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."

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.

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.