she came right away prepared. She brought a package of cookies and gave him one. Then she directed someone to get him a drink of water. He perked up, so she had a student walk him to the nurse’s office. A disaster had been averted and he was okay. Thank goodness!
I didn’t know the non-middle school teachers very well, but I had learned their names. Some had introduced themselves. Others seemed to shy away from me. I was too busy to give it any thought. I figured they were not open to receiving newcomers.
Whenever I didn’t know something, Mrs. A was my “go-to” person. I sat next to her in case I had any questions. I didn’t want to raise my hand and ask something trivial or foolish in front of the whole faculty.
I went to Mrs. A when I wanted to run a bulletin board idea past her. I walked into her room and saw one of the most amazing bulletin boards I had ever seen in my life. I hadn’t realized she was so talented. She had stapled indoor/outdoor carpet to the board and made a soccer field with lines and players. Her slogan was “Score High in English.” As students received points for participation and good behavior, she advanced the soccer ball on the field. They would earn a party or some kind of reward if they scored a goal.
When I marveled at the board and asked her what she thought of my idea, she said, “I never save old bulletin boards, otherwise I’d lend you something of mine.”
I didn’t ask you that, but okay….
She was standing in her closet, and she pointed to a few empty shelves. I thought it a nice sentiment, but I didn’t need any supplies. I presumed she didn’t like my bulletin board idea, although I put it up anyway and other teachers and students complimented it. I hung orange paper and placed enticing young adult book jackets in a large Halloween cobweb I stapled to the paper. The slogan was “Get Caught Up in Reading.”
After I resigned at the end of the following year (Yes, I stayed two years!!!), I returned to pick up my supplies and found Mrs. A’s soccer bulletin board hanging in my former classroom. She had given it to my replacement who, the school secretary informed me, was Catholic and now chummy with my former teaching partner. Mrs. A must have stored her supplies at home. I wasn’t surprised. In addition, I couldn’t find the supplies for which I had returned, so I assumed Mrs. A had thrown them away. I could envision her tossing my belongings into the trash, happy to get rid of anything that reminded her of me.
I was happy with my schedule, as it was relatively straightforward. I liked the double class periods because we had a lot to cover in English Language Arts. (We were required to give each student separate grades for vocabulary, literature and grammar.) Each class period was 90 minutes instead of the usual 45 minutes, which meant we could accomplish much more in one class period.
I had my sixth grade class first and second periods, then my seventh grade third and fourth periods, and the eighth graders I would see after lunch at the end of the day. I had a planning period for 45 minutes after lunch before the eighth graders.
That wasn’t much time to accomplish everything that needed to be done, such as writing lesson and unit plans, gathering and creating materials, making phone calls to parents, grading papers or tests, and at certain times completing interim reports or report cards. I would take work home every night and work after dinner until bedtime. I also worked on Sundays. I would allow myself Saturdays off to make sure I didn’t burn out. Besides, my father would remind me that Saturdays were our Sabbath which is a day of rest. On Saturday nights I would go out with friends or, on occasion, a date. When the school year started, I didn’t have a boyfriend.
The faculty meeting concluded, and I was packing my belongings when I heard someone mention moving elsewhere.
“What?” I asked. “Where are we going?”
“To church,” responded the social studies teacher.
What? Church?!
Seeing my look of disbelief, she continued, “We do this every year before school starts. This is just for the teachers.”
Church??? I have to go to church??? I’ll pass on this.
As if she read my mind, she said, “Everyone is required to go. Come on.”
I’m required to go to church? How could they force me to go? Was this in my contract? Didn’t they all know I was Jewish?
I was never one to be contrary, so I went along. Besides, I didn’t know how to get out of it. The principal would notice I was missing.
I had no idea where the church was located, so I followed everyone. I dragged my feet down the hallway feeling “like a lamb to the slaughter.” I may as well have been shackled as reluctant as I was to go. I had no idea what to expect.
The church wasn’t far. We walked to the end of the corridor and around the corner. There, another smaller corridor led to a light-filled atrium. I had heard this extension and new construction was recent, and it showed by its magnitude alone. The wide open space was lined with windowed walls and decorated with tall white pillars and fresh, new flooring. The wooden doors to the church looked like the entrance to a medieval castle. They opened to a space so big that NASA could have built a rocket ship in there.
A round stone baptismal was inside. I knew what it was from movies and television, yet I’d never seen one in person. A metal bowl trickled water into the pool. I thought this would be lovely if it were a fountain. At Christmas time they surrounded it with red poinsettias.
The inside of the church was hexagon-shaped and had seating for at least a couple thousand worshippers. Overhead was a twenty-four foot high vaulted ceiling with beautiful exposed wooden beams that matched the long, polished pews. The pipe organs set high above the altar were gleaming silver. Each pew had a moveable bar underneath. I would find out later it was a knee rest for kneeling. There was a wooden cross hanging above the altar so big it would have held a giant-sized Jesus! I knew not all churches were this massive.
How did they get a church this nice? This must cost a fortune!
I tried to stay toward the back of the group so I’d be seated in the second row. But I miscalculated and ended up in the first row because the pews held so many people. Our group filled the pews at the front of the sanctuary. Behind us were rows and rows of empty pews. It reminded me of a funeral service where the dearly departed had no one who came to mourn.
I sat uncomfortably, squeezed between teachers, my hands folded in my lap. I looked around at the big, open church. I had been in a church before but never during a service. What would they ask me to do? I wished that I were a church mouse, and I could scramble through a hole and disappear. It didn’t feel like one person sensed or cared how uneasy I felt.We sat so closely together someone should have sensed the heat emanating from my body, my legs shaking slightly, or my arms twitching.
I was accustomed to religious services, because I had attended many synagogue services. Although in my synagogue, each attendee has his or her own seat, the hinged kind that flips up when you stand. When I was a youngster, I was so lightweight that, like the jaws of a crocodile, the seat snapped closed and folded me up in it!
My mother was a reform Jew and not observant. The only time she went to synagogue was once a year during Yom Kippur to say Yizkor, a memorial prayer, for her parents. Ironically, Yizkor is said four times a year.
My father, on the other hand, considered himself an Orthodox Jew who kept the Sabbath and holidays. He often went to services and many times would take me with him.
In
