Poetry, ah, poetry.

My sixth-graders just finished their second semester poetry unit, during which we read, dissected, and wrote our own:

Cinquains
Diamantes (sort of the Cinquain's Italian cousin)
Acrostics
"This is Just to Say" poems, a'la William Carlos Williams

Including this standout example:

This is just to say
That I kicked
Your football over the fence
Now it's in the street

I'm not sorry
And I'd do it again

I'm going to give you a slap also.



Omonatoepia. Onomon. Monoi. Sound word poems.
And
Haikus.


Now, I love Haikus. Basho is my homeboy, as the young people say. And in teaching the form to the kids, I tried to make it super engaging and fun. We started with a Haiku quiz: I wrote a bunch of haikus describing different areas in the school and different teachers, and the kids had to guess who/what the haikus were describing. Why? Because who doesn't like a short, easy to read poem about the boys' bathroom or the frequently enraged school janitor? Also, this is how I introduced the  5 syllables/7 syllables/5 syllables structure.

 Then, they all got to pick out and read haikus from the Haiku Hall of Fame (an institution of which I am the sole curator, custodian, and consigliore) from within the mysterious depths of the "Haiku Hat"(Skeptical question from the back: "Becky, isn't that just your recess hat?" Shut up, kid, and enjoy the fun and wonder! . . . Yes, yes it is..), we organized those haikus into different groups to figure out recurrent themes and images in classical haikus (the changing of the seasons, elements of the natural world, details involving the five senses, etc).

Next, everyone got clipboards with haiku templates and we went outside to be inspired by the school gardens and the animals in the peenat chai (the school zoo--literally "the corner of life."). Everyone's enjoying, everyone's having a good time. The carefully scaffolded, differentiated, constructivist lesson is a success. Japanese poetry is alive and well in Israel!

We end the class by going inside and listening to everyone read at least one of their poems out loud. The highlights follow (author names changed to protect privacy, natch):


A Pair of Haikus by Shira

University!
I love university!
Why? Because it fits!

Refrigerator!
I love refrigerator!
Why?See it! Also fits!


"The Teachers' Room" [Ed: i.e. "The Teachers' Lounge] by Avi

Room with many chairs
Students hate who is inside
Except for Becky

[Ed: This would have been very flattering if Avi did not add after reading it aloud, "I wrote that so Becky wouldn't get mad."]

"Untitled"
(This is by Tamir, and is very meta-poetic and post-modern, commenting on the form as he creates it)

I walk to the court
But I can't play basketball
I have to write this.

"Biebr Fiver" (sic, read: "Bieber Fever")

[please enjoy the scansion and meter employed here]

Justin  was just here
For a concert in Tel A[erased smudge]
viv and I saw it!


"Japan" by the extremely sweet, altruistic (and exclamation point-loving) Maayan

Home of the haiku!
But then there is earthquake!
Let's all give money!!!!

And last, but certainly not least:

The untitled and guilt-inducing work of Noy

Becky teaches me
But not forever because
Moves to Chicago
[Frowny face, frowny face, frowny rain cloud]

רפסודיה של בוהמה**

**[Transl. literally "The Rhapsody of the Bohemians"]

The posthumous induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?
 Probably.

The tribute bands?  
Maybe.

The screenprinted t-shirts bearing his likeness being sold at Hot Topic for $29.99?    
Anything's possible

But the likelihood that Freddy Mercury would ever, in his wildest, cocaine-addled dreams foresee the day that  lyrics to one of his most enduring hit songs would be printed by Eric Cohen Publishing Ltd. in the "Sports" chapter of an English language textbook geared at eight year-old Israeli schoolchildren?

Incomprehensible.

And yet.

Behold:

Teaching First Graders About Native Americans

Becky: (With a book, pointing to illustrations): And this is a special doll called a kachina doll. Members of the Hopi tribe make-

Gaea: (Interrupting): Becky, are Native 'Merkans cannibals?

Jacob (Gaea's cousin): What's a cannibal?

Gaea: Jacob! Don't you remember Grandpa taught us about them? (Triumphantly) They are people. Who eat other people. They live. In. The Amazon.

Becky: No, Native Americans were never--

Jacob: (Interrupting) I remember, I just don't remember what they did.

Becky: Well, that doesn't have much to do with--

Jacob: (Interrupting) In South Africa, we call them "Rehhhhhd Indians."

Becky: (rubbing her eyes) Ohhhhhhhhkaaaaaaay, let's talk about why we shouldn't use that name--

Rotem: (hanging upside down with his ankles hooked around the arms of his chair) REDDDDDDDD INDIANSSSSSSSSSSS! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

End of Scene. (Unfortunately, the music signaling the end of the class period does not mercifully play. There is now a full forty minutes to talk to first-graders about the dangers of racial slurs and reassure them that no cannibals live in Israel, or anywhere else in the Middle East.)

Defining the term "Native"

. . . So, for example, who can name an animal that is native to Israel?

"Kangaroos!"

--"Kangaroos are native to Australia."

"I saw some in the Ramat Gan Zoo."

--"Well they came here from Australia."

"Did they swim here?"**

--"No. First of all I'm not sure if they can swim. And Australia is very far away. I know it seems funny, but I'm sure they flew, just like how Australian people get here."

(Credulous look directed is directed my way, then:)

"If they can't swim, they can't fly."




**When later asked why she wanted to know if the kangaroos swam to Israel, Gaea calmly replied, "My dad says that's how animals came to grow up on islands." When gently reminded that Israel is not an island Gaea answered, in a triumphant sing-song "But Austrrrrrrrrrrrralia is!" (I did not bring up the fact that kangaroos are massive land mammals with tiny, comically ineffectual front arms and marsupial pouches that would quickly become water-logged during a cross-oceanic voyage).

Classroom Rules I Did Not Anticipate Needing

1. No guinea pigs in the classroom!
2. NO. GUINEA PIGS. IN THE CLASSROOM!
3. Don't put tape on anyone's butt.
4.Don't lick the glue.
5. Don't pretend the aerosol fixative for your oil pastels illustrations is hairspray.
6. And don't lick it either.
7. If you have a bloody nose, go to the medic and do not use your sleeve.
8. In fact, don't use your sleeve to wipe away any bodily fluid. Ever.
9. "No snacks in the library" does not mean "Cram half a sandwich into your mouth on the threshold of the library entrance."

and

10. No guinea pigs in the bathroom.

Herding Cats

Becky enters the library with three giggling first-graders: Gaea, Gaea's newly-emmigrated cousin Jacob, and their classmate Rotem.

Becky: Okay! Let's sit down and--

Gaea: (In charming  but heavy South African accent )What are we going to do today?

Jacob and Rotem speak simultaneously

Jacob: In heavy South African accent, augmented by whistling "th" and "s" sounds due to his Jack-o-Lantern smile Are we going to play puppets? Ooh! Ooh! Becky, shall I tell you what Sugar did yesterday?

Rotem: (with two fingers in his mouth as he speaks) Becky? Can we read Hungry, Hungry Sharks?

Gaea: (impatiently) Becky! What are we going to do today? (Then hearing the magic words "Hungry, Hungry Sharks")Ooh, yes Are we going to read Hungry Hungry Sharks?

Rotem is now seated under the table poking his finger into his bellybutton comtemplatively.

Jacob: Becky, do you know what you say in Afrikaans to tell someone to go away? He says something that sounds vaguely Dutch D'you know what that means? Shall I tell you? It means, 'Go poop in the bush!'

Peals of laughter from all three

Rotem: (from under the table, with relish) Go ca-ca in a bush!

Gaea: (to Jacob) Go poop on your head!(hysterical laughter)

Becky: OH-KAAAAAAY. Let's all take a seat in our chairs (Rotem army crawls out from under the table, making himself into a human Swiffer-mop in the process. Jacob throws his pencil case onto the chair next to Becky in a proprietary "dibs" gesture then wipes his nose on his sleeve as he sits down on top of it. Meanwhile, in one fluid motion, Gaea vaults into her chair, kicks off her sneakers, then expertly leans back, balancing her chair on only one of its back legs) Gaea? Four on the floor, please! Gaea complies with a long-suffering sigh. All right, who can remember what we did last week?

Jacob: Ooh! Becky, shall I tell you? (Not waiting for a reply) We made dragon alphabet puppets, and also we wrote a story about dragon alphabet puppets. And then our dragon alphabet puppets fought! And my dragon was the strongest!

Gaea: No, Jared! My story was about a real dragon!

Rotem: Also me! I did write about the dragon of Captain Tachktooneem [Transl: "Captain Underpants"]!

Jared: Yes, but they were stories about our dragons, who are dragon alphabet puppets! And also real. But they are our puppets.

Becky silently contemplates the semiotic complexities of this claim. Rotem and Gaea accept it without pause.

Becky: Great, that's right! Yes! So, today, we are going to start by reading this storybook (brandishing the book) Can anyone tell me what the title of the book is?

Gaea: IfIhadadragon!

Rotem: What? What she say?

Jacob: She didn't raise her hand! Becky, she must raise her hand, am I right?

Gaea: (repeating, slower) If I had a dragon

Rotem: Oh, avanti! [Transl: "Understood"] And I HAVE a dragon! I have a dragon!

Becky: Yes, Gaea, try to wait to be called on next time, but great job reading the title! Wow!

Jacob: (Quiet but pointedly) I could have done a great job reading the title.

Gaea: Shall I tell you something about dragons?

Becky: gamely Okay.

Gaea: There are dragons who live in Galahoush [Ed. Galapagos Islands?] but they are not like dragons and--

Jacob: There is also one in the zoo, am I right Gaea? No, there are two. They live in a pit.

Gaea: Yes, Jacob. They have poison mouths, and if they bite you just a little, you die. Because of the germs in their mouth which. Which is poison.

Becky: Oh, right! Komodo dragons.

Gaea: (gently correcting) Kimono. Kimono Dragons.

Becky: Actually (then thinking better of it) Well, good introduction, Gaea-Girl! Let's turn to the first page and--

Gaea: Shall I tell you something else?

Becky: Does it have to do with the story we're going to read?

Gaea: Yes.

Jarred: Shall I tell you something else too, Becky? That has to do with the story?

Becky: One more thing from each of you, then we start the story. And Roh, do you want to share anything before we start reading too?

Rotem: Ehmm. . . (long pause). . . No. No, yes! Yes.

Becky: Okay, well you'll go third, okay? Now, yes, Gaea?

Gaea: Do you know the bird with the longest wings?(She illustrates with outstretched arms) It is the King Condor. And it must run before it starts to fly. Like an airplane does before it takes off.

Becky: (wondering what King Condors have to do with dragons) Cool, I didn't know that. Okay, Jacob, you have the floor!

Jacob: (vacantly) Uhm. Uhmmmmmmm. I've forgotten.

Becky: (briskly) Okay, we'll come back to you if you remember, okay buddy? Rotem, what would you like to--

Jacob: (urgently) I REMEMBER!

Becky: (small sigh) Ohhhkay. Let's have it.

Jacob: The fastest animal on land is the cheetah. And cats' claws only come out sometimes. But cheetahs' claws are always out. Because the claws help them run fast.

Becky: Another great animal fact. So, now I think we're ready to read If I Has a Dragon and when we--

Rotem: (plaintively) Also me?

Becky: Oh, Rotem! Sorry, bud! Of course, go ahead!

Rotem: (choking back giggles) Go-oh! Poop! INNN THHHHHHHE BUUUUUUSH!

                  A short melody plays on the PA system, signaling the end of the class period.

                                                             End of play.

Ninjas versus Zombies and Tornadoes versus Rockets.

Today at noon, my school took part in a country-wide 'emergency drill' and the cultural disparities between my first country and my second one were readily apparent from the name alone. As an American, I would call the very term 'emergency drill' a euphemism, a slightly more oblique, neutered way of referring to a rocket attack. The Israelis around me counseled me that this was certainly not the case, and in fact was merely the product of typical Israeli pragmatism and utilitarianism. 'Emergency drill' covered all the bases in the most concise way--katyushka rocket attack, mortar barrage, kalashnikov fire, dirty bomb, kornetkophet anti-tank guns, etc, etc, and so forth. (Considering the three k's above, maybe the vitriol directed at recent Russian immigrants in Israel is triggered less by the psychological "fear of the other" than by the visceral "fear of scary weapons."

These drills are held several times a year, and as mentioned earlier in this blog, are further supplemented by classroom instruction in emergency safety. I do not envy the textbook designer first tasked with creating an elementary school workbook taking students through the basics of protection against artillery, aerial, and chemical attacks, but it has been done. For those of you imagining the worse, I can reassure you, it is the epitome of restraint, no unsuspecting Smurfs being air-strafed or anything like that, and a very tasteful use of color-by-numbers and connect-the-dots.
At the sound of the air-raid siren that marks the beginning of a school drill, the whole student body heads to one of two cavernous emergency rooms--which, from my callow American perspective, strongly resemble underground bomb shelters. That is, bomb shelters with a practice barre and parquet dance flooring in one corner of the room, piled-up gymnastics mats serving as improvised benches, a fleet of push-pedal cars hanging from hooks on the ceiling, and a passel of rusty music stands clustered underneath a pull-up bar and a yellowed poster announcing in Hebrew that, "Champions Never Quit!"

 Representatives from the upper grades--4, 5, and 6--wear neon-yellow safety vests with 'warden' printed on them and are responsible for aiding their classmates, the younger students, and the staff. Some direct traffic, others collect class lists from teachers, and six are responsible for carrying navy blue backpacks full of first aid supplies into their designated bomb shelter emergency rooms. These are vaunted roles usually accorded to the responsible student-council types--no booger eaters or nose bleeders among them, which does instill a certain amount of confidence. Once everyone has made their way downstairs (or underground, in the case of the fifth and second grade students who fill the outdoor classrooms separated from the main building) the kids sit in groups under a sign with their grade and classroom number printed in Comic Sans. The teachers each do a headcount, and then a second one, before we commence to waiting for the all-clear signal.

The first-graders look a little wide-eyed and converge around their homeroom teachers like ducklings, but all the older kids quickly pull out books, cards, and board games. Three or four minutes is all it takes for the volume in the room to reach shreeking levels. The teachers are marooned in a sea of  chattering kids. Sixth grade boys cluster excitedly around a heated game of Taki, while third-grade girls french-braid each others' hair and color with fruit-scented markers. Mixed in among the tangle of conversations, I can hear the latest iteration of an ongoing argument between a trio of fourth-graders (who definitely have eight-sided dice in their future) about the enemies Ninjas can (and cannot) destroy. From what I can pick up of the Hebrew, pirates and orcs are no longer under dispute but dinosaurs and zombies remain highly contentious. It's sunny outside now, but the morning thunderstorms just let up, and the aroma of wet and muddy clothing mixed with the incipient funk wafting over from the 6th grade boys newly arrived in the akward N.U.D.N.U.  period (Needing Underarm Deodorant but Not Using it yet)  is a heady and complex bouquet. You'd think the thick cinderblock walls would dampen some of the noise, but it just keeps rising.

Ten minutes in, and one of the fourth-grade English teachers is plugging both her ears and doing deep-breathing exercises, some of the college students here to observe for their university education courses are gazing longingly at the staircase, and the inclusion aide for the autistic boy in grade three has started rocking and flapping too.

I flash a rueful lopsided smile at Alfa, a curly-haired blonde who teaches first grade and who I can say with firsthand authority possesses the sang-froid and poise necessary to comb modeling clay out of someone's pigtail while teaching 34 other six year olds the two-times table and balancing on a pilates exercise ball (the last part is by choice, not school policy). Just as I'm thinking, "I bet none of this fazes her in the least," she leans over conspiratorially and  whispers in my ear, "Right now? I'll take the rockets."

Roi, one of my British-born students catches my eye and shouts over the din, but I can't hear a word of what he's saying. I motion him over with an outstretched arm, and lean down for his question: D'you hahve these exercises in American schools as well, then?" "Well, not for. . . emergencies but, yeah, in the part of the country where I'm from, we have drills where we practice what to do if a tornado comes, and in junior high we would go down to the school's boiler room. . .which is a room sort of like this," I motion with a tilt of my head. "Tornadoes?" he asks while twirling a  finger questioningly. "Yeah, you know, like, the beginning of Wizard of Oz." He nods appreciatively, so I go on. "Illinois is on the edge of a part of the country called "Tornado Alley," because there are so many of them." Roi's eyes light up at the imagined mayhem, so I even add, "Sometimes television shows and radio programs are interrupted by tornado alerts and tornado warnings, and towns have tornado sirens they set off when a funnel cloud is coming." " Woah!," he says, his yes widening, and then I lose the second half of the sentence. "What'ja say, buddy?" He cups both hands around his mouth and this ten-year old, who had to demonstrate for a nineteen year old IDF soldier that he knew how to put on and adjust a gas mask in September, bellows into my ear, "I'm rahly, rahly glad we don't have those here!"

For a good time call. . .

Before I tell this extremely short anecdote, a much longer introduction is required, which I will begin thusly: In Israel, prostitution is legal. Did you know that? Well, it is, although every few months it seems like another embattled MK in the Knesset starts a short-lived crusade to outlaw it, a crusade that is usually timed to distract from a criminal charges of corruption or malfeasance (occasionally involving patronizing prostitutes).

Anyway.

The principle way the ladies seem to advertise in Tel Aviv are with business-card sized photo, complete with contact information. Which, I guess, makes them just plain business cards. Although, unlike the ones handed out by a systems analyst or a HR rep, these cards feature glossy color photos on front and back, usually og one or more of the following subjects: 
--Smiling naked lady
--Naked lady with eyebrow raised invitingly
--Pensive naked lady shot in black and white, occasionally behind gauzy curtain
--Grimacing naked lady with bullwhip (for the bdsm crowd)
--Shy naked lady
--Excited naked lady
--Sort of mean looking naked lady
--Naked lady holding single red rose
--Chunk o' naked lady (boobies)
--Chunk o' naked lady (butt)
--Chunk o' naked lady (legs)
--Chunk o' naked lady (feet)
--Two or more naked ladies

These cards litter the sidewalks, and if you park your car anywhere besides a private lock, you will come back to your vehicle to find a couple tucked into the edge of the driver side window, and another two or three stuck underneath your windshield wipers. I have only seen these cards being placed on cars once since moving to Tel Aviv, by a sheepish-looking young dude with ipod headphones jammed into his ears and a downcast expression. It can't pay that well, being a Prostitute-Card-Hander-Outer, and even if it's just a second job, I imagine it has a devastating effect on your social capital.

All of this is just to say that these little cards are a constant fixture in the visual landscape: the photos and names and fonts change (which graphic design firm handles these sorts of assignments?) but they are always around.

SO: Now I can relate the anecdote, which is starting to seem less and less piquant with the passage of time, but here we go--I was walking to work in the early morning behind a little girl who lives on my street, her wiggly border collie, and her mother. The border collie was bright-eyed and busily sniffing at earlier dog's morning leavings,the little girl was producing a non-stop stream of chatter with the energy and vigor that placed her mother's lack of the same in very sharp relief (evidenced by the large cup of coffee she was clutching in her leash-less hand like a life preserver).

When the dog stopped to do her own business, the girl's eye was caught by one of those aforementioned cards, tucked handily into the sideview mirror of a dusty silver peugot parked half on, half off the sidewalk, in a red zone, it's back bumper not so much kissing the front bumper of the car behind it, as in a full-on embrace (or as I liked to call it, parked "Israeli style"). The card featured two ladies photographed against a neon yellow backdrop, one a generously proportioned brunette laying on her back in a sort of body stocking with cut-out panels in all the right places, the other totally starkers, with her platinum hair done up in pigtails, sitting astride the brunette and using her friend's bosom much like an inexperienced rider might use her saddle horn. That is to say, clutching it for dear life.

The girl flicked the card with her little thumb and index finger, then, just as her embattled mother was juggling the dog leash, coffee cup, and freshly-used plastic baggie, asked her pointedly, "What are they doing?" The mother, craning her neck to find the nearest trash can, replied distractedly, "Who, sweetie?"  "The ladies." "Who?" "The ladies in the picture." The girl plucked the card from the window and proferred it to her mother. She took it from the girl, holding it with just as much distaste as the plastic bag in her other hand, and gave it a look.

For a moment, there was no reply.

But then, the mother explained, "They are dancers." "Dancers?" "Yes." A pause to consider. "But not like ballerinas." "No." "Like  the Dallal Center?" [this is the city's famous modern dance theatre in Neve Tzedek, home to the Batsheva troupe] "Yes, more like that." Another pause, then the monologue stream resumed as if it had never been interrupted.

At the corner, both card and plastic baggie were dumped into the trash.

For Immediate Release: Alhareezi Primary School English Press, Ltd. 2011 Update

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Alhareezi Press Marks 2011 Jerusalem Book Fair with Winter/Spring update

For all media inquiries, please contact the Public Relations spokesperson, who can be found in the Alhareezi library. Unless she is in the English Department Hallway. Or sucking coffee directly from the machine in the teachers room. Or having a brief, cleansing cry in the staff bathroom.
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As the Jerusalem International Book Fair officially kicks off tommorow, I am sure the many devoted readers of the fine writing published the Alhareezi Primary School English-Language Press, Ltd are eager to hear the latest news on our most recently completed and ongoing projects. Although we at the press prefer to let our writers speak for themselves, the authors of our current projects are all very busy with school, basketball practice, ballet, equestrian showings, french lessons, violin practice, and orthodontist appointments this week. As such, they will be, regrettably, unable to speak at the fair. However, so as not to dissapoint their followers, they've asked that I update you all in their stead. It is a role I am especially suited to fulfull, as I also serve as the amanuenis for a number of the authors.

4th grade classes are producing illustrated guides on how to spot witches inspired by Roald Dahl's book The Witches, which we are reading together in class, and which contains much salient information on the subject. Some of these primers also include information on how to combat witches, while others strike a less martial tone and give advice on how to avoid them completely once the witches have been spotted. Art book conniseurs will be delighted to know that several of these books integrate papercraft into their texts, specifically in the form of pop-up and accordian effects. As usual for the writers, the books have been created with a combination of mediums including craft board, brass fasteners, ribbon, staples, oil pastels, ink pens, and fruit-scented markers.

The 6th graders just finished writing their own murder and/or mayhem-filled mystery stories (including "detective notebooks" with suspect dossiers, fingerprints, crime reports, wanted posters, and other important crime-solving documents), and now they're beginning a new project in which they're designing their own superhero alter-ego. They're going to come up with names, call signals, costumes, and logoes (with accompanying explanations), choose sidekicks, describe their arch-nemesis, and document the training exercises we're going to be doing in class to muscle up, as it were. This training is going to include riddle-crafting and decoding lessons (because bad guys are always trying to stump super-heroes with nefarious puzzles), tests of how much pyschokinetic/psychic potential they might have, and practice-time to develop heroic poses and catch-phrases. Once their individual super-heroes have been created and fully-documented, the portfolios will be combined into a Super Heroes of Alhareezi [ed: working title]. Featuring such memorable characters as FartMan, Princess Cola, Captain Crush, and the Amazing Guy, the anthology will be available just in time for the Pesach gift-giving season.

A multidisciplinary project by one of the press's second-grade clients is still in the works, but promises to be an exciting addition to the imprint. The writer was inspired by his reading of the William Pen du Bois classic, The Twenty-One Balloons, and is currently doing his own research on the history and engineering of hot-air balloons and other dirigibles. Right now, he is sketching and building models of new air-craft, and these will be evantually accompanied by detailed diagrams and technical explanations of the concept vehicles' inner workings and potential applications. For those who remember the writer's last published work, Pumpkin-Head Terror :Parts I, 2, and 3, released on October 31st of last year, this work will come as an exciting departure from the horror/thriller genre.

Of course, no report on the press's latest work would be complete without an update on the upcoming released from our third-grade writers. After the surprise success of the small poetry collection inspired by such disparate topics as the Titanic disaster, Ann Frank, and french bulldogs, which received much acclaim after it was displayed on the English-Speakers bulletin board , that collection's writer is back with a new project. Turning her pen to the world of botany, she is on the brink of completing her first non-fiction offering, entitled simply The Venus Fly Trap. The book offers advice on caring for the eponymous plant, in addition to a short history of the plant and its carnivorous brethren, a comic strip depiction of the plant's eating mechanism, and the piece's centerpiece--the lyrics of a rap song soon to be recorded by the writer. She has been gracious enough to allow us to share the complete lyrics with you now:
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The Venus Fly Trap Rap: The Soon-to-be Smash Hit Single

If see a plant who just goes "snap"
You're looking at a venus fly trap

Snap!

There we go!
Another insect down below.

Oh!

A ladybug went near
The only thing left was a single tear

Single tear! Single tear! Single tear1

[bridge and dance break]

I'm a venus fly trap and I'm here to say
All you boring plants get out of my way

I'm living large, yeah, I'm on the scene
My appetite is large and my leaves are green

Give me some flies, they sure are sweet
But don't feed me no hamburger meat!

Yeah!
[fade to finish]
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With that sentiment as a fitting coda, we at Alhareezi Primary School English Press, Ltd. wish you a very happy Book Fair, and encourage you to visit this site for further information on our literary offerings as they develop.


Becky Perlman
Publisher/Editor-in-Chief/Head Amanuensis/Master Book-Binder/Translation Dept. President/Public Relations Spokesperson/CEO, Stickers and Treats Division

Alhareezi Primary School English Press, Ltd.

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FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
For all Media inquiries, tell the armed school guard standing at the locked front gates that "Anee rotsah/rotseh ledahbear im Becky ha more-ah ah-mare-ee-kai may-shoo-gaht" (I would like to speak with Becky, the crazy American teacher.)

Recess Duty

Although I am still an object of considerable bemusement and (slightly-veiled pity) at the primary school where I teach, my nacscent Hebrew skills and growing understanding of the school's rules and disciplinary policies have now been deemed sufficent to qualify me for a shift as recess monitor, a responsibility I was excused from last year on the grounds of what was referred to at the time as "unmitigated cluelessness" (yes, that is the exact translation from Hebrew).

All the teachers on staff take turns watching various quadrants of the sprawling school yard during the two daily recesses. Hahfsahkah gadol, or "the big break" takes place at 9:50 after first and second period and includes ten minutes to eat breakfast and fifteen minutes of outdoor/indoor free play. Hafsakah katan or the "little break" takes place from 11:45 to 12:00 and is reserved for free play only. The recurring, cyclical recess monitor duties are determined by the head "morah sport" (literally "sports teacher," or what American kids would call the PE teacher), an energetic blonde lady who walks around with a wireless microphone pac strapped round her waist and a headset microphone that gives her the air of a roving pop star, circa 1998. Only in Israel would a teacher employ a tool to make her shouting even louder than it is in its unaltered guise. The sport teacher composes the recess duty roster in a process that seems to rival the seeding of college basketball teams for the NCAA tournament, and renders this roster in an spreadsheet-like matrix that is printed out and tacked to the bulletin board in the teacher's lounge, where it is set upon at once by the other teachers and heavily annotated with the details of swapped days, adjustments to the schedule because of field trips or assemblies, and requests for clemency due to upcoming maternity leaves.

I typically do not even notice the new schedule's existence until its miniscule type has been smeared, crossed-out, and written over, whereupon it becomes nearly impossible to read. Consequently, I can frequently be found before 1st period stranded in front of the bulletin board, with my eyes screwed-up and an index finger tracing along the schedule's tiny boxes, reading the names out loud softly under my breath in the manner of a preschooler with "Hop on Pop" on her lap. My search for the three letters that spell out of my name-Bet, Koof, Yud--is complicated by the fact that often, although not consistently, my name is spelled as Bet, Tet, Yud (or "Betty") instead.*

Figuring out my alloted recess duties every week pales in comparison to the actual job. First of all, my school is comprised of several buildings on one central, large campus (the main school building, that also houses the principal, registrar, secretaries, and medic's offices, a freestanding gymnasium, art studio, and theatre classroom, two banks of classrooms, the school garden, and the school zoo. This is in addition to two small playgrounds with the usual assortment of swings, slides, and monkey bars, a soccer-field, and two basketball courts. There's also a security guard hut near the locked front gate and outdoor smoking area adjacent to the teacher's lounge, natch). Consequently, teachers are strategically scattered across the campus to ensure no area goes unmonitored. To minimize fighting, the athletic fields are each reserved for the students of different grades--the play areas are assigned from youngest to oldest in orders of increasing desirability. You have to pay your dues to move from the playground equipment to the second best basketball court and so on (as you might have guessed, the football field is the most coveted location). This means that each teacher can count on a finding the same crowd of kids in her territory every recess--a helpful asset when it comes to mediating fights, staunching tears, and other diplomatic efforts. For example, I'm always sent to the "Gimeleem yard," or the area where the third-graders play, so I've gotten to know a lot of the kitah gimel students who aren't in my classes, and become privy to the intricacies of their social ties and recurring conflicts.

The girls seem to be the ones with the perennial rivalries and problems. Noe is always upset with Shira for being too bossy, and Lior, Gaea, Heela, and Tamara are always incensed by the copycat choreography of their hip-hop dance rivals: Oren, Savion, Zoe, Roenni, and Corahl. The girls are also the ones who come up for advice, commiseration, and validation, and in my case, to teach me Hebrew necessary to fill in what they see as the most alarming gaps in my general knowledge--in other words, Hebrew riddles and jokes (these tend to require a committee of girls to provide a translation that is nonetheless nearly always completely incomprehensible), idiomatic phrases, and slang. A lot of the girls also like to cruise by to see if the breakfast *I* packed seems more interesting than their own, and if so, to cadge the majority of it with sustained, high-pitched whining.

Overall (and unsurprisingly), the attitudes of Israeli kids and teachers towards recess are markedly different than those of their American counterparts. First of all, there is a more cavalier, less stringent regard for child safety, with the attitude that the kids need to learn to avoid dangers by themselves, rather than simply obeying a passel of rules blindly without context.

So, unlike in my childhood elementary school, no one is halted from scaling any of the tall trees that dot the campus, or from attempts to shimmy up the poles of the basketball court baskets. No teachers intercede in arguments among students, no matter how heated they become, or how outnumbered one side might be, unless the kids are on the brink of blows. Industrious kids can be found digging massive holes, and attempting to booby-trap playground equipment. Requests from students for arbitration of athletic disputes is met by most teachers with the trenchant (well, in Israel at least) and deadpan hypothetical, "Ma lehsoht?" (literally "what to do?" or "What can I do?") or its cousin, "Ehn mah lehsot" ( literally, "there isn't what to do" or "Nothing can be done about it"), and even serious offenses like purposeful hitting, kicking, and the like, still do not rouse the other teachers to move from their benches. Instead, the emit a strident "Boh!" or "Buena!" ("COME!") to the offending party, who is compelled to separate himself from the herd and slink shamefacedly torwards the teacher for his commeupance. Just like David Caruso in CSI: Miami, teachers will puncuate a particularly pointed remark by removing their sunglasses for emphasis. The offenders tend to respond to punishments with sullen silence and aqcuisence or, more commonly, with heated invective and finger-pointing, sort of like tiny acolytes of John McEnroe.

 Children are let loose in the school zoo during both recesses, under the capable, but far from constant supervision of the "nature teacher," Daphna (she teaches the kids about, basically, life science: i.e. botany and zoology, environmentalism and ecology, and animal care. she also manages the zoo and cares for the animals (along with two assistants). As some of you know, the "teaching and touching zooological garden" at my school is sort of an amalgam of a children's petting zoo and a home for the typical classroom pets you see in any elementary school. So, there are the usual suspects like abundant bunnies, guinea pigs, hamsters, mice, rats, turtles, crabs, and fish. But there are also ferrets, a very depressed and dyspeptic looking fennec-fox (native to Israel), one sheep, five goats, a family of ducks and a pair of geese who share a small pond, several parrots, a terrarium full of stick bugs and another full of praying mantises, newts, two large aviaries filled with finches, parakeets, canaries, and doves (one in the zoo, and one in the main school building), and two extremely grumpy peacocks. Students are allowed to help feed the larger animals and clean their homes, and that's done with Daphna or another adult. They are also allowed to play with any of the smaller animals they can clutch in their grubby little hands.

Therefore, I'm sorry to say that the school's guinea pigs, bunnies, lizards, hamsters, and every other living thing small enough to be held or cradled are all subjected to two brief but probably dreaded fifteen minute periods daily of  the loving, well-meaning, but not always especially gentle minstrations of the schools apprentice zookeepers. Though the animals are supposed to stay in the zoo area or around its perimeter, I will occasionally be visited by enthusiastic students who thrust bunnies, hamsters, or guinea pigs into my laps, or who visit me toting a plastic box full of mice and play equipment (you know, tunnels, wheels, those sorts of things) or with a parakeet on their shoulder, affectionately nibbling the child' ear.

Recently, a massive tractor with a cherry-picker like attachment was driven into the school yard by a cadre of tree-trimmers (to the fascination and excitement of all male students in grades one and two). They stopped their work to take a coffee break during the first recess and watch unfazed as several of the boldest students clambered into the cab of the tractor and mounted its huge back wheels. The kids uninterested by the heavy equipment instead occupied themselves by collecting the felled branches (ranging in length, girth, and weight from "appropriate for roasting marshmallows" to "can not be physically lifted without the help of two additional buddies"). Now, in my culturally-myopic, quaintly American view, I was horrified to see the kids let loose on the tree trimmings. In fact, combining a bunch of hyper children (rooted in a culture that is not known for an emphasis on reserve or restraint) with a bunch of pointy, long, sharp, spear-and-bayonet-shaped objects in an outdoor free-for-all is basically my idea of a complete clusterfuck. I was not alone in this view: Trevor, one of ny newest and sweetest students; a butterball of a first-grader who (not coincidentally) recently emmigrated from South Africa, huffed and puffed up to the bench where I was sitting two minutes after recess began. He plaintively asked me, "Why are all the big boys playing with the sticks?" I told him that I didn't know, and he looked at me quite seriously while echoing the dire prediction that no doubt both he and I (decades earlier) had heard from numerous sources--teachers, moms, and grandparents included:

"They could put their eyes out!"

Of course, I concurred, but the general consensus from the adults in power seemed to be that a few detached retinas, a handful of minor puncture wounds, and innumerable wicked splinters were all a judicious outcome to risk in exchange for the pedagogical and social value of allowing the kids the chase, hit, poke, and whack each other with tree branches.

And that, for both better and worse, seems to typify Israeli-style recess!





*This is not an isolated event. "Becky" isn't an Israeli name, although Betty (don't think "Betty Draper" so much as this phonetic rendering: "behh-TEE") is, albeit an uncommon one. Nearly every time I introduce myself, in spite of special pains to really spit out what one of my first-graders winningly refers to as the "Kih, kih, kih, kay!" sound, the receiving person squints a little and asks, "behh-TEE?" Then, I repeat myself, and explain that it is the nickname (literally "small name") of "Rebecca," which I usually have to also translate from its anglocentric form back into the original Hebrew, or "Reevkah." Reevkah, of course, while one of the oldest female names in the Jewish tradition (remember Yitzak/Issac's wife?), is not currently very au-courant, nor has been for decades, making it somewhat incongruent to an Israeli meeting me for the first time, in the same manner that an American might stop short upon being introduced to a 25-year old named ""Estelle," "Evelyn," or "Lenoir"). All lovely names, to be sure, but  ones more readily associated with a member of the AARP.