of the page who have still not been placed. Her eyes bulge, and she repeats, “Oh my!” Then she says, to herself as much as to me, “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. Yihyeh b’seder.
“Maybe some kids will leave,” she suggests helpfully. “If kids leave the class, I will let you know. I promise....” She pauses. “But if kids will join the class, well, maybe I won’t tell you that,” she adds, giggling nervously.
As we part at the end of the day, Ruti smiles at me reassuringly and says, “I know you are nervous, but just re-member, we are all nervous. The classes are too big, the kids are wild. Me – I am terrified. I can hardly sleep! But, really, yihyeh b’seder.”
Why do they do it? Why do so many intelligent, caring and creative individuals choose this taxing profession? It’s definitely not for the money. Israeli teachers are among the lowest paid teachers of all first-world countries, some third-world countries and, I’m pretty sure, among certain apes.
Frankly, I think they’re in it for the strikes. As each September rolls around, striking teachers hold the fate of the entire country in their hands. When they strike, kids don’t learn, parents can’t go to work and the economy is crippled. Oh, the power!
For all their striking, teachers in Israel never actually get a salary raise. It seems that the government is afraid that if they give teachers a raise then everyone in the country will expect to live above the poverty line. So, instead of raising their salaries, they give them “additions” on their paycheques for “expenses.” The teacher’s pay stub has come to look like an exhaustive back-to-school shopping list. They receive an “addition” for book expenses – another for paper supplies. They get a clothing subsidy, a transportation allowance and more “additions” for professional development. What will they receive next? Chocolate-spread sandwich subsidies? Latté allowances?
As such, I have no idea what I will be earning this year. I have tried asking teachers and administrators in the school and in the office of the Ministry of Education. It shouldn’t be so complicated. It seems that, until I complete the course for an Israeli teacher’s certificate (which I will be working on next year), I will be at the very bottom of the scale. My prior education and experience will not help me, at all. I’m told they can’t be flexible because it’s union – and there’s a complex system of factors. That’s fine, but I am at the very bottom of the scale. How complicated can it be to find out the number that’s at the very bottom?
It almost feels like the work and the salary are totally unrelated. No one seems to understand the concept of knowing the salary before accepting the job. Who cares what the salary is! Just start working and stop worrying. Yihyeh b’seder!
But I know the financial issues greatly affect the teachers. I can see it at my first staff meeting. Teachers horde resources like squirrels. My supervisor tells me I will receive dry-erase markers by next week. I tell her not to worry because I have tons of them at home. She looks at me severely and says, “No.
Don’t bring your own supplies. You never spend your own money in this job.” It is the most ruffled I have seen her. “The school has printers, Xerox machines, a laminator, staples, glue sticks ... you never even print one page at your own expense, got it!?”
When she takes me for a tour of the English room, Ruti shows me the bottom of a cabinet where they keep a stash of extra supplies – paper, pens, markers, glue. “Use these only in case of emergency,” she explains. “They are our reserve stash, in case they ever cut us off.”
Considering how little they get paid, the dedication of Israeli teachers is extraordinary. We consistently see them going above and beyond what is reasonable to expect. Israeli teachers are all accessible at home and on their private cellphones. They put in countless hours ensuring that their materials are updated, exciting and ornately decorated. They have also jumped hurdles to accommodate our family.
When we arrived two years ago, our son, Abaye, was a little overwhelmed in his class. He was doing fine academically but he wasn’t used to sitting among so much noise and disorder for such long stretches of the day. Without our even asking, they included him in a small group of kids that go out with the gardener a couple of times a week to do some work on the grounds. They also took him out twice a week for English enrichment. I expressed concern that he might fall behind if he were missing important classes, but his teacher said not to worry. “Yihyeh b’seder.” And it was.
This year, my daughter, Rivital, is starting high school. For the past two years, she has been complaining that the classes are slow and boring. Her teachers and her grades back her up. In high school, most of the learning will be focused on the bagruyot – a series of standardized tests students must pass in order to graduate. There is some freedom regarding in what subjects a student can be tested, but it promises to be a lot of copying and memorizing.
The silver lining in high school is the megama. A megama is like a major. Every student chooses an area of study in which to concentrate. These studies will comprise a quarter to a third of their class time. The megamot are more experiential, and there is the added advantage that they are with other students who share their interests.
Rivital’s first choice for a megama is music. They study music history, theory and performance. It is an intensive program but, in our school, students who study music must also choose a second megama, so she has decided to also sign up for physics, which she needs if she wants to continue an accelerated after-school math and science program she began last year.
Even with two megamot, Rivital asks us to consider sending her to a more challenging school in Jerusalem. I suggest we first meet with the vice-principal and see if there is anything else they can do for her here. The vice-principal is very responsive. She asks if Rivital would like to sign up for a third megama.
“A third megama?” I ask. “Is that even possible?”
She responds, “Well, it hasn’t been done before, but why not?”
“Will the hours conflict with her other classes? With the other megamot?”
“Sure,” she replies calmly, “but if she wants to do it, we’ll work it out. Yihyeh b’seder.”
Will Rivital be able to juggle three megamot that conflict with each other without Hermione’s “time turner” from Harry Potter? Will I be able to manage five Israeli classes and succeed in teaching them some English? Will we ever create real peace in the Middle East?
“Don’t worry.… Yihyeh b’seder!”
Emily Singer is a teacher, social worker and freelance writer. She is currently working on two books. Singer and her husband, Ross, were rebbetzin and rabbi of Vancouver’s Shaarey Tefilah congregation until 2004. The Singers spent two years in Jerusalem and then moved to Baltimore, Md., where Ross was rabbi at Congregation Beth Tfiloh and Emily taught Judaic studies at Beth Tfiloh High School, until they moved to Israel in 2010. They have four children.
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