BS"D

Reaching the Stars

by Ruchoma Shain

The well-loved educator

and author reminisces on a

lifetime of teaching - in and

out of the classroom

"Too often educators and parents concentrate on methods of teaching instead of on methods of reaching their students and children. Understanding and appreciating the psychological, emotional and educational needs of the individual student can make the learning process a rewarding experience.

"In Reaching the Stars I am pleased to share with you some of the experiences that have made teaching a source of deep satisfaction for me, and learning a delight for my students."

Ruchoma Shain

Vivacious, indomitable Ruchoma Shain, the well-loved author of the bestselling "All for the Boss", presents here a lively account of her many and varied teaching experiences, both in and out of the classroom. As her legions of students confirm in correspondence that spans three decades, Mrs. Shain's success in this area is indisputable and unequalled, and her positive influence on their lives continues despite the passage of time.

Mrs. Shain's unique teaching style, combining humor, creativity and improvisation with a wealth of knowledge, contains what she views as the key to her success: sensitivity, or, in her words, the ability to "reach out" to others. Each of Mrs. Shain's students was a star in her firmament, and reaching every one of them, regardless of the effort required, was her goal. On countless occasions, schoolteacher became nursemaid, guidance counselor, or even family social worker, as her lessons encompassed every aspect of life.

Her tireless efforts bore a rich harvest: her students not only learned the curricular lessons she imparted, they learned from her superb example and grew to become sensitive, caring adults, many of them now teachers themselves and possessed of the outstanding middos instilled in them at a tender age by their loving mentor.

With her ally ah to Israel in 1968, Mrs. Shain envisaged a quiet retirement, not quite knowing how she would fill her days or satisfy her yearning to teach. The problem was solved when she was invited to give a series of lectures to women of all ages at a Jerusalem seminary. Imbued with Mrs. Shain's inimitable sensitivity and warmth, these lectures proved exceedingly popular and she often found herself addressing a standing-room-only crowd. Once again, her lessons extended beyond the classroom, as she continued to reach out to her students and, in turn, was welcomed and drawn into their lives.

For a born-teacher like Mrs. Shain, every

(continued on the back flap)

encounter is an education opportunity. Through her teaching", she has reached hundreds; through her writing, tens of thousands! Publication of "All for the Boss" in 1984 resulted in reams of correspondence from every part of the globe. Young and old from near and far were inspired by the devoted daughter's fond tribute to her father, Reb Yaakov Yosef Herman, zt"l, and by his remarkable deeds. They wrote to share their thoughts with the author as she had shared hers with them; they wrote to relate how profoundly her book had affected them; they wrote because her words had touched a responsive chord in their hearts.

This is the essence of "reaching the stars."

FELDHEIM PUBLISHERS,

Although the incidents in this book are all true, the author has in many instances used ficticious names for individuals and institutions in order to protect the privacy of those involved. Wherever she received permission to use the actual names of students and former students, she has done so.

First Published 1990

Copyright © 1990 Ruchoma Shain

Reaching the Stars
is dedicated to the memory of my beloved husband,

REB MOSHE Zatzal,

who passed away 15 days in Elul, 5748.

He was a Torah educator par excellence.

With his quiet and unassuming approach, he reached

his students, both in yeshiva and Beis Yaakov,

and left his indelible imprint on their lives.

Miriam, a close friend of mine, summed up

Reb Moshe aptly: "Rabbi Shain was one of the few

educators I've known who commanded respect

without demanding respect."

Foreword

Since this book is dedicated to my husband, Rabbi Moshe Shain, zt"l, I would like to share with the reader some of his experiences as a teacher and administrator which demonstrate that he was truly "a teacher of children, who turned many to righteousness," as the following verse from Daniel 12:3 denotes: "And they who are wise will shine like the brightness of the firmament, and they who turn many to righteousness like the stars for ever and ever."

The Gemara asks in Bava Basra (8b): "Who are they who 'turn many to righteousness'? They are the teachers of children! Who, for example? Said Rav, 'Rav Shemuel bar Shilas.' For Rav once met Rav Shemuel bar Shilas walking in his garden and asked him, 'Have you abandoned your trustworthiness?' (Rashi explains: 'that you always taught the children in trustworthiness, constantly supervising them.') Rav Shemuel bar Shilas answered him, 'It is already thirteen years that I have not seen it [the garden], but even now my mind is on them [the students].'"

One of Reb Moshe's former talmidim told me about the following experience, which took place when he was a ninth-grader in Yeshiva Rabbi Jacob Joseph (R.J.J.), on Manhattan's Lower East Side. (It was known as the "Mother Yeshiva" because it was the first yeshiva established in America. It was founded by my grandfather, Rabbi Shmuel Yitzchok Andron, zt"l.)

It was during an English class (we had our Hebrew studies in the morning) and the lesson was quite boring. In order to liven up the class, I accidentally-on-purpose threw a lighted match into the wastebasket, which was filled with torn pieces of paper. Flames leaped from the wastebasket, creating some excitement — a welcome interlude in our lesson. The English teacher was fed up and hastened to the office of Rabbi Shain, who was then Assistant Principal, both in the Hebrew and English departments. Rabbi Shain walked into our classroom and said quietly, "I know who was responsible for this mischief, and I expect to see him in my office right after class."

I was not sure if Rabbi Shain was just putting on an act or really knew that I was the culprit; however, since I had great respect for him, I decided not to take any chances. After class, I walked into his office, where I found him talking to someone. When he was through, he looked at me questioningly and said, "Hello, Binyomin. Can I help you?"

I shamefacedly admitted that it was I who had started the fire. I expected a sharp reprimand and some sort of punishment. He looked me in the eye and said, "Binyomin, not you!? I'm very surprised!" The disappointment in his voice, and those little words, "Not you!?", were all the punishment I needed. I have never forgotten!

During the last twelve weeks of Reb Moshe's life, he was hospitalized in Jerusalem. One morning while visiting him, I was called to the nurses' station to receive a telephone call. I was surprised, because hospital policy strictly forbade the acceptance of personal calls.

A man's voice replied to my "Hello." "Mrs. Shain? I have been trying to track down Rabbi Shain," he explained, "and I was told that he is in the hospital. I am a former talmid of his. Would it be possible for me to visit him?" Although Reb Moshe was so ill that he did not often respond to visitors, I gave the man permission to visit.

About an hour later, a middle-aged fellow accompanied by a woman and a young man entered the geriatric ward. Since Reb Moshe was resting, I ushered them out to the little courtyard which adjoined his room, and we sat down on a bench.

"My name is Jimmy L___," he told me, "and this is my wife and son." The son appeared to be a typical yeshiva bochur, with a black yarmulka and his tzitzis out. "I am fifty-three now, and when I was seven years old I was in your husband's first grade class in Yeshiva R.J.J.

"I've been looking high and low for my Rebbe since I arrived in Israel — I want to give him some nachas, and thank him for all he did for me. My parents were not religious, you see, and I was sent to public school for the first grade. Then my mother decided that I should attend a yeshiva in order to get some religious training to prepare me for my Bar Mitzvah. Since we lived close to Yeshiva R.J.J., she decided to enroll me there. When the principal heard that I had no religious training at all, he told my mother that there was no class which was suitable for me: 'He is too old for the first grade and he is surely not ready for our second grade.' My mother tried her best to convince him, but he was adamant. Finally, in an attempt to end the argument, he said, 'Well, we have a new first-grade teacher, Rabbi Shain. You can talk to him if you want to, and ask him if he will accept your son.'

"Tugging me along, my mother and I entered Rabbi Shain's classroom. I saw a tall, slender man in front of the large class. He greeted my mother and asked her, 'Can I help you?' My mother explained her problem, and begged him to allow me to enter his class. 'What is your name?' he asked me kindly. 'My name is Jimmy.' 'Jimmy, how about giving it a try?' I felt an immediate attachment to him. My mother left the classroom blessing him aloud.

"I had to start from scratch, learning my Alef-Beis. Rebbe taught me during recess, and for part of his lunch hour as well. At times I was unruly and rebellious, but Rebbe had all the patience in the world. I adored him. The English department expelled me after one month, but I remained in Rabbi Shain's class the entire year! For the second year, no other teachers in the Hebrew department would accept me, so back I went to public school, and that finished my religious training. From that time I had no contact with Rabbi Shain.

"A few years ago, my son came to Israel and became a ba'al teshuvah. He is a true ben Torah, thank God. He encouraged my wife and me to join him, and last year we took the step — we are now Orthodox Jews. Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my beloved first-grade Rebbe. I feel that the spark he ignited so many years ago has finally burst into flame. I wanted very much to see him and thank him."

We tiptoed into Reb Moshe's room. He lay quietly, his eyes half-closed. Lately, Reb Moshe had hardly spoken at all. I noticed, though, that at times he did follow my conversation, but was just too weak to respond. I walked over to his bedside, and whispered, "Moshe, Moshe, there is someone to see you." His eyelashes flickered. I motioned to Jimmy to come closer.

He walked over and bent his head close to Reb Moshe's face and said softly, "Rebbe, it's Jimmy, your first-grader." Reb Moshe did not seem to hear. "REBBE, REBBE, it's JIMMY!" he cried, loudly and emotionally. Reb Moshe's eyes opened wide, and he looked penetratingly at Jimmy. We could see that there was a glimmer of recognition. "He recognizes me," Jimmy sobbed, resting his head on Reb Moshe's chest. "Rebbe, I'll never forget what you did for me. I want you to know that I am now an Orthodox Jew; my wife is also, and my son is a ben Torah." Reb Moshe's eyes brimmed with tears...

Among the many other visitors to Reb Moshe were our devoted friends Barbara Brown, her son Reb Yosie, and his three little girls. As they approached Reb Moshe's bed, Reb Yosie said to his eldest daughter, six-year-old Faigie, "Say 'refuah shelemah' to Rabbi Shain." Faigie dutifully said, "Refuah shelemah, Rabbi Shain." Then Reb Yosie turned to his second daughter, little Chaya, aged four-and-a-half. "You should also say 'refuah shelemah' to Rabbi Shain." But Chaya pouted, and refused to say a word. Her grandmother tried to encourage her: "Chaya, don't you want to say 'refuah shelemah' to Rabbi Shain?" There was no response from the child. Then Reb Yosie turned to three-year-old Hadassah Goldy. "Now you say 'refuah shelemah' to Rabbi Shain." She promptly produced a high-pitched "Refuah shelemah, Rabbi Sha-a-ain."

I could see that Chaya was peevish. I went over to her, bent down, put my ear to her chest, and said, "Listen, everybody — can't you hear Chaya's heart saying over and over again, 'Refuah shelemah, Rabbi Shain!'" Everyone smiled, except Chaya.

Later, when Chaya heard that Reb Moshe, zt"l, had passed away, she asked her mother, "Now that Rabbi Shain is in Shamayim, can Mrs. Shain come and live with us?"

During the period of shivah for Reb Moshe, zt"l, among the many who came to pay condolence calls were a few former students from the Beth Jacob Seminary in Brooklyn. They told me that they had been dormitory residents who attended the morning session.

"We were a bunch of lively girls, to say the least, and when we got together in the evenings in the dormitory, we made a ruckus that shook the rafters. Since we heard that a new principal had been hired for the Evening Seminary, we waited anxiously for a few days, expecting repercussions from our nightly rowdiness, but to our amazement, no principal appeared!

"Our consciences sent us to find out why the new principal had not come to admonish us. We went to his office and bravely faced the closed door with the official-looking nameplate: Rabbi M. Shain. We knocked, and a soft voice bade us to enter. Rabbi Shain greeted us with a warm smile and a welcome 'Hello.'

" 'How are you doing, girls? Can I be of any help to you?' he asked with kindly interest. 'I realize you're all from out of town.'

We were astounded! From that time on, silence reigned in the dormitories, and WOE to the girl who would dare make any noise."

Then there was the girl who came from Chattanooga, Tennessee. Her father was Rabbi and shochet of the very small Jewish community, but since there was no religious school for girls there, she was sent to public school. By the time she was eighteen, most of her friends were non-Jews, and her father was very concerned about finding her a suitable Jewish husband. He therefore decided to send her to New York to the Beth Jacob Evening Seminary. She worked during the day to support herself and she studied at night.

Many years later, there was a knock at our door, and standing in the hallway were a young couple and four small children. We invited them in. "Rabbi Shain," the young woman exclaimed, "don't you recognize me? I'm Chattanooga (her nickname)! These are my husband and children." Rabbi Shain had not recognized the young matron with the headscarf.

As we sat around the table, she told me about her arrival at the Seminary. "It was a summer evening when I went to Rabbi Shain's office. I told him all about my background, and the problems facing me back home. Even though I had no background in religious studies and was not on the level of any of the classes, Rabbi Shain was not fazed at all. 'Come to my office every evening after work,' he told me calmly, 'and I will teach you.' For an entire year, I received private tutoring from Rabbi Shain, and by the end of the year I was ready to enter the first class of the Seminary.

"Rabbi Shain," she said, turning to my husband, "I came especially from out of town to express my gratitude to you for saving my spiritual life. Because of you, I am married to a ben Torah, and I am bringing up my children in the path of Torah," she ended emotionally.

Reb Moshe had been a Rebbe of the ninth-grade Hebrew department of R.J.J. for several years, when he was approached by the principal and directors and offered the position of assistant principal of the Hebrew and English departments. (Not only was he well-versed in Torah subjects, but he had a degree in liberal arts as well, which made him an ideal candidate for the position.) This offer was an honor, because R.J.J. was in its prime then, with a student body of over one thousand. After much deliberation, and some prodding by the principal, Reb Moshe accepted the position.

It was not an easy one. Reb Moshe had to contend with the directors, teachers, students and parents. It was a long day, from 9:00 A.M. until 6:00 P.M.; however, he was always there early, much before school started, and he did not return until all the teachers and students had left the school. He devoted himself wholly to his work. Everyone knew that Rabbi Shain had a sympathetic ear and an open heart for any problem that came his way.

It was almost two years later, toward the end of the school year, when Reb Moshe came home one evening quite dejected. "What's bothering you?" I asked, worried.

"For the last few weeks," he sighed, "I have been realizing that I am so occupied with my work, especially now toward the end of the school year, that I don't have much time to learn Torah. It was very different when I taught ninth grade — I was engrossed in the Gemara with my talmidim, and when I came home, I prepared the shiur for the next day." He sighed again. "I miss teaching my ninth grade."

"Moshe, what do you really want to do?" I asked him, knowing full well the answer he would give me.

"I want to give up my position as assistant principal, and just be a Rebbe again." He lapsed into silence.

I was perplexed and confused, my thoughts going around in circles. His position was one of distinction and honor; it indicated recognition of his abilities. I looked at Reb Moshe again, sitting there sad and dejected, and realized that his happiness and satisfaction were surely the crucial factors.

"Moshe," I said encouragingly, "if you feel that strongly that you want to be a ninth-grade Rebbe again, then I am all for it." Reb Moshe's face lit up with joy.

The next day he told the principal about his decision. The principal stared at him in dismay. "Rabbi Shain, I cannot believe that you want to leave this position and be a Rebbe again. You are doing excellent work, and I depend upon you. The Yeshiva needs your services. Perhaps if I could get you a raise in your salary..." The principal hoped his last words would convince him to change his mind, but Reb Moshe stood firm.

He then called the directors and asked for a meeting with them. Reb Moshe handed his letter of resignation to the president of the board of directors and told them matter-of-factly that he would be most appreciative if he could resume his old position as ninth-grade Rebbe.

The president read Reb Moshe's letter slowly and handed it to the other directors. He cleared his throat. "Rabbi Shain, do you mean to tell us that you wish to resign from your present prestigious position and go back to being a NINTH-GRADE REBBE again?" The directors raised their eyebrows in shocked disbelief. One of them tried to talk Reb Moshe out of it. "Rabbi Shain, you are surely overworked, and we understand the strain you are under, but please remember that vacation will soon be here. We are sure that you will feel differently after a good summer's rest." Reb Moshe thanked them, left his letter of resignation, and walked out of the meeting.

When the new semester opened, Reb Moshe was once more a ninth-grade Rebbe, happily immersed in his Torah learning and teaching.

A student of Reb Moshe's told me that their Rebbe had no discipline problem in his class. "Although we were a group of teenage boys and far from being angels, Rebbe made his shiurim so inspiring and interesting that in order not to miss one word of what he was saying, as he spoke very quietly, we never made a sound in his class."

The school yearbook, which contained brief, humorous descriptions of all the Rebbes and teachers, had Reb Moshe listed:

Rabbi Shain: SWEET LIPS!

Acknowledgments

I once read a very interesting article in the Jewish Observer of October, 1982, by Chaim Shapiro, who wrote about the tricks of the trade of writing. After I finished writing this book, I realized how well he had analyzed the many ups and downs that a writer experiences. I would like to share with the reader the following excerpts from his article:

In writing, all the ingredients — the ideas, information, arguments, quotations — are mixed in the writer's head while he lies in bed on a sleepless night. He digs into his memory, plans paragraphs — which will be first, which will be last. The more thinking he does in advance, the less time he'll spend at the typewriter [in my case, the computer].

Now he must be on watch: don't overcook, don't undercook, don't burn the mix. For zeal without knowledge can be an overdone stew.

And then one must brace himself to contend with the editor, poised with the deadly blue pencil in hand, excessively zealous to tame the writer's excesses.

The stuff for an article (or for a book) is in the writer's mind — mainly in his memory, for one writes the way he feels and sees things, and then interprets the facts and events.

One should not expect to satisfy every reader. Even your mother's gefilte fish — the best in the world — does not appeal to every taste.

Since a writer does not dare to rely on his memory, he checks with other people, who should remember. I have spent hours on long-distance calls trying to milk some information from those who "were there," but they simply do not remember. Strangely enough, as soon as the article is published, the very same people experience total recall, and it's not the way I told it.

Remember, writing is easy, erasing the hardest. If you do not erase, you may be sure the editor will.

The thinker who has timeless wisdom or sparkling insight to share, and can make it come alive, is worth his weight in printers' ink.

In addition to the above article, I would like to express my own feelings, as a woman, about writing a book.

Writing a book is very much like the experience of pregnancy and birth. During the different stages of the book's development, there are periods of rapid growth, when the author is euphoric, as well as times when creativity seems static, when there is no sense of quickening, and the author's spirits sink.

One redeeming factor which keeps the author creating through the highs and lows he experiences as he works towards the birth of his book is the support of many who can be counted upon to "stand by." Baruch Hashem, I am most fortunate in having devoted friends who stood by and helped me throughout the birth of this book. In particular, I would like to thank:

Reb Yaakov Feldheim, who is my publisher as well as a close friend and who encouraged me from start to finish. He kindly lent me a person computer and "programmed" me to begin immediately.

Rabbi Ben Zion Sobel. Along with the pc came one of the best dividends, one which opened a new "screen" in my life: Reb Ben Zion, who not only taught me the intricacies of word processing — the new vocabulary that goes along with it, the many commands that the machine demands — but also gave me insight into many other areas which helped considerably in writing my book. I should add that for every cry of "help" when the computer was not satisfied with my commands, Reb Ben Zion came to my aid. His wife, Rivka, who became a friend too, answered my phone calls with patience and understanding and helped me track down Reb Ben Zion whenever I needed his assistance.

Marsi Tabak, Feldheim's editor-in-chief. Though I quoted disparaging remarks about editors in general, they certainly do not apply to Marsi, who is considered tops in her field. She took a personal interest in every phase of this book's creation, and a delightful rapport developed between us.

Joyce Bennett, assistant editor, who spent time and effort to better the book.

Harvey Klineman, whose specialty is designing the book and creating the jacket, outdid himself in his artistry.

Rabbi Zelig Pliskin, author of Love Thy Neighbor and other well-known books. Rabbi Pliskin encouraged me to write this book, and also visited me from time to time, demanding, "Nu, where are you up to?"

Chana Levitt, young in years but wise in understanding, who was my "sounding board" and kept me on an even keel throughout the entire writing phase.

Hernia Levitt, who provided sustenance for body and soul, not only giving me uplifting "food for thought," but also supplying me with jars of vegetable soup, to keep me in good physical condition. Hemla also gave me the title for the chapter "Handle With Prayer," in Book Two of my book.

Rebbetzin Mollie (Isbee) Gurwicz, my dear friend and neighbor, who came nightly to check up on me and cheer me up with her special brand of spirit.

Ahuva Alpert, my great-niece, who fortunately was visiting Jerusalem when I was writing Book Two and helped on several occasions to clarify my thoughts.

Mindy Altusky, my great-niece, who frequently reached out to help me.

Edie Landsberg, who, when I mentioned to her that I was thinking of writing the book, hurried to bring me a gift of all the paraphernalia she thought I could use.

Rivky Kirzner, who could always be relied upon for excellent advice whenever a question arose that needed clarification.

Batsheva, who stirred my ego with her hyperbole, "Mrs. Shain, when are you going to write another book? The world is waiting!"

Rivka Zelishovsky, who promptly sent me information for the chapter, "From the Principal's Desk."

And "Extra Credit" to:

Rachel Ginzberger, who remained close to me all through the years, and contributed material for the chapter, "Students Reminisce." She constantly wrote me letters of encouragement. In answer to my request for information for my book, she replied: "If I can be of any help at all, I will do my best. Right now, your book is on the launching pad. Let's get this rocket off the ground..."

Gitty (Frankl) Deutsch, whose friendship has continued through the twenty-one years I have been living in Jerusalem. She prodded me to start working on this book. Gitty ends one of her latest letters with the following: "Don't let us down. You never did. Please begin to write your book." Excerpts of her letters appear in the chapter, "Students Reminisce."

Chani (Tauber) Brull (see chapter, "To Walk to Glory") has remained "My Infinitive" from the time I left the States. I have a special briefcase packed with her letters and poetry. Some of her remarks also appear in the chapter, "Students Reminisce."

Rochi (Frankl) Friedman, who gave me permission to use her recent letter to me in the chapter, "Students Reminisce."

All my many loving students, whose material I used throughout the book and who made Reaching the Stars possible.

And last, but not least, my grandson, Reb Aaron Dovid Willner, whose constructive criticism greatly enhanced my book. Where there is Torah, there is chochmah (wisdom).

Preface

I have called my book Reaching the Stars because each of my students was for me a special "twinkling star" to whom I reached out, in order to sustain the shining light that brightened her path through the formative years of her schooling.

Too often educators and parents concentrate on methods of teaching instead of on methods of reaching their students and children. Understanding and appreciating the psychological, emotional and educational needs of the individual student can make the learning process a rewarding experience.

Stiles J. Lindley writes the following in his book, Creative Teaching for Excellence in Education:

The creative teacher must be a master of his subject, but sensitive and sympathetic to the stages through which mastery is eventually achieved. He must hate ignorance, but love students; seek to stamp out error, without extinguishing the spark of curiosity that ignites all learning; censor slovenly work, but let his praise for progress keep interest and effort high; encourage the slow and goad the bright, without creating contentment in the one or rebellion in the other.

Above all, the creative teacher must give first priority to his responsibility to his students; he must seek to know each learner as an individual as well as to understand the group forces that operate when a particular class comes together for instruction.

Finally, the creative teacher must believe in his own capacity to teach, yet be humble about the need to study the art of teaching throughout his career.

The above description is certainly the ultimate goal that all teachers should strive for, but in fact it is not that simple to _reach such heights of perfection. Through my many years of teaching, I have learned some practical steps that can accelerate the climb towards attaining the goal of creative teaching.

"Train the child according to his way." (Proverbs 22:6)

"The teacher can often do much to guide the pupil into an enjoyment of thinking." (C.W. Elliot)

Trial and error should be part of every teaching program. A _new approach can be the key which opens the door to reaching the class as a whole or reaching individual students.

Flexibility instead of rigidity on the teacher's part relaxes the teacher-student relationship.

In certain situations, a teacher should close the "left eye" _and view her students through the "right eye," except on religious or moral issues, in which case both eyes are needed!

Teachers are bombarded with expensive educational material that does not necessarily attract the students to learning. Using ingenuity, a teacher can sometimes create her own tail°^r"^made educational material that will be more suited to her students and make their learning an exciting challenge.

This brings to mind my own experience when I splurged on _an expensive educational toy for my one-and-a-half-year-old daughter. She obliged me by playing with it for a while, but then she grew bored and went back to pulling my pots and pans out of the cupbord and contentedly filling them with empty thread spools and large buttons.

In teaching the very young child, the following maxim is a wise one to heed:

"Do not take away childhood from children."

I read an article by a child psychologist, David Elkind, that provides insight in understanding the young child:

The child is constantly confronted with the nagging question: "What are you going to be?" Courageous would be the youngster who could look the adult squarely in the face and say, "I'm not going to be anything; I already am."

We adults would be shocked by such an insolent remark, for we have forgotten, if indeed we ever knew, that a child is an active, participating and contributing member of society from birth.

Childhood isn't a time when he is molded into a human who will then live life; he is a human who is living life. No child will miss the zest and joy of living unless these are denied him by adults who have convinced themselves that childhood is a period of preparation.

Last but not leas%the teacher's logical mind should go hand in hand with her understanding heart.

In Reaching the Stars, I am pleased to share with you some of the experiences that have made teaching a source of deep satisfaction for me, and learning a delight for my students.

Ruchoma Shain

Introduction

"Mrs. Shain?" The voice on the other end of the wire was hesitant. "This is Gitty Frankl, your former student. Is it true that you'll be arriving in the States in two weeks' time to attend your grandson's wedding?"

"With God's help, I hope to come, Gitty," I answered quickly, realizing that this phone call from New York to Jerusalem was an expensive one.

"Then I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Shain, but I've passed on this information to several of your former students, and we would like very much to meet with you while you are here. Do you think you could possibly leave one evening free for us?" she asked tremulously.

I happily assented and placed the telephone gingerly into its cradle. It was eighteen years since I had settled in Jerusalem, and more than twenty since I had seen most of my students. My excitement at the upcoming trip mounted!

The get-together was supposed to be a cozy gathering in the home of one of my former students, but the arrangements had to be changed as more and more of them heard that I was coming. When the evening arrived, I entered the banquet hall and was greeted by over two hundred of my students, many of whom had traveled great distances to welcome me. I was escorted to the seat of honor at the head of a large table laden with delicacies. In the center of the table was an elaborately decorated cake in the form of a bouquet of flowers.

Each of my students came up to press my hand, to whisper a word or two, to shed a tear.

"Mrs. Shain, I want you to know that my daughters are the best spellers in their classes," Evie said softly.

"My handwriting is so legible now," Yetta murmured, "that you wouldn't believe it!"

"Mrs. Shain, I still don't suck hard-ball candies," Faigie chuckled. "Your influence was permanent!"

"I am an expert swimmer now," Malka told me with pride.

"Mrs. Shain, I address a group each week," Bluma said proudly. "And it's all because of you and your Public Speaking classes!"

Suddenly they were no longer mature young matrons — wives, mothers, teachers, secretaries, whose smiling faces filled the hall — but my ponytailed first-graders and third-graders, gangly eighth-graders and fresh-faced high-school students once again...

It was the first day of spring, and the trees were in bloom as I sauntered slowly toward the bookstore where I was employed as a secretary. Though fumes from the passing cars enveloped me as I walked down the busy Lower East Side street, I could still smell the pungent blossoms that brought tidings of the coming summer. I paused in front of the bookstore for a moment, and a sense of intense claustrophobia overwhelmed me. I was loath to enter the dark interior of my cubby-hole office which was in the rear of the store.

Hours later my husband, Reb Moshe, returned from his teaching to find me gazing pensively out of our large picture window which overlooked the East River.

"Is something troubling you, Racoma?" he asked gently.

"Moshe, I would like to leave my job." He looked at me with surprise.

"Why? What happened?" His voice registered anxiety.

"Nothing, really. My boss is respectful, and he seems satisfied with my work. My salary is fair. Somehow, though, I feel imprisoned in the cramped quarters of that office. I long to be free!" I stretched my arms wide like a bird in flight.

"But what would you like to do?"

"I'll tell you, Moshe. Would it surprise you to know that for the last few months I've been toying with the idea of teaching? I realize that I have no experience, no training, no teaching certificate — but there is such a desire to teach bottled up inside of me — in my mind and in my heart." I waited for Reb Moshe's reaction.

"It is true you have never taught, Racoma," he began, "but if you really have your heart set on it, why don't you try to contact some of the religious schools in our neighborhood and see if they're interested? After all," he ended wisely, "nothing ventured, nothing gained."

The next morning I called my office to say that I would not be in that day. I made a list of all the religious schools I knew of and set out to visit them one by one. Each principal heard me out skeptically — no teaching experience, no college degree — and they were not at all impressed by my plea that I felt intuitively that I could be a successful teacher. My attending university in the evening and majoring in education did nothing to alter the noncommittal reply I received from most of them: "Leave your phone number. If we can use your services, we'll call you." I knew a polite refusal when I heard one.

Only one religious school remained on my list, but it was some distance from my home. A friend of mine who once taught there had mentioned it to me. I decided to make one last try.

The principal ushered me into his office. I presented my qualifications — or lack of them — almost defiantly. I had already given up hope of obtaining a teaching position. He asked me pointed questions about my family, which surprised me. "My two older children are married," I answered tersely, "and my youngest son is studying in an out-of-town yeshiva."

"Well, Mrs. Shain," he smiled, "you are just the person I'm looking for."

I gasped in astonishment.

"I am having great difficulty with my teaching staff," he went on to explain. "Most of the teachers are young married women, who are frequently on maternity leave. Those who aren't married are becoming engaged and are always busy with their wedding preparations. I am constantly looking for substitutes, all year round. Of course classes are disrupted, and it's the students who suffer. I need a mature woman like you who can be relied upon day in and day out." He stressed the last few words.

"And regarding your lack of experience, I'm not too concerned," he assured me. "If you have such a desire to teach, I'm sure you will be successful. You are fortunate, because yesterday my third-grade English teacher gave notice that she won't be with us next semester — she'll be getting married soon and is moving out of town. The third grade should be just right for you — not too difficult for an inexperienced teacher."

Rabbi Rose cleared his throat. "In fact, I am prepared to sign a contract with you right now." He hurriedly took a sheet of paper from his cluttered desk and filled in my name, address and telephone number. When he mentioned my starting salary, I clearly understood why he was so willing to accept me as a teacher! However, I did not quibble. In fact, I was grateful — at last I would have the opportunity to try my wings at teaching. My hand trembled slightly as I signed the contract.

Rabbi Rose handed me a set of third-grade textbooks and smiled. "Here you are, Mrs. Shain. I will be in touch with you before the opening of the school year. We usually have a staff meeting at the end of the summer to discuss various problems and pertinent information concerning the new term. You will have the opportunity to meet the other teachers then." Rabbi Rose bid me a cheerful "Hatzlachah rabbah" and escorted me out of his office.

I flew home on winged feet. Reb Moshe had barely opened the door, when I cried out exuberantly, "Moshe, you are looking at a third-grade English teacher!" I gave him a blow-by-blow description of the disappointing events of the day that had finally culminated in success at landing a teaching position. When he examined my contract and read the amount of my salary, he grimaced slightly but wisely did not comment.

I spent the entire summer preparing the program and curriculum for my third-grade students. I pored over different psychology books and teaching material geared to the eight-year-old. By the end of the summer, I was oozing with confidence and anxiously awaiting the telephone call from the principal.

It came the last week in August. "Mrs. Shain? This is Rabbi Rose. I hope you spent an enjoyable summer." There was a slight pause. "I would like to ask a special favor of you. Although I signed a contract with you to teach third grade, unfortunately a problem has cropped up. The former teacher has asked to have her third-grade class back: her engagement was broken, and she is understandably upset. I'm sure you can sympathize with her predicament.

"Now, it happens that I have an unusually large registration for the first grade and we'll be forming an additional class and will need another first-grade teacher. I really don't think you'll have any problems teaching first grade. The teachers' meeting will be held tomorrow morning at 10:00 A.M., in my office. I hope to see you then." Rabbi Rose waited for my reaction. I was so taken aback by this sudden turn of events that I just mumbled in agreement.

My head was in a whirl when I hung up the telephone. First grade! It sounded so simple, but I had been forewarned that it was one of the most difficult classes for an inexperienced teacher. In fact, when I had informed a teacher friend of mine that I would be teaching third grade, she had said, "Good — you're fortunate that you weren't given first grade."

I had very little time to prepare for my new undertaking as school was scheduled to start the next week. I tried to calm myself, and Reb Moshe encouraged me as well. "Just remember," he reassured me, "they are only five- and six-year-olds! I'm sure you'll be able to cope with them."

1

Ripening the Apple

I walked into Bet Leah School on the first day with firm resolve and shaky knees. I had spent most of the night and morning (my class started at 1:00 P.M.) reviewing the detailed program I had hastily prepared for this crucial first day of school: getting acquainted, handing out books, telling a story, initiating my elaborate teaching program,* and praying that I would live up to the challenge I had accepted.

Rabbi Rose showed me to my classroom, where thirty-six "starched" little girls greeted me. He delivered a short speech. "Girls, this is your teacher, Mrs. Shain. I hope you will make her proud of you." He nodded his head to me and walked briskly out of the room. I was on my own!

Before I had the opportunity to institute my program, a dark, curly-headed youngster whined, "Mrs. Shain, I have to make." Without hesitation, I gave her permission to go to the bathroom. This was my downfall! There followed a steady stream of children who suddenly had to "make." They are such little ones, I rationalized, how can I deny them permission to go to the bathroom! Besides, I feared the "consequences" if I did not allow them to do so.

Then a skinny little blonde girl started to whimper, "My belly hurts." I went over to comfort her, but she became hysterical. By that time all my little students, sensing my insecurity, began to take advantage of the situation. One was suddenly thirsty, another wanted her Mommy, and a third wouldn't stop jumping up and down in her seat.

I tried my utmost to control them, but even my best storytelling kept them quiet for only a short time. They squirmed and wriggled in their seats, whispered loudly to each other, twiddled their thumbs and played with their pencils, and, in general, shook my confidence. The tolling of the recess bell was a short reprieve.

During the second half of the session, I fared a little better, as they were tired from all their mischief-making. I became acquainted with a few of the more docile ones, and handed out their books, but I could not even begin to put my elaborate teaching plans into practice. The dismissal bell was welcome music to my ears, and, it seemed, to theirs as well. The children scrambled over each other in their eagerness to get to the door, relieved to be going home.

I returned home tired and discouraged. I discussed my day in detail with Reb Moshe, who gave me several good pointers. "Don't be afraid to be firm," he insisted. "If you control the situation, you'll keep their interest."

When I entered the classroom the following afternoon, the children were scampering around the room and enjoying their freedom. No sooner had I gotten them seated than the bathroom parade began again. I played games with them and told them stories to keep them relatively quiet and give me some respite, but, I reminded myself, I was not hired to be a nursery school teacher. I had a first-grade curriculum to follow. Though I tried to be firm, I could not get them under control enough to start my actual teaching program.

Rabbi Rose walked through my classroom several times during the day, on his way to the adjoining kindergarten class. As if by magic the children grew quiet as he passed through, but returned to their "natural" state as soon as he closed the door. He was well aware of the discipline problem I was having, but he maintained a discreet silence despite the desperate look on my face.

I spent hours in the library searching for material on methods of teaching first grade. In one psychology book, which discussed the child's adjustment to school, I found the encouraging statement: "But while reactions to school were generally positive, the picture was not entirely blissful. There seems to be an important mifj^rity which finds the first few months of school occasionally a disturbing experience." The book was referring to the students, but I found it more applicable to the teacher!

Then in one of the latest books on the process of education, I found this enlightening message: "We begin with the hypothesis that any subject can be taught effectively, in some intellectually honest form, to any child at any stage of development. It is a bold hypothesis and an essential one in thinking about the nature of curriculum." It sounded simple and even inspiring when I read it, but this hypothesis certainly did not hold true for me. How could I teach thirty-six unruly little girls who were not ready to be taught?

The following two weeks passed in a haze of torture. Some days I fared better and had some semblance of control, part of the time, but the overall picture was discouraging, and a far cry from my aspirations of what teaching — and a teacher — should be.

My married children, Elimelech and Mashi, who lived in Lakewood, New Jersey, came to visit me. "Ma," Mashi exclaimed anxiously, "you look terrible!" I had lost weight, and there were dark shadows under my eyes from my restless, sleepless nights. I poured out my litany of woes to them, and at first they listened in sympathetic silence.

Then Mashi spoke up. "Look, Mama, through all my growing-up years you always maintained that one must accept a challenge, be ready to fight against the current, and never be a quitter, and I realize how much you believe in this. However, at your stage in life, you are mature enough to face the fact that, perhaps, you are not cut out to be a teacher. After all, you have many other talents to explore. Why punish yourself? There are easier ways of committing suicide," she ended jocularly. Elime-lech nodded his head in agreement.

I discussed it at length with Reb Moshe, and we decided that Mashi was right. I am still young, I told myself, only in my early forties — why kill myself? Reb Moshe, my children, my grandchildren, all need me. And moreover, my first-graders were being deprived of the education they should be receiving from an experienced teacher.

Thirty-six first-graders with uncanny shrewdness had outsmarted me. I was defeated. In the wee hours of the morning, I wrote my letter of resignation. I felt a deep sense of relief at my decision — my suffering would come to an end.

Before daylight I fell into a deep sleep and dreamt that I was the chief devil in Hell. My first-graders were lined up before me, and I was poking each one with a pointy ruler. When I awoke, I somehow felt better and I suddenly had an excellent idea: Since I would not be their teacher for much longer, why not forget about educational theories and treat them the way misbehaving children should be treated!

I walked into my noisy classroom the next afternoon with vengeance in my heart. "Get into your seats this second," I hissed. "Keep your hands on the desk. Eyes forward. Don't move."

Shocked at my commanding voice, the children quickly scrambled to their seats and obeyed. "None of you will leave this room until recess time, even if you all have to make. If I hear one sound from any of you, you will be punished."

I blissfully forgot all about child psychology and "how to meet the needs of the students." Let the students meet my needs!

One of the more boisterous little girls suddenly jumped up. In a flash I deposited her in the corner of the room with her nose firmly pressed against the wall. "You will stay right here until I give you permission to sit down," I barked. She whimpered quietly, but it evoked not a shred of sympathy from me.

I then went over to the blackboard and printed in large letters: BAD LIST, and spelled it out loud to them, relishing every letter: "B-A-D Jfcl-S-T."

"Any girl who does not obey me will have her name written on the BAD LIST for everyone who comes into our classroom to see."

You could have heard the proverbial pin drop in the silence. Since I had only been in the classroom for fifteen minutes, I decided that, since silence reigned, I might as well teach them something before I handed in my letter of resignation. And when the dismissal bell rang, I was still engrossed in my teaching. I lined them up in twos, and they quietly filed out of the room like little wooden soldiers.

That day I did not hand in my letter of resignation.

The next afternoon I walked into a subdued class. The children sat quietly in their seats. I was still wary, and kept up the strict discipine, interspersed with occasional mercy. I took stock of the situation and came up with the following conclusions:

1.  I had used my maternal instinct instead of my teacher's intellect.

2.  I had to find a balance between loving and nurturing my students, and disciplining and teaching them.

3.  Above all, I had to realize each child's potential and steer her towards her maximum capacity.

I sent a special prayer up Above for guidance in this arduous task, because I would need the wisdom of King Solomon to fulfill my high aspirations.

Thirty-six "stars" had appeared on my horizon and become the focus of my entire life. My husband reacted with extreme patience, and my children with understanding; but every so often, my daughters Chaye, Mashi and Yehudis, would complain, "Mama, your grandchildren are not getting to know their Bobbe Shain." When my youngest son, Raphael Yitzchak, made visits home from his yeshiva in Philadelphia, he would suddenly exclaim — with good reason — in the midst of a conversation with me, "Mom, are you with me? I've just lost you." A new idea had popped into my mind that would be just the thing for my first-graders. My relatives and friends became, in turn, aihused, tolerant, condescending, and sometimes hurt because I had become a recluse, declining their many invitations.

As the school year progressed, I was pleased to see that many of my pupils' mothers became interested in the activities of the class, and I received amusing and enlightening notes from them.

To Mrs. Schoen,

Sarah says that all she does in your class is play. She is not in kindergarten. She needs to start to learn.

Mrs. S.

To Mrs. Shain,

Zeldie is happy in your class, but she never comes home with homework. Why?

Mrs. L.

Dear Mrs. Shine,

Please give Chava one spoon of medicine every two hours. She does not want to stay home. The doctor says she is not catching and can go to school. Thank you.

Mrs. F.

Mrs. Shain,

Yitty lost her glove- Can you see if she left it in class and give it to her. Thanks.

Mrs. P.

To Mrs. Shain,

When Rivky goes for recess or goes home, please button up her coat. She catches cold very quickly. Thank you.

Mrs. D.

To Teacher,

Rochel has to go to the toilet more often. She can't hold it in. Let her go out whenever she raises her hand.

Mrs. K.

Dear Mrs. Shain,

I am having a problem with Malka. She insists on wearing a certain dress that has a lot of buttons on it, and won't wear any other, as she says you count the buttons on their dresses when you teach arithmetic.

Mrs. A.

Dear Mrs. Shane,

Excuse Devorah for not being in schol. She was by her grandmother. Send me all the lesons she mised. I will teach her.

Mrs. J.

(Most of the parents were refugees who had come to the United States from Europe. I appreciated their efforts in learning English themselves and encouraging their children as well.)

It was the last day of school for my first-graders. The mellow June sun shone through the open windows, its golden beams dancing gracefully into our classroom.

The desks were filled with litter from the "goodbye party" that we had just had. I had stayed up very late the night before filling thirty-six little bags with goodies: cookies, peanuts, lollipops, raisins and chocolate bits. The thirty-six Dixie Cups that I had ordered were all licked clean of ice cream. The small wooden spoons resting inside the cups looked like tired soldiers waiting for the command, "At ease."

There was joy and laughter mixed with a tinge of sadness, for I had grown to love each of my first-graders, and I realized the separation would be difficult for me emotionally.

The ringing of the dismissal bell struck a chord of loneliness deep within me. The children lined up as usual, preparing to leave the classroom, but suddenly, they broke ranks and surrounded me. Engulfed by a sea of little girls, I hugged, kissed and patted each of them. Braindy clung to my hand and would not let go. Rivky's eyes filled with tears. Quiet little Chany just stared at me wistfully.

Finally, I herded my beloved "sheep" through the doors and on to the waiting school bus. The children pressed their little faces to the windows, flattening their noses and their farewell smiles. The bus snorted with apparent disdain at my sentiments and started to move, and the children waved their hands and cried out, "Goodby-y-y-e, Mrs. Sha-a-ain, goodby-y-ye!"

Slowly I walked back into the empty classroom. My desk was piled high with my students' offerings: a kerchief from Sarah, an apron from Chaya, a package of handkerchiefs from Toby, a box of chocolates from Zisie, and more and more...

I read the notes attached to each gift, notes that were more precious by far than any shiny red apple I had ever brought to my own schoolteachers when I was a child.

To my dearest teacher,

I love you like my mother. Sarah

To my Mrs. Shain,

I want to be in your claps always. Chaya

Dearest Mrs. Shain,

I am happy I have no more school, but I miss you. Toby

To my lovest teacher,

Can I live with you? Ettie

To my best teacher,

My mother says I can visit you. Can I come tomorrow? Miriam

Dearest, dear Mrs. Shain,

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

All these kisses are for you. Zeldie

The dam of tears burst and was soon overflowing. Rabbi Rose found me sitting at my desk, red-eyed and forlorn.

"Now, now, Mrs. Shain," he said understandingly. "I am sure you will love next year's first-graders just as much."

2

The Retrieved Key

On numerous occasions, teachers face virtually closed doors in their attempts to reach their students because they lack the key that fits the particular child. In many cases standard educational procedures and psychological approaches are not sufficient for dealing with a problematic student.

In the following experience with one of my first-graders, Ruthie, I took advantage of a seemingly ordinary situation to find the key to her heart.

The large, round-faced clock on the wall over my desk chimed twice in my first-grade classroom. "Rest time," I said firmly, and thirty-six little heads obediently plopped down on their desks.

Silence pervaded the room, and I glanced out the window at the dark gray, swollen clouds ready to release a torrent of rain at any moment. Shivering a bit, I thought to myself that it certainly did not look like a spring day.

A scratchy noise caught my attention. I studied the children and spotted red-headed Kaila scratching notches on her wooden desk top with her little pen. Such a restless child, a bundle of pent-up energy ready to pop — no wonder her mother could not cope with her. I was drawn to the rhythmic breathing of blonde, curly-haired Bashie who was fast asleep; her long curled eyelashes shadowed her piquant face. Remarkable, the way Bashie could fall asleep in a matter of moments. But sleep was a blessing for her, an escape from the world of first-grade classmates with whom she could not keep up.

I craned my neck to glance at the clock. It was five past two; five more minutes for rest period. I felt my eyes urging me toward Ruthie's seat — the first seat in the third row. Her black, pony-tailed head rested on one thin little hand. Her large, brown eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. The blue veins on her scrawny neck looked puffy.

Ruthie is bound and locked in her own vault, I thought for the hundredth time, and I don't have the key. I felt a sharp, twisting pain inside of me, a pain so real that I had to remind myself that it was only my emotions stabbing me. The school year was almost over, and I had not gotten through to Ruthie.

After several years of teaching first-graders, I had come up against a student I could not cope with. "I've failed," I whispered to myself. But what more could I have done? I had tried everything I could think of in my efforts to reach Ruthie; in fact, I had given her more attention than any other student, but Ruthie was like a tightly sealed, iron door.

I recalled my first meeting with Ruthie. It was the first day of school in early September, and my new first-graders were seated quietly at their desks.

"Now, children, I will tell you a little about myself, and then each of you will tell me your name and something about yourself." The children waited expectantly. "My name is Mrs. Shain. I live in a great big apartment house which is twenty stories high. From my window, I can see the boats sailing on the East River. One day I shall take you to see where I live. Would you like to come?" Their heads nodded.

In the middle of my remarks, the door suddenly opened. A short, stocky woman entered, dragging an emaciated child with large, frightened brown eyes that filled half her thin little face. The woman spoke in broken English, "I de mudder — Ruthie her name. She be good or teacher tell me." She handed me the office registration slip with the child's name, age, parents' name and address.

I thanked the mother and told her she could leave, and that her daughter would be well taken care of in my class. For a moment I tried drawing the frightened child to me. "What a pretty yellow dress you are wearing, Ruthie," I said cheerfully. She stared straight ahead. I assigned her to an empty seat in the back of the fifth row. She tiptoed to her seat and sat down.

I continued speaking to the children, and then it was their turn. Each child dutifully stood up in front of the class and told us her name and something about her family. When it was Ruthie's turn, she slowly shuffled her way to the front of the class, but no amount of patient coaxing could elicit a single word.

I was not surprised by her reaction, considering the preparation her mother must have given her for this first day of school. It will take a day or two for Ruthie to become acclimated, I thought confidently.

A week passed, and the children were getting used to the routine of school. I enjoyed the annual challenge of transforming these little tots into students to whom I could teach the mysteries of reading, writing and arithmetic. They were tiny sprouts who needed nourishment to blossom into the flowers of our Jewish society.

The children responded — all except Ruthie. I discerned that she was an intelligent child, but she would not utter a word. She never raised her hand — not even to go to the bathroom — and remained apart from the group.

I used every trick I knew to bring Ruthie out of her shell. I changed her seat from the back of the class to the front. Every recess, I tried a new approach with her.

"Ruthie, look at this lovely picture of children dancing in a circle. Why don't we color it together. Which color crayon do you want to use?"

Ruthie just stared, her mouth twitching, but no sound came. I knew that Ruthie could hear and understand me, for she was quick to follow instructions. Her coordination was excellent, her printing above average. She grasped everything I said in class, but she never said a word.

I tried again and again. "Ruthie, I have a surprise just for you. I bought you a storybook about Raizele, a little girl just your age. Shall I read the story to you?" Ruthie only tightened her skinny little body and avoided my eyes.

I did not give up, and decided to visit her home and try to find out what could be causing this reaction in Ruthie. I discovered that her background was tragic. Her family had emigrated from Hungary just two years before. Her father had obtained a job as a bricklayer for a construction company. His meager salary was stretched to support his family of seven children, who ranged in age from two to twelve. Ruthie was a middle child, with three older brothers and three younger sisters.

Six months after arriving in New York, the father fell from a scaffold and injured his spine. He remained paralyzed from the waist down. Although the family received unemployment compensation and medical benefits, the loss of income forced the mother to find work outside the home. The strain of her job, combined with the responsibilities of caring for her invalid husband and seven young children had proved to be too much for her, and she had suffered a physical and mental breakdown. She was hospitalized, and the children were shunted here and there to relatives and friends, made to feel a burden to all.

When the mother had recuperated, the children returned home. Their family life, however, had been essentially destroyed. The father sat in his wheelchair bemoaning his fate all day. Though the mother tried her utmost to cope with the children and housekeeping, she did not manage very well. The house was untidy and noisy, a home where dissatisfaction permeated every corner. Ruthie, a sensitive child, absorbed the bitterness of her father, the anxiety of her mother, and the deep fears of insecurity.

Although knowing about her home life made it easier for me to understand Ruthie, I still could not find the key to her heart.

Chanukah arrived, bringing great excitement to all the children in my class. I took part in the fun, feeling like a little girl again myself. We played dreidel, lit the Chanukah candles and exchanged gifts. For Ruthie I bought a toy musical carousel which had children sitting on little tin horses; when it was wound up, the carousel turned around and around and played a merry tune. Ruthie accepted the gift, said nothing, and stared at the floor.

Despite my few days off during Chanukah, Ruthie's problem had become of such paramount importance to me that I did not enjoy the vacation. I discussed it with Reb Moshe.

"Racoma, you gave it all you had. You must accept the fact that a teacher cannot always solve every one of her students' problems. Who knows, Ruthie might need professional help," he advised. I had thought about it, but knowing the stigma attached to psychological treatment then, I was afraid to broach the subject with the parents.

I decided to try an altogether different approach; perhaps I would still find a way to reach her. I cornered her the first day after Chanukah vacation. "Ruthie, I thought you were a big girl, a first-grader. But you know, if you cannot talk, you must belong with the kindergarten babies." Brown eyes stared at me defiantly.

I tried ignoring her for an entire week, but there was no visible reaction.

Now it was almost the end of the school year, and I had not made even the slightest dent in Ruthie's locked vault. Was the key lost forever? I wondered.

The children's whispering brought me back to reality. It was 2:20 P.M. and I still had twenty minutes before the dismissal bell. I decided to play the arithmetic game they enjoyed so much.

"Children, we are going to play the Chickadee Game. Rows three and four, line up against the window and become little chickadees." They quickly scrambled over to the window and crouched on the floor. Ruthie crouched on the floor near the steam pipe, but I knew she would not join the game. "Mimsy, you'll be the first little chickadee to fly away. Now, let's all sing the song together."

"Ten little chickadees sitting in a line — one flies away and then there are nine! Chickadee, chickadee, fly away. Chickadee, chickadee —"

Mimsy flew up and down the rows flapping her little "wings" frantically until she reached her seat. Chana was next in turn. Suddenly, I heard a dripping sound. Had it started to rain? I looked out the window; the clouds were still threatening, but there was no sign of rain.

Drip, drip, drip. The sound came again. I glanced at my chickadees crouching on the floor, and then I noticed Ruthie's face. It was first blood-red and then white as a sheet. In a flash I realized what had happened. There was a widening pool under Ruthie, and her terror-filled eyes seemed larger than her tiny face could hold.

The horror of what would take place the minute the children became aware of what had happened suddenly struck me. I could imagine them pointing their fingers at her and taunting, "Ha! Ha! Ha! Shame on Ruthie!" It would be a death blow to the child.

The children were so absorbed in their game that they still had no idea what had occurred, but there was not a moment to saw Ruthie's pathetic eyes fixed on me. She sensed that I new. Counting on the naivete of the children, I rapped my ruler sharply on the desk. "Children, I'm very sorry, but we'll have to stop the Chickadee Game right away," I said. "Quickly now, fly back to your seats." They all hurried" to obey.

I tried to speak to Ruthie with my eyes, which were riveted to hers: Ruthie, I never lie to my children, but it is only for your sake; try to understand that I want to help you.

I continued to speak to the children. "You see, Ned, our super, told me this morning that there is a leak in our steam pipe. I just noticed that it's leaking badly — the floor is all wet over there." The children craned their little necks to look at the puddle.

"Get ready for dismissal, please, so I can call Ned to come and fix it." The children gathered their books and stuffed them into their schoolbags. "Rows one and two — take your partners. Rows three and four — take your partners. Rows five and six — take your partners. Line up now."

The children were accustomed to the routine. It took but a few minutes for them to get into their places. The first two in line opened the door wide and held it. They all waited expectantly for my go-ahead: "Good afternoon, children."

"Good afterno-o-oon, Mrs. Sha-a-ain!" came the sing-song response.

They marched out hand-in-hand, singing the song I had composed especially for them. Their treble voices floated back to me:

We are the first-graders marching along. We are all happy singing this song. We love our school, and we obey the rule. For we are the very best!

We are the very best, And we lead all the rest, So let us try and show, How much we really know,

When we come marching along!

I closed the door and almost collapsed against it. I felt physically and emotionally drained. I need a vacation — I am much too involved with the children, I thought.

I felt a slight turning of the doorknob at my back. I opened the door. Ruthie stood there.

"Uh...uh...uh...Missuz Shain," she stammered in a hoarse little whisper; no other words came. Ruthie's glistening eyes told me everything I wanted to hear. Suddenly she grabbed my hand, brushed it with a lick-like wet kiss and fled from the room.

I looked out the window. The clouds parted, and a bit of brilliant blue sky showed through. It was the most glorious spring day I had ever witnessed.

3

Skipping Up

I had been teaching first grade for several years when Rabbi Rose suggested that I move up to third grade. "Remember, Mrs. Shain, you originally intended to teach the third grade, and you have all the plans ready. I think you'll enjoy having older children for a change, and I'd like the children to have a taste of your teaching."

I was indeed sorry to leave my first-graders, as I found teaching them most rewarding, but I did not argue the point too much with Rabbi Rose, for I did have an elaborate program for teaching third grade, and I was anxious to try it out. So I became a third-grade teacher, and by the end of the school year I had a sense of great satisfaction, for my third-graders had made giant strides in every way, and I had gained confidence as a seasoned teacher.

On the last day of school, Rabbi Rose suggested that I move up again, as he had a fifth grade available. "You see, Mrs. Shain, our fifth-grade teacher is going to be teaching eighth and ninth grades next fall, and I need to replace her with an experienced teacher. I am convinced that you are just the one for that class. In fact, since you had these very children in your first grade, and you know each and every one of them, I'm sure that it will give you great pleasure teaching them once again."

"Rabbi Rose," I said with a sigh, "it seems that whenever I have mastered the teaching of a grade, and have all my material ready, you skip me up, and I have to start again from scratch. Believe me, I will be more than satisfied to continue with my third-graders, as I feel that the year was very successful. In short — what do I need it for?" I concluded.

"Believe me, Mrs. Shain, I am well aware of how successful you were with the third-grade class, and that is exactly why I feel so strongly that you should accept the challenge of the fifth grade. Each time you have an opportunity to teach another grade, you will gain vital teaching experience which will be a benefit to you and to our students."

Rabbi Rose never pressuredper se, but in his quiet, firm way, he usually got the teachers to do what he wanted. I, too, was convinced by his argument and gave in.

I spent the summer vacation preparing an elaborate program for my fifth-grade class. I was looking forward to having my former first-graders again as students, and I felt a sense of confidence.

Ten days before the opening of the school year, the fateful phone call came. "Hello, Mrs. Shain. I hope that all is well with you and your family, and that you had a restful summer." Rabbi Rose was speaking quickly and sounded harried. "As you know, our teachers' meeting is tomorrow at 11:00 A.M. Would you be able to come an hour before the other teachers arrive? I would like to discuss something of utmost importance with you."

I could not imagine what Rabbi Rose wanted to discuss with me, as he gave me no inkling. However, the note of anxiety in his voice that I had detected left me feeling unsettled. I was at his office before 10:00 A.M.

Rabbi Rose did not mince words. "Mrs. Shain, I am faced with a serious problem, and I need your cooperation. As you know, the former fifth-grade teacher had undertaken to teach eighth and ninth grades. She called me yesterday, and informed me that she cannot return to school for personal reasons. Now, I can get a fifth-grade teacher, but despite all the inquiries I've made since her call, I have not been able to get an eighth- and ninth-grade teacher who would be suitable for our school." I knew what was coming, and my refusal was already on the tip of my tongue.

"I realize I'm not giving you much time for preparation," he continued, "but you're the only teacher I have who would be able to take these classes."

This time I was adamant. "Rabbi Rose, I understand your predicament, and I would like to help you out, but I have made my mark as an elementary school teacher, and I have no desire whatsoever to teach the higher grades."

Rabbi Rose did not give up easily. "Mrs. Shain, I am sure you would find it very rewarding to teach the higher grades. The ninth-grade students are young ladies already, and you have much to offer them as a mature woman. As for the eighth grade, it is the graduating class, you know, and there is a yearbook to be published — I know how much you enjoy creative projects. You would be the faculty advisor for the yearbook, as well as the mistress of ceremonies at the graduation." He dangled this prize before me and waited for my reaction.

"Why don't you take the day to think over this excellent proposition? I'm sure that one day you will thank me for this opportunity. Now, it's almost time for our teachers' meeting. Can you call me tonight at home? I'll be waiting for your reply." He did not wait for me to comment.

I left Rabbi Rose's office with my mind in a whirl. One part of me wanted to accept the position. I had always been very interested in the eighth-grade yearbook, and I liked to think about how I would tackle it. I went to all the eighth-grade graduations, and felt the excitement of the moment, even though I was not their teacher.

But another part of me warned, Racoma, you are doing well just as you are. You have all your plans ready for the fifth grade. You are not prepared at all to teach eighth and ninth grades.

I naturally discussed the problem with Reb Moshe. "I really cannot make the decision for you," he told me sympathetically. "I know you thrive on challenges, but at the same time I fear it will be a great strain for you, especially since you have so little time to prepare the curriculum for both classes." I could sense that he would be pleased if I refused the offer.

That night I called Rabbi Rose as I had promised. "I have been thinking about your proposition all day," I told him, "and I am still undecided. If it were only the eighth grade, I would be willing to accept it, but I am very hesitant about teaching ninth grade."

"As you know, Mrs. Shain," he began in a final effort to convince me, "these classes are departmental, which means that you would have each class for only an hour-and-a-half for the academic subjects, and then the teacher for commercial subjects takes over. I'm sure it will not pose any difficulty for you, and it would be a great favor to me if you would undertake this. You can be sure that I will cooperate with you in every way."

Despite my misgivings, I made the fateful decision and accepted the challenge.*

When I came to school the next morning, Rabbi Rose handed me a set of textbooks for both grades. I noticed that on the cover of the ninth-grade English grammar book, which was entitled Enjoying English, a student had etched the word Not, so that the title read Not Enjoying English.

I showed it to Rabbi Rose, and he smiled. "Don't take this seriously, Mrs. Shain. You know how teenagers are." I leafed through the book, and realized that it certainly was not the kind of book I would want to teach from — the improvised title had been etched by a perceptive student. The day before, I had made inquiries about the material available for the eighth and ninth grades, from friends who had daughters in these grades in a more modern religious school.

"Rabbi Rose," I said, taking a deep breath, "under no circumstances will I teach English from this outdated English textbook. There are new workbooks available for vocabulary, spelling and grammar. I would appreciate it if you could order these books for both grades, so I can have them when school starts." I handed him a list with the names of the books I wanted.

"But Mrs. Shain, we've been using these textbooks all along and no teacher has objected."

"Well, Rabbi Rose, I am objecting and it is time for a change. You said you would cooperate with me, and I expect you to order these books." Rabbi Rose did not answer.

Though I was wary when I entered the eighth-grade classroom on the first day of school, it went quite smoothly. The girls were excited about all the plans and the special program I outlined for their graduating class. We went right to work. The class voted for the staff of the yearbook: editors, assistant editors, art staff, business managers, and reporters. I was faculty advisor for the English section.

When the bell rang for the change of classes, I had a feeling of satisfaction. I felt I had made the correct choice in agreeing to teach the higher grades. THE REBELLION

I walked confidently into the ninth grade, only to be greeted by forty-nine unruly girls who sang out, "Go-o-o-od afterno-o-o-on, Mrs. Sha-a-a-in." They were mimicking the sing-song greeting of my first-graders because many of their little sisters had been students of mine.

I tried to bring the class to order, but it was impossible because they were determined to act like first-graders. "I have skipping up to go to the bathroom," one girl called out, and a stream of giggling girls marched out after her. Another girl ran up and down the aisles waving her hands, imitating my Chickadee Game.

I decided to sit it out and not try to do anything to stop them. I hoped that in a short while they would tire of their antics and settle down. But it was not to be. They gave me no chance to talk to them at all. When the dismissal bell rang, they burst into the familiar sing-song once again: "Go-o-o-od afterno-o-o-on, Mrs. Sha-a-a-in," and stampeded out of the room.

It seemed like a bad dream, a repeat performance of what I had gone through when I first started to teach the first grade! But these girls were not five- or six-year-olds; they were fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds, and I could not put them in the corner or write their names on the BAD LIST on the blackboard.

I returned home troubled and fighting mad. I realized that I would have to find a way to squash the rebellion as quickly as possible. This time I was an experienced teacher, and I was not going to take it lying down. But how????

I talked it over with Reb Moshe, who sympathized with me as usual. I appreciated the fact that he didn't say "I told you so," and remind me that he knew I might be in water over my head by accepting the high-school classes without preparation. We discussed different methods of discipline, but I was at a loss as to how to implement them in this case.

My oldest son, Yisroel Meir, called me on the phone to ask me how I'd made out on the first day of school. "Yisroel Meir," I exclaimed, "you cannot believe what went on in the ninth grade. It was a rebellion, and I have to find a way to nip it in the bud." Yisrael Meir had been teaching a ninth-grade yeshiva class himself for several years, and was a successful disciplinarian. "Have you got any good ideas for me?" I asked him nervously.

"Well, I teach only boys, you know, but I can tell you that students who are demanding attention do not like to be ignored. Have you any idea who the ringleaders are? Try to figure out who they are and then ignore them. And don't forget to be very tough with the rest of the class. And Mama, I'm sure you'll win — just don't give up. B'hatzlachah!"

I also telephoned a teacher who had been working in the English high school for some time, and she gave me the low-down. "I heard through the grapevine, Mrs. Shain, that the girls took a petition to Rabbi Rose, stating that they refuse to have a first-grade teacher teaching their high-school class. They are prepared to go to any lengths to drive you out of their class. I've also heard that the entire student body of the high school is egging them on and wants them to win. I'm really sorry." I could hear the pity in her voice.

I was facing a battle. I firmly decided that it would be a battle to the finish, and that I was not going to lose it.

I walked into the ninth grade the next afternoon on the warpath. Before they had a chance to begin their "greeting," I quickly chose four of the troublemakers who seemed to be the leaders, and using them as scapegoats, I pointed to them with my ruler and snapped, "You—you—you—and you—are now empty seats."

The rest of the students were shocked by my onslaught, but I was not finished. "Now as for the rest of you, I have heard that it is beneath your dignity to be taught by a first-grade teacher. Let me tell you, girls, that you have a lot to learn from my first-graders about how to show respect for a teacher. Moreover, I was certainly not anxious to teach this class, but Rabbi Rose asked me to do it as a special favor to him, and I intend to stick with it whether you like it or not.

"Now — you have two alternatives: either you behave in a way which is befitting to high-school girls, or you leave this class. But I am warning you — as a matter of principle I do not make idle threats. Once I threaten to do something I carry it out at all costs. Should any of you decide to leave the class — and I would be pleased if you did, since a class of forty-nine is far too large — you will never darken this doorway again. It makes no difference to me who you are — you can be the president's daughter, the director's daughter or of any other exalted lineage — but you will not be a student of mine.

"Furthermore — since there is only one ninth grade in our school, you will have to choose to go down one class or up one class, or go to another school altogether, and in my opinion, it would be 'good riddance,' because girls who do not want to learn are only a detriment to the school.

"I am going to give you five minutes to decide." I turned my head to the large clock hanging on the side wall of the classroom, and said sternly, "Ready? I am timing you."

An eerie silence descended on the room, broken only by the sound of the clock ticking away the minutes of doom. No one stood up to leave.

"All right, girls. You've made your decisions. However, if one of you so much as disrupts this class once, for any reason at all, I shall not wait for you to leave, but I shall expel you immediately. We have nine-and-a-half months to accomplish the program I have prepared for you. Not only will you have the general academic studies, but I have added, for the first time, some new subjects: student-teaching, public speaking, health and hygiene, and open class discussions on different topics that I feel will be of help to you not only in this class, but throughout your whole lives. If any of you has suggestions of topics for class discussion, I will be happy to consider them.

"I have also asked Rabbi Rose for new workbooks in English grammar, vocabulary and spelling. I hope they have arrived already, so we won't waste any of our precious time.

"As for the four empty seats: I do not consider you part of my class. You will not be marked for attendance, or take part in any of the lessons or activities. You can be absent as much as you want, or you can sit without participating, but should I hear one sound from any of you, I'll expel you immediately, and you won't even be an empty seat in my class any more."

The students eyed me with new respect. I had quelled the revolution, but I still had a battle to win. These girls were now my ninth-graders, and it was up to me to teach them, to bring out the best in each and every one of them, to make them grow into young women of high character who would be a source of pride to our Jewish Nation. I also felt a need to love them and have them return that love.

There were problems ahead, but they acknowledged me as their teacher, and they buckled down to work. The class was a hodgepodge of brilliant girls, smart girls, average and below-average students, and I had to find the secret key to each student's mind and heart.

There was one genius who read the New York Times every morning and tried her utmost to outsmart me by innocently asking questions about the morning news.

One day I was ready for her. "Leah," I said sweetly, "since you are so well-versed on current events, I would like you to write up a daily resume of the news, and before we begin our lessons, you can give us a five-minute report." It worked wonders. The class gained, and she had a new role to play that fed her ego.

There was another brilliant student who always knew the answers before I had finished explaining the questions to the class. She would raise her hand wildly, and shout the answers even before I had called on her. When this happened once too often, I said to her, "Bertha — I know, and your classmates know, that Hashem has blessed you with a very special brain, but that does not mean that you have to show it off all the time. Why don't you give some of your classmates the opportunity to show what they know?" She turned cherry-red. I realized that I had hurt her to the core, and I noticed that the class was gloating over her discomfort.

Two days later, I asked Bertha to see me during recess. She walked into the teachers' room with an evident chip on her shoulder.

"Bertha," I began, "I am aware that I embarrassed you in front of the entire class, and for that I am sorry. But I felt it was the only way that your classmates would accept you. It's true that they may have enjoyed your embarrassment because they felt you had it coming, but now you are one of them, and they are on your side. I realize that you are way above your classmates in intellectual ability, and it is indeed a great blessing from Hashem, but you must learn how to use this gift to bring out the best in yourself in every way.

"I will try to help you by giving you extracurricular activities whenever you finish the classwork. I do want you to continue to participate in class, but you have to learn the art of self-control. You want to be apart of a group, and not apart from it."

I could see that my words had hit home. "Thank you, Mrs. Shain. I will try my best."

During the next two weeks, my ninth grade became a model class. The new subjects — student-teaching, public speaking and general class discussions — proved to be a huge success. I also added discussions on health and hygiene, which I felt were very important for teenagers.

In the meantime, the four empty seats, whom I ignored completely, were making overtures. I received the following note signed by all four: "We are very sorry for our behavior on the first day of school. Can we become real seats?" Though I was tempted to forgive them, I decided that I should continue the tough policy a while longer. I ignored their note. They then sent one of the most popular students in the class to intercede on their behalf and plead their cause.

"Mrs. Shain," Mimi began her heartfelt plea, "the entire class is really to blame for what happened that first day. We all feel terrible that our classmates are taking the rap for us. Will you give them another chance? Please?"

"I'll think about it, Mimi."

I allowed one more week to pass, and three weeks after school had started, my ninth grade was a complete class again. My heart was at peace, and, at last, I was able to relax my defenses. I was their teacher, and they were my beloved students — all forty-nine of them.

Of course, with such a large group of teenage girls, there were inevitably occasional disciplinary problems, but I always emphasized to my students that I disapproved of their behavior, not of them personally. Each day, after greeting my students, I would say, "Girls, yesterday is past. Today is a new day in which you are capable of reaching new heights."

I made one principle very clear to them: "Girls, your religious studies are supposed to teach you many things: they should not only give you a thorough grounding in Torah studies, but also elevate you to a higher moral level. Even though I am teaching you only secular subjects, you are not half-girls, and I expect you also to reach higher ethical standards with every lesson in literature, grammar, vocabulary or spelling. If even one of my students becomes a better person today, I will feel that my teaching is paying great dividends."

In addition, I tried to make my teaching an exhilarating experience. I bounced into class each day filled with enthusiasm and new ideas, and the girls responded. I once said to my students jokingly, "Girls, don't ever let the principal know how much I enjoy teaching you, or he might deduct from my salary."

It was a few days before the Passover holiday, and many of my students were absent. Since they came from large families, I had excused those whose mothers needed their help to prepare for the holiday. When I walked into class I found eighteen of my girls absent, which meant that I had "only" thirty-one students present.

"Girls, you know that one of my rules is that no student can change her assigned seat; today, however, I just can't bear to see all the empty seats, so I'd like each of you to move up and get as close to me as possible." There was a mad scramble as the girls made a dash to get into the first seats.

On another occasion, my students outdid themselves in their speech session. I was very proud of their accomplishments, and said to them, "Girls, today you have given me a lot of nachas. I realize that nachas is not an English word, and you will not find it either in Webster's New World Dictionary or in Roget's Thesaurus, but there is no word in English that really has the exact meaning, so I am hereby adding the word nachas to our English vocabulary list!"