any child? Each child is unique and has something to offer. I love all kids. How can a teacher even utter those words?
Mrs. A seemed nicer than that. She did have the more advanced students though. I didn’t want to make any harsh judgments about her. She seemed to be an accomplished teacher, and I had to work with her the whole year. I didn’t want to be prejudiced against her at the very start. Although I couldn’t see how the religion teacher would fabricate such a story. I would just have to ignore this comment for now.
Mrs. A was a tall, slender, redhead in her forties, her face sunburnt from time spent gardening in her backyard. She told me she found it relaxing to spend time digging in the soil. In my mind I could see her like Wilma in “The Flintstones” Hannah Barbera cartoons, thrusting her raptor-footed trowel into the ground, heaving it over her shoulder, and covering Fred in dirt.
Her hair was pulled back with a large clip. It looked effortless but professional. In spite of her youthful appearance, I considered the hairstyle a modern version of the old-fashioned schoolmarm. When we had met for the first time, she had flashed her broad, sparkling Cheshire cat smile.
“I saw your light on, so I came over,” Mrs. A explained.
I was surprised to see her, as it was still very early and I thought I was the only teacher in the building. She asked what I was holding in my hand. It was several minutes after I found the note, but I hadn’t moved. I was still standing in front of my desk. I showed her the card.
She took it from me. As she read, she scrunched up her face like someone who just smelled a rotten egg. She turned the card over, read the back, and then re-examined both sides.
“Somebody left this on your desk?”
“Yes,” I answered nodding.
“Why would somebody do that?” she asked rhetorically. “The handwriting looks familiar, but I can’t place it.” She paused. “I’ll take this to Mr. Z.”
She strutted off in her medium-heeled sandals and pearl necklace to the principal’s office. I wondered why she didn’t suggest I take the card to him. But then I figured it might be better if I didn’t have to deal with it. I assumed she was trying to be helpful.
I later asked her what the principal said.
“He said he would keep the card and investigate.”
Investigate? That sounds like a week or more of lost time. Doesn’t this demand immediate attention? Shouldn’t he come out of his office and deal with this now? Perhaps he could call an assembly and discuss this situation with the entire school. Do they not care that a brand new teacher is being harassed? How were they planning on investigating? Were they going to interview students? Were they going to do handwriting comparisons? Why would you let this wait and let the trail go cold? These thoughts were now screaming through my head.
As far as I knew, no one was on the case. A few weeks later I asked Mrs. A about it, and she told me that she hadn’t heard anything. When I told her I was thinking of talking about it directly with the principal, she said there was no need. But I did ask if he had learned anything when I was in his office several months later over another matter.
“I haven’t discovered anything,” he answered with a tone that said to back off.
For the remainder of the school year no one mentioned it. I inquired again toward the end of the year, and Mrs. A told me she still hadn’t heard anything. I regretted having shared the incident with her at all.
Eventually the truth came to light on one of the last days of school. I was able to face the perpetrators, at least those of the juvenile kind. It was the adults who concerned me more, for they had made my entire school year miserable. Never have I felt as though I faced so much anti-Semitism and prejudice, especially in an institution that declares itself to be so spiritual, loving and accepting. Looking back, in some ways I was rather naive from the start. I believe the juvenile wrongdoers eventually regretted their actions and truly learned to be tolerant of all cultures. The adults, however, did not seem to learn that lesson.
Chapter 1
Our Father, who art in Heaven
My counselor at Jewish Vocational Services suggested I apply for a teaching position in a private or parochial school.
“Teaching is teaching no matter where you do it,” she said.
After my long-term substitute experiences, I took work as a temporary secretary for several years. I enjoyed helping out in various offices, but I had been doing it for so long it was starting to feel permanent. I hadn’t given up my dream of becoming a full-time teacher, and I needed guidance. Despite all my experience in the public school system, the county still hadn’t come calling, even after the extensive interview process.
I had been working with my counselor for many months, and I trusted her judgment. In addition, the next school year was approaching rapidly.
Even though I knew I was a teacher through and through, she still put me through a barrage of personality, interest and aptitude tests. The results were always the same, showing an inclination for teaching.
The Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator classified me as an ISFJ /ESFJ (Introverted and Extroverted, Sensing, Feeling, Judging). This type of person is sympathetic and concerned with people. It was no surprise that teaching is listed as a possible career along with secretarial work, library work, counseling, and a few others.
The Strong Interest Inventory results read that I “have specifically defined interests in the following basic areas: writing, office practices and teaching.” How accurate is that?!
The Kuder Preference Record gave me a high score in literary interest which lists the jobs of novelist, historian, teacher, actor, news reporter, editor, drama critic, librarian and book reviewer. Except for news reporter, all of these jobs are “right on the money!”
There was no denying that teaching was my calling, so my counselor focused on pursuing only teaching positions.
On her advice, I answered a help wanted ad for a local parochial school. A week or so later I was sitting in the principal’s office for an interview. It was almost 100 degrees that August day, as I sat there in my interview outfit—a white shirt beneath a long-sleeved collarless red button down jacket, a long black skirt, nude panty hose, and black patent leather dress shoes. My long, curly hair was down, covering my neck and shoulders.
“Sorry the air conditioning is broken,” Mr. Z began, gesturing to the noiseless unit in the window. “Feel free to make yourself more comfortable.” He looked at me as though he expected me to unbutton my jacket.
I didn’t move a muscle, literally, as I was afraid to even change positions. They say you only get seven seconds to make a good first impression. My seven seconds were up, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
“I’m fine,” I responded, as the nylon stuck to my legs which stuck to his black leather sofa. I really wanted to kick off my shoes, rip off my hose and tear off my blazer. But I was focused only on getting this job. My dedication to teaching and my fortitude for wanting this job must have shown in my willingness to take a sweat bath in my clothes.
Mr. Z started by telling me that he is not a member of the clergy but a lay person.
A member of the clergy? What’s that? Oh, a priest or minister, I suppose. Why would he be that? Oh, I guess
