Sharing My Life Story for a Presentation for ESL Teachers

It's always nice to share face to face parts of my life story than just writing about it in this blog.

Last Saturday, I gave a two hour presentation on "Teaching differentiated writing strategies to ESL students in the mainstream" to a group of English/ESL teachers at CCAC -Allegheny Campus.

It was the kind of intimately workshop where you'd feel comfortable in your own shoes presenting to teachers you had already known and a campus you had taught at for a few years.

However, I never make the assumption that teachers know who I am just because I teach ESL or just from a casual conversation in the hallway. I believe in the power of sharing life stories, both as a learner and as a teacher. So I started my presentation with an anecdote about about how, I felt like an outsider for many years in Israel. There is an outsider in every one of us and if we want, we can find those life stories and I have found that ESL students connect best to those kinds of stories.

I told my students from the point of serving in the army where officers would laugh at my American accent and how I struggled to teach EFL (English as a foreign language) 4th graders in the development town of Afula despite their agressive and direct personalities.

It is so easy to teach from an "autopilot" hat and forget the life lessons of perserverance and patience that these stories can teach us and others. You don't have to have experience living in another country;

I read a snippet of my story, "Taking Charge of the Cultural Classroom," from the book of anthologies, My First Year in the Classroom (Adams Media) that showed how I tried to get the attention of my Israeli students.

In short, anything we can do to bring participants closer to feeling "their pain" is always a good thing.

Pigua in Jerusalem

In the teacher's room, someone flicks on the television.
Noises of sirens, ambulances and the newscaster Yigal Alon.
Pigua - A terrorist attack.

Deep groan. Deep sigh. Why?

I can say goodbye to my lesson plan, "normal" lessons.

Students saunter in and out of the teacher's room, looking for teachers.
And then they lift their heads to the direction of the television.
They don't need to ask, "what's going on? They have already figured it out. Only they don't have the decisions of what and how to teach.

Like the other piguim, (plural for terrorist attacks) is this one also worth mentioning for the sake of discussion?

Will I still be a 'good" teacher if I decide to go on with the lesson?

The principal comes into the teacher's room with her cup of whatever.

Teachers crowd around her and I stare and watch and wonder.

Food Glorious Food: Falafel, Shishlik and Krembos!

Yesterday, we all decided to eat for the first time at "Sababa," the Middle Eastern bar and grill restaurant just a few blocks away from our house.

Now I don't need to tell you how food can bring cultures together. There was a delightful mix of Chinese, African Americans, Europeans eating falafel and shishlik, but I am also very much aware how Israeli food is very much a part of my identity and who I've become.

While we were munching over eggplant and Israeli salad appetizers, our chef came over to us.

Even though it was only a Tuesday, I said to him while picking through the falafel bits of my teeth using my tongue (a bad habit, I know), "Eating falafel brings back memories of Thursday shopping in Kiriyat Shmona. Let's go shopping at "Zol Poh" and then we'd swing around and eat a falafel." I laughed and I instantly knew that the chef understood because he smiled.

That's when I think we both came out as Israeli profoundly soaked in (food) memories; it was a moment that we could only understand. Suddenly, I didn't feel as an outsider in a restaurant that represents a lot of "insider elements." As Israelis living in the Diaspora, we are all craving to feel insiders again no matter what our journeys are.


Well, isn't that the purpose of eating in a restaurant that is indigenous to one's culture?

Our kind chef, (bless his heart) said something that also deeply resonated with me after four years of living in the Diaspora: "Only an Israeli can make a falafel "cmo she tzarich, like it can be done" and how true that is. He told us how he uses only meat that comes from Israel (that is shipped from New York City) and no American meat comes close to taste.

As we chatted in Hebrew, I slowly became aware that the older couple next to us was aware that we were speaking in Hebrew as they quietly ate their food in demeanor. We however let the "meat and spices" of our words soak through the flavoring. Through falafel bites and bits of Hebrew, I blocked out everything around me and focused on the little mini Israel that we created in a few moments.

But the surprise came when I saw the Chinese girl eating a.....(drum roll, please!) Krembo! Krembos are Israel's most popular winter snack foods - a chocolate covered marshmellow treat, which you can read more about here. I was overjoyed and delighted - I haven't seen a Krembo in over 4 years! And what a treat that was!

Now I fully understand how Israeli food easifies Israelis and their acculturation in the diaspora.

Part 1 - Geula

It was sometime during the first three years of arriving in Israel. idon't know exactly when that Savtah, my grandmother, introduced me to Geula, who would later introduce me to her 20 year old daughter, Liat - my cousin.
I walk into Savtah's apartment and immediately see a woman, sitting on a chair, with wavy locks, with hospital and a scrubbed forehead that shone of moisturizer

"Ah, Dorit" Unlike Savtah's Iraqi accent, Geulah really enunciated the "r" sound of my name. My name sounded just like everybody's else's - Israeli and plain.

She sounded suspiciously chirpy but friendly and stood up to greet me and have a closer look.

I hesitantly got up - the tone and accent of her voice was outside the "Iraqi" tribe. For one, her skin was much blushier and lighter than Savtah and not half as wrinkled and pretty.

Ah, Geula.

Your blue eye - how I curiously watched it move up, down and all around as if it had a life of its own. Your other eye looked straight at me. Symbolically, I could be half-funny, witty and not tell you everything I was thinking because I thought you couldn't see well.

"Yesh li bat b'gil shelach - sh'ma Li'at, I also have a daughter whose name is Liat."

What other treasures and secrets was Savtah hiding from me? I knew Savtah had a lot of brothers and sisters, but I never really met any of them.

"Now, let me get a look at you - ze bat shel Ahron. You're Ahron's daughter.

"Ah, bat shel Ahron."

"At m'artzot habrit - you're from the United States."

"ken, yes," I say.

"V'ma at osah kan? - and what are you doing here?"

"I'm just passing through Givatayim. It's been a while since I've been here."

V'efo at gara?"

"Bakibbutz."

"Ah, kibbutz. Yoffi. V'yesh lach haverim shama? And you have friends there?"

"Ken, yesh li haverim."

"V'ma at osa ba tzavah? And what do you do in the army?"

"Ani b'Nachal - I'm in the Nachal Movement."

"Im od olim hadashim - with other immigrants."

Geula tilts her head even more at a slight in order to full digest this new American cousin who has miraculously appeared at her sister's apartment.

All the while, Savtah is eyeing me as if we are an anticipated match made in heaven.

I'm waiting for Geula to initiate a meeting with Liat, but instead, she fires more questions.

I look at Savtah's face as if to say, "Mercy! Mercy!"

I look again at Geula' face. But it's now Savtah's I only see. Maybe it's better this way.
****

Geula wasn't there in 2007 when I visited Savtah for the last time before we left for the States. I went down Katznelson street to the corner where I would walk all the way down pass the Tel-Aviv highway to Arlozorov street and catch the 842 or the 845 bus back up north.

There was a time when I tingling with excitement to meet Liat. The fact that I had such good chemistry with Liat made me feel like I didn't feel like an outsider anymore. I had a best friend!

That was at a time when I had cut off communication with Geula - she was too gossipy; the excitement of being together with Liat had worn off.

Going to Israel

After four years of not seeing our families, we have finally bought plane tickets for our trip in June. Ever since our purchase, my brain has been overflowing with just thinking about the trip. I take visual breaks from work which makes the day worthwhile. "OH, I'm going to Israel - Yippee!" The thought of seeing all our family members pulls me out of my isolated shell. For four years, we've tried to create a sense of family with the limited family resources we had. No complaints here - it's just been an incredibly challenging time.

It may sound strange, but I feel a very deep need to see our kibbutz house, just like a child needs his/her mother.

We've unwillingly separated from our kibbutz house - once during the second Israeli-Lebanese war and now.

It has not been easy to get used to the obnoxious sqwaking of buses down Wightman street heading downtown; the sight of concrete all around instead of the Jordan river and the Hermon Mountain - and since we willingly decided to leave lush and picturesque for the uncertain, we've had to compromise.

I know the four weeks will pass by in the blink of an eye. I'll begin to feel more comfortable in my surroundings again; I won't need to try so hard to make it because I'll be in familiar social surroundings.

It will be interesting to see my perspective will be after not being in Israel for so long - I intend to bring a journal and record.

Finding Fun, Faith and Freedom

So I went to hear the Megilla reading yesterday at the Chabad Lubavitch center right across the street from my apartment, which fell on a "motzei Shabbat," - shabbat ends and a new "belief' is born along with a "supermoon." It was a carnivalesque atmosphere - hippies, kings, queens, crayons all part of a community tale to recast the story of faith and freedom that binds us as Jews - spiritually, but for me, it's takes an even global appeal.


Funny that for the 19 years I've lived in Israel, I never once went the "Megilla" reading. For me, being "Israeli" was Jewish encapsulated; Besides I never felt I was cut out to join the "religious tribe" as it wasn't part of a social expectation.

Here you're Jewish, so you pray. In Israel, you're Jewish, so what? You're Israeli - no need to worry (or pray)!

But if you're religious - then that's a different story. You don't play "matchot" (Israel beach version of table tennis but without the tables) and you live in a predominantly religous community with little secular influences.

If a person is religious observant, s/he is part of the "haredi community," and if not, s/he stays secular. So I stayed on the secular 'side of the fence" so to speak. And because this was the expectation, I never once felt the need to do something different or felt that something was missing. I enjoyed the "social" part of the Shabbat that I "sanctified" as my holy Shabbat of a social sense - visiting friends.

I visit this "pluralistic" version of Jewishness daily - in my writing, when I go to Chabad, decisions I make for my son...

So I sat at the Chabad listening to the megillah, and saw an Israeli guy (undoubtably Israeli) who stood in the middle, looking around and observing. Like me, he wasn't wearing a costume or mask. I gathered he felt somewhat new although I wouldn't know for sure. It's not uncommon for Israelis either "passing through" to join the "Chabad" community to feel connected to their faith. In fact, I've seen this often. Yet, these Israeli are a marching band to their own drums. I patiently wait to see if they intermingle with the others, but, like me, they are "small fish" in this large pond called Jewish USA diversity.

Now symbolically, this was an interesting sight - he was standing very close to the "mehitza" - the divider between men and women. he could very well be me as I stand between American Jewish and Israeli culture - trying to connect with the fun, faith and freedom of my own spirituality and the holiday of Purim.

I'm not so good with following the Hebrew of a Lubavitch accent so I listen and connect with the spiritual voice of within and try to distinquish/anticipate the oncoming "hamman" so I'll be ready to stamp my feet; I don't have an inclination to wear a mask, a wig or baubling chains to escape my identity for a day; I am who I am; just a Jew stamping my feet at the sounds of "Hammman's name."

Poem: Tendings to the Weeds - My Intention

Here I embark on yet another writing and teaching day.
I haven't been on track with my own creative writing
and educational projects for some time.
To distract myself,
I go on Facebook and watch footage from the tsunami/earthquake in Japan.
I am in shock.
I argue with my son whether he should wear a sweater under his jacket.
I become tired. So very tired from not always setting the
intention
After five hours of sleep for a few nights straight,
I see the answer in the blackness--
The blackness of a youth that once called me to work in a field in the Negev Desert
in Israel
touching the earth, tending the field
That gravity of push or pull, nor devotion nor fulfillment.
It was fun to work in another land, pull holy weeds weeds of adventure

Now the weeds are different.
I think, "what's my calling? What passion will serve me now?
Where does my work lie most untouched?
If I could do one thing know that would fulfill me, what would it be?
If I couldn't give the best of myself before, can I give the best of myself now?
Is it possible?
Mentors and coaches calling it "setting one's intention."
I am tempted to use it to set the gears in motion, because I know of no other apt term.
Anything to put me on a clearer, more precise and fulfilling path.

The Ghosts of Memory Writing + Audition Time

After I read my piece entitled, "Today, Savtah Speaks," to a 10 year old girl, the father asked, "Is that all true?"
"Yes," I said.
"So how do you remember all those details about your Savtah?"
"It's part of my memory and I how I see those things. I'm sure if you gave yourself the time, you'll remember sentimental memories - smell, taste, touch, sight, etc."

****

What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen. ~Cynthia Ozick

Later I thought about the father's point. If we don't remember, we think we might have forgotten what our mothers said, the way our fathers look when we were ten; those memories are always there - just buried in the lavender of a linen closet or bedsheets.

The more detailed my memory, the more "truthful" and deeper my impression on the "memory writing." As as if, I'm almost close to G-d.

It just takes one little trigger to make them come alive.

And here it is:

***

It was Saturday morning. I had arrived late - too late to my liking to hear my son practice with his piano teacher - one on one. Standing outside the small practice room, I suddenly heard a voice. Could it be? After all these years? No, it couldn't be.

It was the hit song, "More" from the musical, "Mondo Cane."

I thought it was just "my song" and how glad I am to hear there are others who enjoy it too.

****

I am 13 years old practicing for my audition for the Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School in NYC (behind Lincoln Center) for the Performing Arts in vocal performance.

My mom is my accompanist. She doesn't look at me, only the notes on the sheet music. As I reach the higher notes, I channel the passion through the words-

"Will be in your keeping, waking, sleeping, laughing, weeping..."
She raises her eyebrows in approval.

The notes are high, but not too high for my range and I use a gentle timbre to accentuate the high floating melody.

Mom nods again in approval. I want her to give me a verbal acknowledgement like an emphatic "yes," but I guess this nod will have to do.

****

I lean against the door, watching my son look at the sheet music, moving to the beat of the rhythms and all the while, I can tell he is making sure he uses the right fingers for each note under the teacher's watchful eye.

But I'm in deep reverie listening to the piece; it's as if my mom has come to life again. How relieved I am to know that my mom has been gone for long.. In fact, she was right here, in my musical soul and heart, all the time.

I guess that is where I'll find the ghosts of memory writing - where classical music can be found.

Use Passion and Stories to Persuade! - The First Day of Teaching

I'm in the midst of preparing my presentation for the International Reading Association and for the ESL in-service of the Pittsburgh Public School next month, and coincidentally came across this article, "Use Passion and Stories to Persuade!" eloquently written by Maureen Murray for the Pittsburgh chapter of the National Speaker's Association.

My topic? Teacher Collaboration between ESL and General Education Teachers.
Method of Delivery? A powerpoint presentation and handouts.
The story?
Ah, the story.

I believe my writing for this blogsite is all part of my life story. And it is the power of this particular story that I am going to share with you, dear readers, that will have the power to serve me on both professional and personal levels.



I took Ms. Murray's advice and decided to go ahead and describe the story in detail, that will be the avenue for touching peoples' hearts during these two presentations, which is what every good presentation should do.

****

Beginning my first day teaching a third grade class of twenty one learners of English as a foreign language, (EFL) I follow the homeroom teacher to the last classroom down the hall.

I had just been employed to teach at a small school in a small development town of mainly Morrocan Jews known as "Beit-Shean" in the North of Israel.

I tightly hold my papers organized in a zip compressed file highlighting the important things I would need to do in that first lesson. The students watch me as I unclip the names board.

The homeroom teacher exits the room leaving me with twenty one students reported to be now in their second year of learning English. Parents have already expressed a great deal of worry and concern afraid that their children will have to close a two year learning gap of sounds and letters as they only acquired basic sound decoding basis in Israel.

I planned lessons that focus specifically on introducing and reviewing not only phonetic sound families but vocabulary development.

The children look at me like I come from Planet "Tutti-Fruiti," and I hope that I won't come across as an American who usually speaks Hebrew like a cow chewing her cud.

But then I think, "Hey, I'm supposed to teach English, not Hebrew. What am I thinking?"

Osher, a student in front, asks in Hebrew, "Are you our new teacher?"
I nod.
"Perhaps you'll stay. The other teacher left because we are the idiots. The stupid ones."

I look at the door and for a few seconds, I hope the homeroom teacher will come back and ask, "Is everything OK?"

But she doesn't come back and I'm now on my own after a few years of teacher college. I will very quickly learn that nothing had prepared me to take control of this cultural classroom.

For the rest of the year, I spend every lesson alone with the children. Nobody opens the door. Nobody knows what goes on beyond the walls. Nobody knows how much English the students had retained and acquired. The parents are relieved because FINALLY, their students have an EFL teacher. (English as a foreign language)


******

More to come.

Soup for the Girlfriend's Soul: Celebrating the Power of Friendship

I just came back from a monthly Jewish group representing women from all walks of life. Tonight's event was the 4th annual "Soup for the Girlfriend's Soul - Celebrating the Power of Friendship." The first "Soup for the Soul" event I attended was back in 2008 which you can read about here, which led me to write about my Soup Memories of my Grandmother, Hinda Czernick z"l, which you can read about here.

I always come back from these events nourished emotionally and physically. Hearing other women speak about their experiences dealing with friendship is a real "mitzvah" - good deed.

Although Pittsburgh is a warm and friendly town, it has been a "dark" place for the first few years when I first arrived. I felt like an immigrant, vulnerable and alone.

And because I felt vulnerable, I didn't want to make a new friend or acquaintence who would talk about the next upcoming holiday events with her parents or who couldn't really understand me. As the saying goes, "Home is where you are understood."

I'm also not the kind of person who needs a ton of friends, even though I have more than 500 "friends" on Facebook. I just had (am still having) great difficulty meeting the right kinds of friends.

I found it extremely difficult to just meet socially-minded and smart women. Pittsburgh is a tight-knit community, and combined with the language and cultural barriers from living years in Israel with my own lack of support system, I didn't see how I was going to feel like an "insider" anytime soon. Luckily, however, our parents support our living in the States, which is big plus for nurturing both of our professional dreams and aspirations.

So, I tried everything I could: I went to Israel women's events; and when I was able to attend, they were always late at night and I couldn't get a babysitter. Plus the women changed all the time and there was no real consistency.

I tried creating my own meet-up event through one of the Pittsburgh chapter Mother Meet-Ups. I had baked brownies, procured a babysitter, cleaned my house and created a Creative Writing Meet-up. But then it started to rain, and all eight women who had reserved, suddenly cancelled.

I figured out how to work the Pittsburgh Transit Authority which Ivry and I used to meet Mothers on a Sunday. But yet, these meet-ups never amounted to something more than just an hour of fun play, that I had to ask myself, what was the purpose of the meet-up in the first place?

The first three years were a test of endurance to see if I could survive the isolation and thrive with winters. And since I also write professionally, I found the isolation was eating away at my personality, which isn't good for creating a balanced writer's life.

For a time, it seemed that the only viable route was connecting to single mothers. Like me, the single mothers I met didn't have the family support and weren't social butterflies. A few of them had children's Ivry's age, but like other attempts to create a social network, these ended in disaster.

I connect with the parents of other children in Ivry's class and while it doesn't seem to amount to much, it is something.

I continue to synagogue "shop" trying hard to avoid "cold" congregations. Case in point: My husband loves the Chabad community in Squirrel Hill and attends services frequently at the synagogue across the street. They are open, accepting and inviting.

And then, there was Candice Ward, our good neighbor, who died last October. She was a true testimony of the power of friendship. In her later days towards her death, she continued to babysit for Ivry. We returned the favors by cooking for her and sending Ivry with containers of food as her "messenger". I put bundles of food outside her door. She called us "the food fairies" which always made me laugh. She was our guest of honor at the Shabbat Friday night table. She loved Haim's potatoes and always said how Haim's chicken was so tender and better than Meals on Wheels. A poet by trade, Candice was also a scrupilous editor and often would edit my stories and poems. We would talk about contemporary female writers by Shabbat candlelight.

In a way, we nourished Candice emotionally and physically like I was nourished tonight.Still, when I pass her door, I can't get rid of her presence, but yet, I need to nourish myself with real friendships, not just memories.


Maybe she didn't realize it in the earlier days of our friendship, but she was a good friend and "aunt" to Ivry. The fact that I could always go downstairs and chat with Candice or get her advice made me feel that I had some kind of support even though I didn't know how ill she really was.

After realizing my support system had died with Candice's passing, and that other "friendships" belonged in the junk yard, I decided to make 2011 the year that I would thrive socially.

Recently, I hooked up with an Israeli-American friend, who has a very similar background to me. The nice part is she lives across the street! We share similar views, both have young children, and continue to straddle two histories, two languages, two cultures and two mentalities. We both realize that the professional opportunities are far greater here than those in Israel, which is why we both continue to stay and support our working husbands. We are both writers, think "artsy-fartsy" and both grew up in New York City.

So after tonight's event, it was hopeful for me to continue to see the cup half full as opposed to half empty. I do have a few friends and this area of my life, like this blog, is a work in progress.

I'm no longer in such a 'dark' place.

My Son the Entertainer and Some Words on My Mother Tongue

Anyone who meets my son Ivry (who is now six) for the first time is immediately drawn to him. I'd like to think it's because of his firey red hair, but I am now convinced that it is also his bubbly, extremely funny and energetic personality that cause people to laugh and leave their comfort zone even for a brief moment.

While we were waiting for the bus to take us home to Pittsburgh, he asked the bus driver, "Does this bus cost 50$?" The bus driver laughed. "No, but if it did, I'll take two of them!"

He has the social confidence of a champ that I never had for whatever reason, while growing up in New York City.

How about when he asks the lady on the bus line in front of us, "Do you have a gingy?"

She closes her book and says, "I think I need a translator."

"A gingy. Do you have a gingy?"

Ivry's father replies, "A redhead."

"No, I'm afraid I don't. But I do have a red cat. Does that count?"

For tourists, the "Ivry" language seemingly resonates - particularly I've noticed, with Asians.

We had just arrived at the Jefferson Memorial in Washington D.c. and already a Chinese tourist took his picture and smiled.

"Now, I want to take a picture of you!" Ivry exclaimed. (see photo above)

And with that, the Chinese tourist says, "Welcome to China!" and gave him a big hug.

For non-Americans, giving a hug to a child they have never met before is normal and I would go so far as to say even culturally normal. I don't have a problem with it at all and it is this kind of hug, that brings me "home" again because I know we are understood.

Israeli culture is exremely child-centered and traditionally based and I never felt any space divide between myself and young children in my 18 years of living there, but I know parents here in the States, who would be shunned by such a display of outwardly affection.

It took me a long time to realize that this division of spaces is uniquely an American concept, yet it varies from families to families and from within cultures of the American life.

Take another example - The Asian female passenger on the bus behind us was so taken to Ivry that she sat next to him where he was playing her video game, (which she "loaned" him) and hugged him all the time while I bought pizza during the bus break. From the corner of my eye, my guard was up because we were in a public place, but I felt we both spoke the language of "diversity" because they spoke the same "language" and so, I immediately let my "guard" down.

Everywhere I take Ivry, I speak to him in Hebrew. It is my way of passing on his heritage to him, which is quite interesting since my father maintains that I refused to speak Hebrew with him as a child.

But now, as a mother, my values have shifted. Not only do I want my son to know his heritage, but it is my way to extend my mark, across cultural boundaries and find my home in this diverse, pluralistic world.

People immediately turn their heads when they hear those guttural sounds and each time I am beeming with pride, because I have managed to maintain our Israeli identity in a country that is so vast and colossal, that it is easy to just fall back into old patterns and speak English.

Growing up in New York City, I was surrounded by so many nationalities, cultures and ethnicities. My father is Israeli and speaks four languages, my mother has Spanish/Polish roots and at one time, she was able to speak Yiddish, Spanish, French and English.

But I was always abashed by my heritage and wanted to just be American and speak English. Since I've come full circle though, I realize that it is more than okay to speak Hebrew in public places. In fact, I remember when my husband took the oath to become an American citizen last September, and the judge had said, "You all have essential duties of an American, but please do not forget your culture, your language and your heritage. This is what American prides herself on."

I knew then I was part of a much bigger circle of diversity that had grown from living in another country. I was also part of a cultural entity where my mother tongue was a "window to the world" so to speak and no matter what kinds of looks and faces I got, I was going to feel proud to be an American and proud that I brought my husband here to the States.

So back to my son the entertainer.... on our way back from the Jefferson Memorial to the Washington Monument, my husband stops to ask the policeman some directions.

My son asks, "So where's your horse?"

"I left him at the barn today. But you can see the police on horses near the Washington Monument."

"Okay, thank you sir!" My son replies.

"You're welcome, sir."

"Good-bye sir!"

"Good-bye."

And so, Ivry skips along the promenade of the Potomac River and sings, "shmaggegi, Shlmiezel, Shlmazel."

Oy.

If my mom's mental faculties were intact, she would be laughing hysterically.

Is Ivry learning another mother tongue?

BIG and Small

Even though we have been in the States for almost three and a half years now, it is still quite challenging for me to get used to the vastness of this country.

I look at the elephant size trunk of the SUV's in the library parking lot and try to ascertain whether they are really big inside as they appear outside. Probably.

In fact, I am still in culture shock.
The whole concept of driving up in a big SUV to drop off a DVD at the library "mailbox" seems foreign.

Or how about asking someone what is an SUV's. What's an SUV? Doesn't Israel have them? Really, Dorit. I imagine it sounds like a airplane carrier? I want to shrink to half my size when I find out it's a type of car. For heaven's sake, how could I be so innately stupid? Really, Dorit.

****

On one of the Pittsburgh buses on the way to the children's museum, there was an Indian man who told the bus driver where he wanted to go. The gentleman had a thick accent and kept repeating himself over and over again. I must admit - even I was challenged.

-Speak English, the bus driver says. Where do you want to go?

More talk.

-I don't understand what you are saying. Speak English.


It turned out that this gentleman got off a few stops before his intended one because he didn't know how to say the "right words." I know this because after he got off the bus, I saw his face contour into a series of grimaces. It was painful to see because I could empathize with the feeling of being an immigrant.

***
When you're an immigrant to the States, no matter what language you speak and what country you are from, Everything is BIG, BIGGER than you. You try not to think you are still an immigrant. Try to acculturate. You speak English, but, obviously, it is not enough.


In the States, you feel big when you see things like SUV's from a distance, not when they are up close.

This is the opposite of living on a kibbutz where you have everything within a 360 degree radius - doctor, supermarket, mail, baby and children's houses, neighbors, dining room, old aged home, car mechanics, bike shop, orchards, gas station, horses, Thai restaurant, secretaries offices, dentist, massage and hair cutting parlor and plenty of other services.

The only time I needed to actually "leave" the kibbutz was to my teaching job at the nearby High School school; I biked every day alongside the Jordan River. If I wanted to do some mega shopping, I'd go to the neighboring city of Kiriyat Shmona.

Against the Hudson River, the Jordan appears to be a small stream. It was the stream of a river that would carry me when I went kayaking or even dipping. It was the only long, and I guess you can say, "big" thing around.

This superbly convenient lifestyle facilitated living so much so that I found any other kind of living incomparable. Perhaps that is why I am still overwhelmed when I see a green SUV.

Perhaps, I wish it could take me to the Jordan River. Now that, would be BIG.

My Husband's Dream - Washington D.C.

It's my first time in eight years we've visited Washington D.C. It's my husband's dream to serve the U.S. government and we haven't been in D.C. since Ivry was born. A trip is in order.

We board the Greyhound bus from Pittsburgh. One scruffy looking bearded man talks to himself, and another young man walks around pulling up his pants with one hand while eating a sandwich with another. My husband stares. Out of the three of us, Ivry is the only one who doesn't seem to care so much. I can tell what my husband is thinking.

The bus leaves a half an hour behind schedule. If only we would have taken Megabus...I think to myself. The true "If Only" - we didn't have to ride buses all the time...I'm so sick of them...

The students don't seem to care.

Ivry's white socked legs protrude in the aisles and I lift them up for student passengers who want to go to the bathroom. And I... I listen to the conversation in front of me between two students. I am unable to sleep. Unable to think any productive thoughts, I just stare at the foamy blackness of the sleepy looking houses. I'm in reverie - thinking of what our life would be like once Haim gets a good paying job working for the federal government, and I can live out my writer's dream. If only we didn't have to ride buses all the time...


Students have a tendency to speak so loudly as if they don't have a care in the world. I drown out the noise by nuzzling my nose next to my husband's neck who sits in the seat in front of me. I whisper to him of my day in Hebrew and we catch up on sentiments and plans. Washington D.C.

But then I think, maybe there is some sense in paying attention to the conversation. I listen to the conversation in front of me:

-I've never been to any place outside the United States.
-Me neither. I want to go to Japan.


***

-So where are you from?
-Do you like the U.S.?
-I know a little Spanish.

***

I pretend it is me that is talking. My voice. Colored in a rainbow of cultures, languages and mentalities from years.


Their voices are green. New. Fresh.

I think back to my years as a freshman at SUNY Albany but there is nothing in those memories to sustain me.

I am tempted to just stick my head in-between their chairs and say, "Israel? What about Israel?"

And my husband and I become the "dream weavers" - he works at the government and I serve people in the area of cultural diversity and life story. I was meant to bring change in a very creative way that goes beyond cultural boundaries.

So what is my vision?

Kool Aid Memories

All night long, the winds battered against the window. Maya tried to think what it was before the hot pre-summer winds of Israel started. Ah, yes. This summer she’ll hit the creeks of Northeast USA and maybe even the sandy beaches of California. She’ll feel cool again. Just like when she first ate Kool-Aid for the very first time.

She first dusts the suitcase off, then slowly opens the zipper, missing the one that actually opens the suitcase. Its wheels have been eaten from many airports. Its frame is a bit bent out of shape, torn in some places, stronger in the handle, however always reliable. She is tempted to buy a new one, but it has been with her since she immigrated to Israel in 1990.

Even after the winds have already quieted, Momma’s voice comes through the zipper.

“Don’t forget to label the clothes.”

“He’s only two years old. No summer camp,” she says.

In goes the baby’s swimsuits along with old maroon jellies. And the cotton swabs. And the book on Penquins. She is a bit unsure when it comes to packing, so she hopes to listen to good advice. But it’s just a squeaky voice with no real words --just a blotted sound. The voice swoops in and out and she quickens the pace, unfolding each article of clothing and flinging them to get rid of dust. Presents of clothes from her mother’s friends she never used. She flattens each corner and crease against the vinyl lining just to make sure each inch of the suitcase is filled. After much debate, she limits to herself one journal and a book. Mom’s advice, of course.


Taking down the suitcase from the top of the closet is like letting the memories fall again. She is not sure which memory to put in and which should stay out. But her two year old makes the final decision, a choice that overwhelms all. He sticks in the “I love New York City” T-shirt she bought for him two summers ago when they visited her Alzheimer’s stricken mom in New York City. She’ll have to explain to her son her mom is now a grandma. It will be ten years this August since her diagnosis of Alzheimer's.

Just when she wanted to take her little redhead and suck on popsicles near a creek in Earlton, New York where she went to a Jewish sleepaway camp for so many years, she is reminded that their first stop is in fact, New York City.

Summer in New York City. Maya, the Mom, pictures her son fidgeting over an ice cream popsicle while she watches the even streaks of strawberry and orange blur after a long dirty haze and hears the factory workers across the street. Dad’s paintings stayed in the same position while mom's dusty cassettes of her concert days remain hidden behind a bag of books in her closet. Did her mom really know how fast her fingers could fly?

She’ll only be staying in New York City for a week or two, before she finds the right home. It’s enough to remind her how she  longed to get out of the city as a teenager and now that she’s coming back to the States for good, she keeps her mom away from a visible distance – far away so she can close the squeaky voice shut.

But it doesn’t stay shut.
Many summers ago, Maya looks for her Mom in a sweltering hot Grand Central Station after she returned from nine weeks of summer camp. Mom waved frantically. Maya kept the her Kool-Aid pink mouth tongue curled tightly under her mouth. (Momma never knew how much Kool Aid she ate.) Bloody red stained from the night before, she bundled under a blanket in the dark with an almost dead flashlight battery with friends who loved Kool Aid just as much as she did. Those confessions go into the suitcase too.

Rounding up the final things, she takes down the file folder with all of mom’s precious documents and important papers of her Alzheimer’s. With the suitcase finally padlocked and closed, she know there’s one thing she’ll do right after recuperating from jet lag. She’ll walk down the Hudson River Walkway with her little son’s hand in hers as she dreams of Kool-Aid.

Kool Aid Memories

All night long, the winds battered against the window. Maya tried to think what it was before the hot pre-summer winds of Israel started. Ah, yes. This summer she’ll hit the creeks of Northeast USA and maybe even the sandy beaches of California. She’ll feel cool again. Just like when she first ate Kool-Aid for the very first time.

She first dusts the suitcase off, then slowly opens the zipper, missing the one that actually opens the suitcase. Its wheels have been eaten from many airports. Its frame is a bit bent out of shape, torn in some places, stronger in the handle, however always reliable. She is tempted to buy a new one, but it has been with her since she immigrated to Israel in 1990.

Even after the winds have already quieted, Momma’s voice comes through the zipper.

“Don’t forget to label the clothes.”

“He’s only two years old. No summer camp,” she says.

In goes the baby’s swimsuits along with old maroon jellies. And the cotton swabs. And the book on Penquins. She is a bit unsure when it comes to packing, so she hopes to listen to good advice. But it’s just a squeaky voice with no real words --just a blotted sound. The voice swoops in and out and she quickens the pace, unfolding each article of clothing and flinging them to get rid of dust. Presents of clothes from her mother’s friends she never used. She flattens each corner and crease against the vinyl lining just to make sure each inch of the suitcase is filled. After much debate, she limits to herself one journal and a book. Mom’s advice, of course.


Taking down the suitcase from the top of the closet is like letting the memories fall again. She is not sure which memory to put in and which should stay out. But her two year old makes the final decision, a choice that overwhelms all. He sticks in the “I love New York City” T-shirt she bought for him two summers ago when they visited her Alzheimer’s stricken mom in New York City. She’ll have to explain to her son her mom is now a grandma. It will be ten years this August since her diagnosis of Alzheimer's.

Just when she wanted to take her little redhead and suck on popsicles near a creek in Earlton, New York where she went to a Jewish sleepaway camp for so many years, she is reminded that their first stop is in fact, New York City.

Summer in New York City. Maya, the Mom, pictures her son fidgeting over an ice cream popsicle while she watches the even streaks of strawberry and orange blur after a long dirty haze and hears the factory workers across the street. Dad’s paintings stayed in the same position while mom's dusty cassettes of her concert days remain hidden behind a bag of books in her closet. Did her mom really know how fast her fingers could fly?

She’ll only be staying in New York City for a week or two, before she finds the right home. It’s enough to remind her how she  longed to get out of the city as a teenager and now that she’s coming back to the States for good, she keeps her mom away from a visible distance – far away so she can close the squeaky voice shut.

But it doesn’t stay shut.
Many summers ago, Maya looks for her Mom in a sweltering hot Grand Central Station after she returned from nine weeks of summer camp. Mom waved frantically. Maya kept the her Kool-Aid pink mouth tongue curled tightly under her mouth. (Momma never knew how much Kool Aid she ate.) Bloody red stained from the night before, she bundled under a blanket in the dark with an almost dead flashlight battery with friends who loved Kool Aid just as much as she did. Those confessions go into the suitcase too.

Rounding up the final things, she takes down the file folder with all of mom’s precious documents and important papers of her Alzheimer’s. With the suitcase finally padlocked and closed, she know there’s one thing she’ll do right after recuperating from jet lag. She’ll walk down the Hudson River Walkway with her little son’s hand in hers as she dreams of Kool-Aid.

Why I Started This New Blog: Moving Towards My Passion

Some of you dedicated followers may already know this, but I wanted to share with the others why I started a new blog, when I already have two well-established ones which you might already know by now - The New Teacher Resource Coaching Center and my speaking website, www.DoritSasson.com





While wearing the "teacher's hat," I constantly felt pulled into two directions. I wanted to cater to teachers on my professional websites, but, I also wanted to explore the power of my life story having lived in Israel for 17 years and now, what this experience means personally, now that I am living in the States.

For many years, I choose the path of a "silent voice" - that is typical of immigrants like myself, who live in another country for an extended period of time.  During teacher meetings for example, I was afraid to share good ideas with other members of the staff. I often thought to myself, "I'm silent, nobody will listen to me anyhow, so why bother?"


While teaching English to Israeli schoolchildren was my biggest cultural shocker. Not only I had to worry about managing a classroom, I also acted as an Israeli, which fell at the expense of my authentic voice. 


Now I'm in the process of healing myself after several traumatic years.
It was exciting to see this blog finally coming to life. Immediately, I felt a sense of purpose, passion, and personal voice.

It was time for me to not be an outsider looking in, and not just to lead just teachers, but a worldwide story writing movement where I could give "a voice to the voiceless" for those students, teachers, writers and other professionals who are experiencing isolation on any level.

Since I am a writer, I decided I needed a place that is visible so that people could see what I am  creating – while it’s being created. My new blogsite made my vision real.

Just Off the Plane

At the rental agency in Pittsburgh yesterday I saw a woman trying to explain to a student (in English) where he needed to go in order to get settled into his new apartment. The woman kept explaining the directions over and over again in simple Engish so the young gentleman could understand. She used hand movements and gestures and you could see the effort she was making so that the gentleman would understand. He kept repeating words but it was obvious that there was some communication error. It was inevitable that she would feel frustrated.

When the gentleman and his companion left, I smiled at her and said, "language barrier?"
"Yes. He literally just got off the plane. From Korea."

Just got off the plane. 
Just got off the plane.
Just got off the plane!


I am an immigrant again.

****
1989.

Ben-Gurion airport in Israel is filled with people holding signs in Hebrew. People shout in Hebrew and I quickly leave the noises of the crowd. The target? To get my immigrant card, teudat oleh.

I pass a small barricade of Ethiopian newcomers and soldiers in green and grey uniforms. I stop by a newsstand to get a Snickers bar. I will buy the last tangible "connection" I have to the States. I notice the back of the wrapper is in Hebrew with just a few words in English.

At the Ministry of Interior, people push and shove and argue in Hebrew. I stand back and watch Russian and Ethiopian immigrants fight their turns out like gladiators.

Don't leave the airport until you get your teudat oleh, my father said  emphatically.

I don't want to fight it out, but I realize that I don't have much of a choice.

When my turn finally comes, I've bitten my nails so much to the core that they bleed. Words stay bubbled in my throat. I hold the papers from the Jewish agency and thrust them to the lady behind the counter, while other immigrants crowd around me. I have no space. I need air. I can't breathe. I want to take a broom and sweep them all away.

The buxom white haired woman who is surrounded by papers says, "you need to go to the Tel-Aviv office," and scribles something on a small piece of paper.

 I pretend to look dumbfounded.

--What? I say in Hebrew.
--What you need is not here, she says.
--Why not?
--Immigrants who are going to the army, go to another office.
--But nobody told me that.
-Well, I'm telling you.

Dorit, Keep asking the same stupid questions, until you get what you want.

Other immigrants start squeezing their way to the front of the line; they sense that my conversation is over and I am already finished. I hog the space.

I'm now Dorit in Israel, not the American Dorit. Even my five letter name makes me feel little.

Speak fast, grunt, communicate, yell, shout - do what you need to do to be heard is my raging cry.

But my inner protest doesn't last long and I surrender myself to the crowd. I quickly find a taxi and make sure I hold the "coupon" I have from the Jewish Agency that entitles me to my free ride. Something from nothing.  I quickly find a taxi and give him the coupon.

"Where do you want to go?" the taxi driver says in English.It's obvious he knows I'm a new immigrant.

"Kibbutz Retamin."

"Where's that?"

"In the Negev Desert."

"That's a long way," he says.

He looks straight in the distance. I only hope he won't decline the trip and cause any problems.

He thinks it over. "Okay," he finally mumbles. "Get in."

Drops of rain start accumulating on the window.

The driver doesn't turn on his windshield wipers until there is a thick layer of dust and rain. it takes eight full cycles to wash it all away.

He starts the engine and I lean back. We pass the American tourists pointing and waving to a man with curly black ringlets. He looks like my father minus the tired looking face and the big orange flip-flops.

The driver slowly turns the wheel and we pass border control, the Israeli flag and the welcome sign in Hebrew and I don't look back.

The Voice from Down Under

1984

#1

"Mom, I have a problem. I need to talk to you about friends. I'm not making enough friends."
"Dorit, c'mon."
"No, seriously. I'm not making enough friends."
"I don't have time for this. Go see a psychologist."


****
"Mom, there's this boy I have a crush on at school. But I don't know what to do. Or say."
"Dorit... I don't have time for this. Go see a psychologist."

****

I stare and stare at the wall. Should I see a psychologist? I should have known my mom wasn't available for me.

When I finally go see the psychologist, I lie and lie.
Roslyn's her name. She sits in a small room; her "side" is the size of a walk-in closet; mine's the size of my room at Westbeth. I focus on the creases of he lines when she smiles. I try to decide whether the smile is real or fake. 
I lie about the social life I have and the social life I wished I had.
I'm embarrased. Ashamed. Of who I am. Who I want to be.
But I don't know who to turn to. And I waste more money on this psychologist.

****
It is 1989 and I'm home for winter break.
I lie on my mother's loft bed. I wait for my mom to come. The cracks on the wavy high loft ceiling resemble the same rabbit I had seen when I was my son's age, sleeping in-between two parents who hardly knew each other. Now, I have the bed to myself.
Her footsteps are heavy.
With eyes still fixated on the ceiling, I ask: "Mom...I'm scared."
No answer.
"Hey Mom... I'm scared."
"What's wrong honeybun?"
"I don't know what I should do?"
Mom doesn't ask me questions, so it's up to me if I want to make something of this.
"Mom, I don't know what I want to do with my life." I say.
"It's okay, hunny, bunny."

****
It's 1993 and I'm 22 years old. I've made my decision to become a teacher and in a few month's time, I will be studying at the Oranim College of Education, near Tivon in Israel.

It's good for you to have something to fall back on. Teaching is always a good profession to have.

"So, it's a good thing?" I ask.
"Yes. It's a good thing," she replies.

Even if my mom didn't directly confirm or guide me through this decision, I still feel naked because I'm on my own. I've been on my own emotional "island" for years. So I don't want to try to "figure" things out anymore. I'll go with a non-risk guarentee. Be a teacher. Something to fall back on. Secure and safe.

Sounds good to me.


Now twenty some odd years later, I understand. I was never encouraged to believe, explore and have faith. I've never really asked myself the questions, just went with the "right" voice - the one that feels comfortable to me. Instead of asking myself if I have the "right" friends or the "right" career, I'm asking myself...

1.Who do I want to be?
2.What do I want this day to be?
3.What kind of results do I want?
4. How do I want to serve the people that I come into contact with?

I'm consider myself privileged and lucky to be able to ask these questions now.