Speak as if You Found Your Tribe

In just a few moments, you'll be walking up that familiar hill to your son's school. You have waited so long for this moment to spend time with him, and you know he's looking forward to it too.

All the way up the hill, you'll be people observing as if you've lived in Pittsburgh all your life. You call it, "quiet meditating." I call it, "craziness." But .. why not? The weather's in your favor, and you got a little time....just a little...

And then, there's a stranger of a man approaching you, who chats on his cell-phone oblivious of anybody - just like you have become. He thinks probably nobody understands his Hebrew. Nobody!

But you do... only it takes a few seconds to figure it out. He has to listen first and then talk. After all, this IS America. Not everybody is an Israeli - but of course you knew that, didn't you. But that doesn't mean anything for this Israeli - so what if he listens? He talks loudly, but the thing that is most important for you is... well, you UNDERSTAND every single word!

Well, you understand that this flicker of a common language between you and this stranger of a man, is a homey moment. In your hometown of NYC, people just don't have time and don't care if you speak Hebrew because everybody speaks Hebrew, but here's the thing... Pittsburgh, as you are finding out still, is not like NYC. People have time and patience. They also speak as if they found their tribe - that the other person understands even BEFORE they say something back.

You spend a few moments waiting for your son's class to show up from gym. And as you wait, you notice the children from the other first grade class. One skips, one runs to class. The teacher reprimands those that do not conform, and tells them to go back and they walk again... this time quietly. But because they know you are watching them, they walk with a "twinkle" in their step. Maybe two. But you didn't see that - did you?


And in your son's first grade class, you find the-child-in-me-tribe. Children just need to know you are part of their tribe; you can never fake having fun playing a board game. My son proudly joined me and our moment was ours to enjoy. In your game sharing tribe, we learn to share, take turns, "pick an apple," and have a few laughs. The child next to me says, "I like your son. He has red hair." You smile.

And back outside, the sun beats on the dirty sidewalks. You reach the corner of Murray and Forward and wait on the corner for the bus to take you up yet another hill. You've decided to make it easier for yourself by not making yet another trek up ANOTHER hill. A bus is a perfect place for "people watching."

There was this man on the bus who said to me, "bless you," when I sneezed. I had just pulled my nose away from my sleeve. And there was another man catching his breath with a walker. The older man had just a few hairs left on his shiny bald head and it looked as if they were soaked in sweat. It had to be because it wasn't raining. The young man with the walker said something that made the older man go into deeper in thought; the older man chatted with the bus driver as if they had lived in the same town all their lives.

"Now I remember when you could smoke on those T's going up that hill," the bus driver said.

"Yeah - that was another era," the older man said with a nonchalant expression. "So ...these are coach seats?" (referring to the seats, you know, the serpentine bus with an accordion stretcher in the middle that gracefully opens and closes when the bus makes a turn) I had never thought of the seats on a 61D city bus in Pittsburgh as "coach seats." Wait... did he said, "Coach seats?"

I keep a glittery artificial smile to calm the stressed lady across from me. As long as I'm wearing shades - it won't be hard to pull this smile off.

So speak as if you know and found your tribe.

Your tribe is waiting for you. I'm sure you know that by now. If you don't, well, I can tell you that everybody has a tribe. Only it took me words and years of those words to find out my voice through that tribe....


**********

When I hear Hebrew on a Pittsburgh street in Squirrel Hill, I know there isn't this foreign language acting as a barrier between me and the speaker as it was before I left for Israel. I can play the role of the "silent one." Or I can respond in Hebrew. Whatever. I. Choose.

And now, that I've joined a tribe, I can be part of several - for instance, a "bus tribe," or, at "the-corner-waiting-for-the-bus tribe," a "bagel factory" tribe - everything that is language and everything else that isn't - food included. Because a tribe that is universal is also understood.

Somebody Special + Non-Fiction Piece

In all the years I lived in Israel, I thought I was a special social-cultural "groupie" because I was an American, former Manhattanite, (ex "Greenwich Villager) AND I was teaching English as a foreign language, which was a much in demand profession. (It still is!)

Those early years of teaching English to elementary students in the development town of Beit-Shean brought me even closer to that special cultural place because I had never taught English to Moroccan Jews before. I had a lot of "goodwill" and support from the Ministry of Education as a new teacher-immigrant, but I often felt a certain cultural disconnect. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't feel "at home" in the cultural EFL classroom.

I was dealing with families, some of whom had a very different world and cultural concept/experience/expectation of what it meant to learn English. For some of them, it was exclusively limited to pop and cultural media of the time. For others, it was met with frequent antagonism to study English and I was met with all kinds of discipline problems and unruly students.


And, in many ways, I felt silenced at the expense of a cultural/social/linguistic disconnect.

This is the conflict that "traps" every immigrant. The journey for coming to live in another country is rich and special, but the emotional and social transitions are not always clear-cut.

What I Tried to Do

Music

I didn't listen to many pop international culture songs (and especially in English) when I lived in Israel, but the one that brought me closer to the concept of "special" to my Anglo-Saxon world was Depeche Mode's "Somebody"

When I was in a state of "not here nor there" and "trying to figure it out," I listened to the melody of this song and after all those years, I felt "quieted" and "at peace" even with the silence voice that I had and that was okay.

Writing

The other outlet I had was writing. After a full day's work teaching 4th, 5th and 6th graders, I would record the events, the feelings I had (past and present) and how I tried to make a connection with teachers who weren't the most friendly/sympathetic to me - maybe due to a cultural disconnect, I don't know and students.

Those early voices shaped a piece of a recent piece entitled, "In the Principal's Office" (note: this is still a piece in transition)

"In the Principal's Office"

The bare white principal's office is now a place of confrontation. The fact that I am a newly arrived English elementary teacher at a development town in Israel hasn't sensitized loud-mouthed teacher to collaborate with me. When I finally told Tziona, our mentor, the real deal of our collaboration, I knew that I would have to work even harder to make my silent "teacher" voice heard. The voice I perhaps didn't know existed.

The aggressive principal speaks. (I can still hear Lina's voice) "Yael," Lina says. "Dorit's a new teacher. If you're both teaching the same classes, I don't understand why you are both working separately. So, ma koreh, what's going on?" Lina asks. I have to wonder what looks tighter: Lina's intent expression or her bun.

Yael, the other teacher who prefers to teach English "her way," doesn't say anything. Tziona sustains our eye contact long enough just to reassure what she has said to me before, Yehiyeh besder, "it will be okay." But we both know it will be a long way. She leans forward, crosses her legs a bit and says, "We need to find a way to work things out together. You both can't continue working in isolation. It makes no sense."


Yael looks at me. I nod.

Okay, it's time to make my silence heard.

There's more that Lina and loud-mouthed teacher need to know. Much more.

For example, what about the time when I introduced myself to her classes and all I got was a Mona-Lisa smile …from one student?

Or when I tried to "socialize" with loud-mouthed teacher and all I heard was the noise of crunching carrots.

There is no cultural-linguistic shield to protect me now. (it's a confrontation – how do you rely on your Israeli smarts)

I try to discern the "loud-mouthed" teacher's eyes from her thick rimmed glasses but the light refracts what appears to be a stare. I know she's thinking "go home you American. I take no prisoners. I'm better than you and you're not going to change the way I work."

Since the beginning of school, I've honored the Israeli teaching motto of "don't smile before Chanukah," and so perhaps I've received Lina's goodwill. But now I have to find the right Hebrew voice. To articulate Hebrew assertively. To undo my silence. But between Lina's tight fisted bun and zippered mouth and Tziona's fidgety look, I'm hoping I won't need to talk.

Loud mouth teacher is the first to speak. She's of course the one with "kfiyoot" – the seniority. She moves her hands in and out as if to open an oven. "Tziona," she says raising her voice. "It's close to impossible. We teach at different hours in different places."

Loud-mouthed teacher now points to me. "She teaches small groups. I teach the large classes."

"Yael, you don't have to work together on everything. There's no point if you have the same book and grades and you're both working in isolation." Tziona says. Lina nods affirmatively.

Loud-mouthed teacher looks at me. The words don't come.

"How about if Dorit pulled out some of the lower-performing students from your group and worked with them?" Tziona suggests.

"Ze lo ya'avod, it won't work," loud-mouthed teacher says.

"Why?"

"Because …they are at different levels."

What does that have to do with anything?

I say something that I hope will turn the discourse around. Even though I am still figuring out which word to say, I speak anyhow.

"I think the students I teach are at a lower performing level. They cause problems." I am both nervous and relieved that I've got now everyone's attention.
"Exactly. That's why I don't think it's good to take my students out." Loud mouthed teacher says. Her words rise like huge hot air balloons in this small office.

"Aval achav hadivarim nirgeo, but now I feel things have settled down." I say in a calm Hebrew voice.

"Ze lo yishaney kloom, it still won't make a difference," loud-mouthed teacher says. "It's too difficult of a situation." She still won't look at me so I look to Tziona for support.

"And if Dorit takes the hours she has with the non-readers and works individually with one or two students?" Tziona suggests.

"Still won't work."

""Yael, you've got to be flexible here." Tziona now speaks more emphatically. "This is a very difficult situation."

"Yael, I don't understand you. We're talking about the students here." The aggressive principal says something I didn't expect to hear. "Give it a chance."

"Okay, I'll give it a try, but I still don't think it will be successful." Yael says.

All I hear is the "ani" for "I."

Tziona looks at me, "How do you feel about that, Dorit?"

"That's fine. I have worksheets prepared for their level and everything."

Tziona nods in approval. "That's a good start."

"But it's a difficult group. A harder group." Yael says.

"Is there anything you want to say Dorit?" Lina asks.

"No."

We talk it out - in their language.

Not mine.

We don't really find a solution in their language.

Not mine.

When we leave Lina's office, I whisper to Tziona, "That wasn't easy. With Yael, I mean."

Tziona says, "I know. She's difficult."

"Yes."

"It's not going to be easy."

"No."

A Faith Filled Passover Edition - My/Our Four Years of Freedom

On the last full day in Israel before leaving for the States in 2007, I made sure my last day would be a peaceful one by visiting my parents. I was all jumpy not only from all the preparations, but from the emotional and mental exhaustion of it all.

Because I/we made the conscious decision to leave my family, friends and kibbutz home for greater professional opportunities in the States, I thought to myself, "There is just no way that move is going to be wrong. If it's the States, then, it's got to be good!" (Sounds like a commericial, right?)

At that very moment, I felt I had transformed my life in a precision of dualities.

I had "traded" the feeling of being dried up like a prune, to touching an oasis for the first time and what opportunities would lie on the other side of that oasis. I wanted to make my own life choices that reflected the person I had become. After all, I had moved to Israel fresh out of High School, and I was now married and had a two year old; My soul was craving for other opportunities beyond just an EFL (English as a Foreign Language) teacher of Israeli schoolchildren, which I had done for already 12+ years.

In front of my father, I felt a mountain of crushed dreams fell over me.

He came to Israel for us, for me and my younger brother, to give us a better quality of life, to help us get away from my controlling and aging mother who was afraid of many things from me smoking, to walking around in a sweater in 80 degree heat. But I felt I had outgrown those phobias and I had acquired a stronger sense of self. It was time now to move on.

As much as I believed in the power of the American dream, for some reason, I came across to my father that I didn't "need" Israel, his support or my life there.

He took this as real snobbery and self-righteousness on my part.

I remember one of his last lines to me well, "You act as if you're not coming back."

Now, I don't know if where that reaction came from - all I knew was that I wanted to be in some "green" place on the other side of the Atlantic ocean so I could prove to myself, the "little ol' me from Greenwich Village, NYC" that I could put the wheels of the American Dream into motion and that it truly would be a better choice for me...for Haim, and little Ivry.

Well, I'll tell you that finding my heart to professional freedom was not the rosy garden as I thought it was on that last sunny day in Israel.

In fact, walking down picturesque streets in Pittsburgh's Jewishy Squirrel Hill on a hot sultry August afternoon in 2007, triggered off a strange kind of "freedom" - one that made me feel even more uneasy.

I felt very vulnerable walking down these beautiful streets alone. During those very early days, I would meet my husband after his job search and "attack" this poor man with my fears - "when are we/you going to get a job?" "When is your social security card going to come?"

Lots of "What if's."

I didn't think that nudging was such a problem; but, it was the way I had put a "time limit" on when things should happen (first with him, then with me) that scared me. In Israel, I did not think this waiting would be issue. All I needed to do was jump head first into the oasis, and try to float with the hope and knowledge that we would thrive and fast.

Similarly to the Passover story we know well, Moshe led the Jewish people out of Egypt, but even after their ordeals and struggles and pain from Pharoah's blows, they still questioned whether they would be "saved" and whether they should still put their faith in just one man, and in G-d. All they could do was have a "leap of faith." Obviously, they did not have a choice, but I did and I chose to not to develop faith in times of uncertainty. I just thought of the "path."


You see, I had this warped building freedom for opportunity mindset that things had to come easy if I worried. Of course, these were old words, thought patterns and beliefs, but I was in transition and with all the newness, I stuck to what I knew. So I followed my own smell to worry and fear.


In the meantime, my husband got a job within a week at one of the local food chains and within a year, was promoted to full-time with benefits.

During my sabbatical, I started a book journey that would lead me to market myself as a speaker to present at both universities and colleges and schools and eventually, an offer from a K-12 book publisher came in through. It was only through my writing, I found there were other opportunities and other identities that awaited me.

And now, just now, I'm realizing at age 40, that I need to ride a spiritual journey. That is one ingredient that I never really thought I needed. Until now.

And that was just the beginning of finding my tribe. My spiritual one, that is.

Finding my Tribe: From Israel to Pittsburgh

So I was rummaging through some old files and found an article that I submitted to the Pittsburgh Post Gazette entitled, "From Israel to Pittsburgh," that I wrote back in 2007 during our first few months in Pittsburgh.  

This part especially speaks to me:

"...When I had to live in other peoples’ houses during the second Israeli-Lebanese war, I learned a different side of acculturation I had not experienced: the life of a refugee. When my students heard me talk in English about where I was during the war, I felt  ironically,  I had acculturated.

But the war this time is different; it is an inner war of confusion, hope, struggle.  Perhaps, it is part of that acculturation experience all over again. I join Israeli-American events. I bake challah on Friday and call my family in Israel early Saturday morning. I speak Hebrew to my husband and English to my three year old son. I hold unto the bus pole smile and sometimes strike up a conversation. I live my life hearing two different voices from two different linguistic settings, always trying to remember where I came from."

Until now, I've never shared this online, partly because I've always felt like an "outsider" looking in.  Up until last year. I wrote, and wrote from "Outsider Glasses."

When I went to Indian restaurants, I was still that "outsider." When I shopped at Target and heard Hebrew being spoken in the aisles, I felt it was weird to suddenly be hearing Hebrew in the Diaspora.

Now that I think about it, I didn't think there would be potential tribe members who would be interesting in reading my life story. 

In the summer of 2010, I finally decided to take the plunge and sign up for the Madwomen in the Attic non-fiction workshop at Carlow University. This was a huge step. Little did I know it, I was stepping into my story, voice and purpose as a writer. 

The first piece I wrote was a character piece about Maya. 

******

“Remind me please, when is my flight?” I ask.

“Eight thirty,” my friend Aliza says checking her watch. “You’d better hussle, Maya. Taxi’s waiting downstairs.”

It’s time to leave my mom’s apartment B345 in New York City to volunteer for the Israeli Defense Forces. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. My mom doesn’t know. I don’t want her fear to paralyze me.

I shove a few more T-shirts, and sweatpants while Aliza makes room for my underwear. We’ve been friends since kindergarten, we both have Israeli dads and visited Israel practically every summer.

“I just can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” she says. She stands on the suitcase while I zip it shut leaving just a hole big enough to stick my Nike sneakers. “You’re the last person of army material.”

“And you’re the last person I thought who wouldn’t support me, beside my mom. So thanks a lot,” I say.

The enormous sculptures and canvasses of desert and rivers that once astonished my Dad comfort me briefly as I walk through what he once claimed as “his space” in our loft apartment. The Israel of my Dad’s art will soon be my Israel. 

****

I thought the other workshop participants would think I was this completely "foreign" person from Planet "Zonko." Yes, Zonko. I tried to imagine myself writing about something completely different like "motherhood," or my first year experiences teaching - something a little more generic, like "I get it" without isolating anyone.  

But the story kept nudging and nudging me. It needed to be "born" and when I tried to "stop" it, the words kept coming.

This is a sign for anybody reading this, that if you want to write a story, you really do need an iota of inspiration, but to pay attention to the nudges, those voices that say, "This is IT."

It took more than 6 months of finally feeling comfortable sharing my life story with the others. As my writing improved, so did their understanding. Not only did I feel I had an audience, which is a MUST if you want to improve as a writer, but I also felt more comfortable writing my story. 

The last piece that was critiqued was, "Arriving in Israel - A Mistake," where I describe the first 16 hours of arriving on a kibbutz in the Negev Desert to join a bunch of new olim hadashim, new immigrants in preparation for my army service. The emotions that emerged from that piece were startling surprising. I wrote in description and feeling mode - the most I had ever done with any piece of writing. I felt tonce again, the fear and isolation as an new immigrant and again, as an outsider to Pittsburgh, this felt even more foreign. Those first 16 hours were scary and they still are. when I think about it But somehow, writing about them, years later, was comforting. 

What was even more comforting were the affirmations of the group - "You had me hooked!"

Little did I know, I had found the beginning of my "tribe."