From when I was three years old I knew I wanted to be a teacher. My mother and grandmother had taught for many years, and they both spoke fondly of their days in chinuch, glowingly recalling the lessons they imparted and the meaningful connections they forged with their students. I drank in their inspiration and longed to emulate them. I would practice giving lessons to a roomful of teddy bears and dolls, and if I was really lucky, a couple of siblings. When I was finally enrolled in a teachers’ seminary there was no one happier in the world than I, poised on the final stepping stone before attaining my lifelong dream. The hours of preparation I put into my model lessons only underscored that teaching was my calling. I was truly in my element, delving into Rashi and Malbim, attaining clarity and elucidating what I’d discovered to others. It was exhilarating. After graduation, I was offered a job in the elementary division of my alma mater. That entire summer was spent preparing lessons, designing stencils and brainstorming. I couldn’t wait to begin. Teaching proved to be everything I dreamt it would be and more. My heart was in my job and I couldn’t get enough of it.
A few years later I was offered a part-time position in a prestigious school, teaching Navi to four parallel seventh grade classes. The preparation wouldn’t be that overwhelming, and the shorter hours would allow me to be more available for my growing family. It seemed perfect. I’d still be in a school environment, doing what I loved, but there would less pressure. I couldn’t ask for a better arrangement. When the school year started, however, I was in for several surprises. Lesson preparation and grading weekly quizzes took more time than I anticipated. But my students more than made up for it with their genuine eagerness to learn and their thoughtprovoking questions which were a catalyst for lively classroom discussions. Everything was going smoothly—with only one fly in the ointment. By way of explanation, I must digress and describe the central role that is played by the principal of our school. As the ultimate authority figure, the she rules her kingdom with a loving yet iron fist, demanding that staff and students alike live up to their potential. Every notation in my weekly plan book is carefully scrutinized by her. She reviews every detail, making sure that class time is maximized, lessons are stimulating, and that we teachers are moving along with the curriculum. All tests and even quizzes cannot be returned until they receive her approval.
Workshops are held on a monthly basis for the implementation of new skills and techniques. Our principal lives and breathes school, and expects the same of her underlings. There is no such thing as slacking off—she is on top of everything! Lest she sound like a two-dimensional cardboard figure, I must add that I respect her very much. She is an exceptionally intelligent person who knows how to deal with the enormous challenges involved in running a school. She is also very intuitive and knows how to reach her students. Weaker pupils are tended to and remediated and brighter ones are duly challenged. So what exactly is my problem? Well, it all began several weeks into the school year, after I submitted a bunch of quizzes to the principal for her approval. Two days later I went to retrieve them. “No, I don’t have anything for you,” the secretary told me, rifling through several folders on her desk. “Maybe I put it into another teacher’s cubby. Let’s check.” It wasn’t in any other place we could think of. With no other choice I went directly to the top. “Sorry to bother you,” I said to the principal after knocking on her door, “but did you ever get a chance to check those quizzes on perek dalet?” “I don’t think you gave them to me,” she replied. “Oh! Well, okay,” I replied hesitantly. I distinctly remembered putting that green folder right into her hands. But maybe I was confused. Perhaps I’d been in a rush and only thought I’d given it to her.
For all I knew it was still on my desk at home. I quickly ran off some more copies and didn’t give it much thought until the next incident. I went to the principal to discuss making a change in seating arrangements in one of my classes. A certain student seemed to be getting lost because she sat in the back, so I suggested switching her to the front row, where she’d more likely to participate. “Good idea,” the principal said. “Who would you like to switch her with?”We tossed around some names until we finally came up with a solution. “It’s a big class,” she complimented me. “Thanks for noticing. I’ll run it by the mechaneches and let you know what she says.” One week passed and then another without a word on the topic. “Did you speak to the mechaneches about changing the seats?” I finally asked her. “What change?” She sounded genuinely puzzled. Does she really not remember? I wondered. I repeated the conversation we’d had but failed to elicit even the slightest spark of recognition. Am I imagining things or is she losing it? “Okay, I’ll speak to the mechaneches,” she said as if it were the first time we were discussing the issue. This time I mentioned it to the macheneches as well, hoping that would produce concrete results. Around Chanukah time, I realized that my son’s upsherin party would coincide with the school’s Chanukah chagigah.
Knowing the importance the principal attached to school functions, I approached her and asked to be excused. “Sure,” she said with a smile. “Nor oif simchas!” You can probably guess what happened next. “Where were you?” she demanded immediately upon my return after the Chanukah vacation. “You’re new here, so you may not be aware of our policy, but it’s really important that teachers participate in extracurricular events. It shows the girls how much we value them aside for their academic achievements.” There was no doubt left in my mind. The principal was experiencing some sort of memory loss. I was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Last week’s episode, however, pushed me over the edge. I have no idea what to do or whom to turn to. The seventh grade class was experiencing certain problems and the girls’ grades were slipping. Several of the teachers had already complained about discipline issues. The principal called a meeting. “The time has come to focus on bringing back a serious atmosphere into the classroom,” she announced. “There are to be no extras or treats until this class settles down. From now on, everything will be strictly business.” Now, my own class had just finished learning a particularly difficult perek, and I wanted to reward the girls in some way. I explained to the principal how hard they had worked, and asked if there was any way the siyum I’d envisioned could be held as planned. “The truth is,” she replied, “that you have a good grip on the class.
As long as you keep it small you have my permission.” Having received her go-ahead, my students and I organized a small yet meaningful siyum for the following week, even including a short performance and some games. It went very well. The girls took their responsibilities seriously and we had a good time. It was a refreshing change from the rigidity of the classroom. Apparently, however, the moment I left the room for the recess break their exuberance got the better of them. Some of the girls got a little bit rowdy and the principal came over to investigate. Two seconds later she nabbed me in the teachers’ room. “Didn’t I make it clear that there would be no extras for now? A siyum can be celebrated in a calm, dignified manner. What’s going on in there is simply unacceptable.” My mouth dropped open. Should I repeat the conversation we’d had last week on the topic? That would be so embarrassing for her! Especially with so many teachers sitting around and listening. On the other hand, I had just been publicly reprimanded for a wrongdoing I hadn’t committed—and it wasn’t the first time either. How should I proceed? Confront her or just swallow my own shame and embarrassment? Even if I confront her and tell her she has a memory problem and must see a doctor, should I tell anyone else that she may be unwell and not doing her job the way she is supposed to? It is a decision I am grappling with as I write this.