Are We Even Giving Them a Foot to Stand On?

My fellow educators and I are getting ready to open our supplementary schools.

This is an exciting and frightening time all at once.

The year will soon be in full swing; new children will begin their religious education, older students will mentor younger ones and Jewish learning and creativity will once again reverberate throughout our halls.

But low enrollment figures and diminished financial returns could lead to slashed education budgets after High Holy Days. Many of us will revisit our budgets and think about what is easiest to cut, and which line items we can live without this year. For many, it will be professional development for teachers - if those funds are allocated in the first place.

As educators, we belong to various professional organizations and make it a priority to attend conferences each year to network and learn. I have set aside personal funds to supplement those offered by my institution to attend various professional development events.

 However, our supplementary school teachers are almost never awarded this luxury.

As I prepare to kick off the new year, I reflect on some things I consider to be "core teachings" for our religious school program.

 One example is the story about Shammai and Hillel: The gentile comes to Shammai asking to learn the whole Torah while standing on one foot. Shammai shoos him out and tells him it is impossible. The gentile then heads to Hillel and asks for the same teaching. Hillel responds: "What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor: that is the whole Torah while the rest is commentary; go and learn it" (Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 31-A 1). 

My colleagues will likely make frequent references to this text. Those who work in Hillel foundations on college campuses are probably reminded of it every day as it is likely engraved on a wall in their building. I often reference this text as a way to remind parents that our school is about more than just prayers, text study and homework. We promote a strong community feel, gimilut chasadim (acts of loving kindness), and meaningful family engagement. But I often leave off, as I suspect many of us do, the last part of Hillel's words, which offer instruction: "Now go and learn it." We also reference Pirkei Avot (1:13) with regard to continuing education: "He who does not increase his knowledge forfeits it." We encourage our students to continue their education each year, and remind parents of their obligation to support their child’s Jewish education.

 What if we interpret these texts not in terms of our students and our schools, but with regard to our teachers? If our students are the soul of our institutions, then our teachers represent the heart, pumping knowledge and emotion into everything they teach. They are the ones who compete with soccer, piano lessons, homework and tutoring. They grab the band-aids and the ice packs. They wait patiently while students try to read V'ahavta, and go over trope symbols repeatedly until they hear their students hear the correct inflection. When a day of secular school ends, their work begins. And they do it to ensure that the first thing out of their pupils’ mouths will not be “nothing” when asked, “What did you learn today?” by their parents.

Parents entrust us with their children, and we in turn entrust them to our teachers. Why not give our teachers the training and support they need to give our students their best? During High Holy Day appeals we ask families to invest in our synagogues.

Why are we not investing in our teachers?

If we really adhere to Rabbi Hillel's words and the Ethics of the Fathers, how can we not do more for our teachers? How can we expect them to stay in our schools and give the best of themselves to our students if we don't support their own study and development?

At the end of last year, our school had some modest leftover funds. We were able to make quick arrangements to send three teachers to day-long intensive sessions and asked them to blog about their learning. These funds had not been set aside or reserved beforehand, we made the decision just before our fiscal year ended.

These teachers returned armed with tools to improve themselves and their teaching.

They discovered how to weave storytelling into lessons, how to connect to Israel in times of conflict, and even how to connect to Judaism on different spiritual levels. More importantly, they came back energized and refreshed to tackle the semester. 

As the year begins, I implore us to do better. Let us support our teachers so they can support our students. Sign them up for webinars offered by our own professional organizations. Inquire about day-pass options for local conferences where travel costs are minimal. Organize with fellow educators in our cities to bring speakers in for collaborative workshops and learning sessions. Plan for open space forums in our own schools and find out what they have to offer each other. Let's reach out to our education committees for ideas on how to promote professional development, raise funds and ensure that our teachers see it as a priority too.

As we move through Elul, let's truly search within ourselves and ask if what we have been doing for our teachers is enough. I think we won't have to search very deep to know that it has not.

 Only then will we begin to learn the whole Torah.

At the start of summer, more than 90 Jewish professionals came together at the Jewish Teen Philanthropy Summit, organized by the Jewish Teen Funders Network, for two days of workshops, networking, collaboration, and Jewish learning. Participants included both seasoned leaders of Jewish teen philanthropy programs, and Jewish educators new to this field and starting teen foundations in the fall. Veteran Perspective:  Josie Ballin   

Still in 6th grade

Remember 6th grade? 

For those of you who are a little further removed from this blessed event, allow me to elaborate. That was the year that you began a new chapter in your life: Middle School. The very term tends to insight panic and brings up memories of awkward encounters. Self-conscious pre-teens walk the halls hoping that they will be swallowed up by the floor, but at the same time desperate to be noticed by those who mattered. And noticed in a positive way, rather than in a way that says "do you own a mirror, and if so, why haven't you utilized it?" Emotions are volatile all around, and it seems everyone is in a sort of tug-of-war game is going on between childhood and adolescence.

No one smells good. No one has straight teeth. No one wants to be identified by their mother's minivan (way before SUVs became the cool mom car). 

Many of us started new schools, which meant new teachers, new classes, and the most exciting: new friends and new cliques. I can remember the first time I walked into those taupe hallways and was greeted by a sea of Jansport backpacks and Jack Purcells. Some girls wore shiny tinted lip gloss (of which I was not permitted to don), others had trendy patches on their jeans (which my dad ironed on for me just late enough for this fad to have already passed), and all had the air of confidence that I clearly lacked, as evident when I tripped on the third day of school and dropped the contents of my backpack (and you thought things never happen like they do in the movies...). I was so eager to be a part of this group of girls who clearly knew everything about current events (which in the middle school world means who is currently making out with whom, the good places to buy jeans, and how many calories are in an In-N-Out milkshake but pretending they don't care).  

I thought that there would be no way these appealing people would ever accept me into their world of hair products, pagers, and boutique clothing. I'd be forced to eat lunch in my homeroom teacher's class with my elementary school friends, actually discussing homework instead of all the latest gossip that was surely being circulated among the more popular groups. Although I was unsure if I'd even fit in to this world, I was still in awe and enjoyed observing.

A disclaimer: No, this is not intended to make you feel sorry for me in any way, and not to remind you of your own tumultuous ride through this educational period. Bear with me, because believe or not, this does have a happy ending. Keep reading (you've made it this far...) 

I bring you back to the present day. I recently performed in a dance show, with a group of men and women with whom I had never danced. Walking into the audition room was nerve-racking enough, but when rehearsals began, those same 6th grade feelings came back. There were the dancers that danced with that air of confidence I so desperately wanted, and there were definite cliques who had been together since college and posted fun and jealousy-evoking photos on facebook. Again, even though I didn't spend time with everyone, being a part of this world was exciting.

I made it through the show in one piece, performed my pieces to the best of my ability, made numerous facebook friends and a few real ones. A few weeks ago one of the choreographers emailed me and several others about performing one of the pieces again in a smaller venue. I eagerly replied confirming my availability, excited to be a part of this world again, and hoped to be accepted.

After the one rehearsal we had for the smaller show, a few of us drove together to the venue, and I realized that the other three women in the car weren't as clique-y as I had guessed. We all shared where we were from, what we do for a living, our upcoming plans for Thanksgiving, and family dynamics. For the most part these women were getting to know each other as well. Sure, they had known each other longer and had some established relationships, but for that 25 minute car ride, it felt as though we were on equal footing. And everyone was sharing something real, nothing about our conversation seemed superficial, almost as though these girls legitimately wanted to know stuff about me. Who knew?? 

About a week later I received a facebook message with "Girls Night!!!" in the subject line, addressed to three of the women from the car ride.  Not only was I invited to take part in one of the oldest rituals known to women (I'm sure that cave women pulled up the wolly mammoth rug every Friday night and discussed their time running from the saber tooth tiger over cocktails), but I was offered options! Did we want to go out to dinner or cook together? Did we want to see a movie or rent one? Cocktails at the restaurant or wine at home? I realized I was taking part in setting the plan for our night, almost as if I already had a spot reserved for me in this quad. As if we'd been doing this for years, and I was an integral part of the arrangements. 

I quickly responded saying I'd be there. My reply was followed by "Can't wait!", "looking forward to it!" and "miss you ladies!!" My level of anticipation rose even higher. I brought this up with my boyfriend in the most nonchalant tone of voice I could muster, doing my best to hide my excitement, but being the smart guy that he is figured it out and encouraged me to go despite the fact that we had made tentative plans for the evening (reason #472 why he's the best boyfriend ever).

Although I currently have a whole host of friends from college, graduate school, and post-grad life, many of whom I see on a regular basis, I cannot shake this feeling I have now like the one I had in 6th grade when I was eager to feel included. Perhaps it's the impact women-only groups have on one another, or maybe it is the desire to belong that never seems to leave us. Maybe the idea of "Girls Night" is something that stays exciting regardless of our phase of life. Whatever the reason, I'm looking forward to spending time with my new friends, and hope that I can be the one in the future to initiate such gatherings and perhaps make someone else as excited as I am at the prospect of spending quality time in a "Girls Night!!" setting. Now I'm off to grab some shiny tinted lip gloss!

"I get by with a little help from my friends."

John Lennon