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.
------------------------------------------------------


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:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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]
------------------------------------------------------------------


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.

--------------------------------------------------------------
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.

Some of the Best* Things my Students** have Done or Said so Far During this Year: The First Installment in an Ongoing Compendium

*And by "Best" I mean "Most Amusing"

**All names changed to protect privacy, natch.

--I introduced  the concept of "compound words"  (remember? butter+fly=butterfly, rain+bow=rainbow, etc) to some of my extremely precocious third-graders, via a game of "Compound Word Dominoes," during which I explained that "compound" is not just a "describer word" (the word we use for adjectives") and a "P.P.T. word (people, places, and thing word, i.e. noun), but also an "action word" (the term we use for verbs) that means "adds to/adds together" or "makes stronger." We then went around in a circle and made up sentences using "compound" in one of those three ways. A week after this lesson, during a recess break, one of my third-graders marched up to me, extremely affronted, towing hs offending friend behind him by the hand, and announced by way of introduction, "Tomer (the friend)  says he doesn't think "Dover Anglit" (English-Speakers) class is hard, even though we read chapter books (emphasis his) and everything!" I gamely tried to mediate this conflict, agreeing that English Speakers class is, indeed, very challenging, but that "regular" English classes are also very demanding, and that placement in one or the other is not an indication of general superiority. Satisfied, my third-grader released the now chastened Tomer, but lingered momentarily to tell me, "Sometimes Tomer really, really compounds my being mad at him."

 ---As we waited for the rest of his classmates to arrive in the school library, one of my second-graders leaned across the table convivially to tell me: Becky, you know what I really like about you?"
Me: No, what?
3rd-grader: You don't shower. I really like that.
Me: (horrified pause) Roi, I shower every morning! (internally: Do I have some sort of body odor problem I'm not aware of? Oh god! I'm the weird stinky teacher! Noo!)
3rd-grader: No, no, I mean you don't shower at us! Like Ravital (one of his other teachers) does!
Me: (slightly less horrified pause) Roi, do you mean that I don't *shout* at you guys?
3rd-grader: Oh.  Maybe. Yes. I get those two confused sometimes.

---I have an independent tutorial with one of my third-graders, Gabbi, who is a native English speaker from South Africa. .This self-described "history fan" has a sunny demeanor, ever-present gap-toothed smile, preference for ostentatiously large hair bows, and deep affection for Hannah Montana, all of which belies her intense interest in the Shoah. Per her request, we spent the bulk of last year learning more about the Holocaust, diligently putting new vocabulary words to use in our discussions of genocide, and using (the very small sub-genre of) child-appropriate stories on the subject as practice texts for independent reading and the like. For example, we read about Ann Frank and her diary, and learned about the Jewish resistance movement. Heady stuff for a third-grader whose other hobbies include tap-dancing and sticker-collecting.

This year, Gabbi sat down with me for our first one-on-one lesson together, and produced a thick children's book, dense with illustrations and photos . Opening the book to a two-page color diagram of a colossal cruise liner, she announced that this year she, "wanted to do English projects about all of this!" The title of her book?The Titanic Disaster.

Really.

---We are doing a theatrical adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are in one of my classes, a project the kids are embracing with great industry and enthusiasm. After completing the script together (which entailed, for clarity's sake, giving individual names to all of the "Wild Things," who the kids dubbed "Goathead," "Snowy," Stinkyteeth, and (for some reason), "Barney.") the time came to divide the parts. In spite of the fact that I had carefully edited the script to make sure *every* part had the exact same number of lines, everyone (EVERYONE) wanted to be Max, and this casting conflict  almost dissolved the class into complete anarchy. After several entreaties for order, I finally bellowed, "IF EVERYONE DOESN'T QUIET DOWN RIGHT NOW, NOBODY WILL GET TO BE MAX!" This outburst had the desired effect, but in its silent aftermath, one of the boys in the class, Tal, meekly raised his hand and quietly pointed out with a worried look on his face, "Becky, the play isn't really going to make much sense if Max isn't in it."

---We are doing a Greek Mythology unit in several of my 6th grade classes, and one of the early projects called for each student to imagine themselves as a demi-god, choose a God parent, then describe their special abilities, their heroic quests(s), and their weakness. The day this assignment was due, we went around the table and shared our work. The first boy to reveal his demi-god alter ego excitedly explained his parentage (as a son of Zeus), then proudly explained that one of his half-blood talents was, "Super Farts." Before he could explain the martial power/destructive capabilities of these farts, no less than three of my other male students screwed up their faces in dissapointment and interrupted to say that power-farting was one of *their* demi-god abilities. A brief argument ensued in which each boy accused the others of copying their idea for godly super farts.Meanwhile, one of the girls in the class locked eyes with me and gave me a classic Jim-Halpert-from-"The Office" combination sigh n' shoulder shrug.

---During a read-aloud session with our current book, Matilda, I asked my students to make "illustrations" (new vocab word) of their favorite moments from the book thus far. Almost everyone in the class chose to draw one of the episodes in the book involving Matilda's frightening giant of a school headmistress, Miss Trunchbull. But only one of my kids, Ido, decorated his Trunchbull portrait with speech bubbles coming from her mouth that said, "I hate all children,""I am ugly and fat,"  "I eat childrens' ears," (a detail not mentioned in the book, but certainly within the realm of possibility) and the funniest/saddest, as it seemed to typify human evil for my student "I am from Iran!"

One of Ido's buddies, meanwhile, had drawn Trunchbull with enormous, pendulous breasts, each topped with a graphite-colored nipple *and* a long. . .. um. . . phallus. . . that he had carefully colored with a yellow highlighter. To prevent any ambiguity, he drew an arrow toward her crotch and wrote, "Trunchbull has the thing of a man!" This was, obviously, a big hit with his classmates.

Another student in the same class, who is a huge sci-fi fan, drew a neon-saturated picture of an alien, and when I asked which part of the (completely space alien free) book he chose to illustrate, explained that he had drawn Miss Trunchbull, based on his hunch that someone so awful and mean could not truly be human, and so was almost definitely a visiting alien. He denied  that the development of this literary theory had anything to do with his love for drawing aliens.

--Upon listening to me ask the non-English-speaking school janitor to unlock one of the classrooms, in what, I flattered myself, was pretty darn fluent Hebrew, my 4th-grader Talia laid her hand on my arm in a very kind, affectionate, and only slightly condescending fashion and told me, "Becky, maybe you should ask one of *us* to ask him for you."

--A request from one of my fourth-grade girls, who is a (very rare--in our school) only child: "Becky, will you be my big sister?" I answer in the affirmative, telling her I'd be delighted. Her response: "Good! But this doesn't mean you can come live in my house, we don't have room."

--During a pre-class discussion of the various maritual statuses of everyone's parents, and a partial inventory of everyone's half and step-siblings, one of my students turned to me and asked, Becky, are you divorced?"
Me: No.
Another student: She's not even married yet!
First student:  (after carefully considering this information) Well, are your mom and dad divorced?
Other student again: (butting in before I can answer and in the process revealing a somewhat limited understanding of  history and possibly demonstrating an erroneous belief in some type of statute of limitations on parental divorces?) Maor, when Becky was our age, divorces didn't even EXIST. 


--One of my 2nd-graders, upon learning that I am a vegetarian: Well, I don't eat meat from
animals I *like.*
 Me: What animals are those?
Second-grader: (Without pause): Horses, cats, puppies, parrots, monkeys, lemurs, and hamsters, and bunnies, and kangaroos, and turtles, and "yaelim" (Israeli mountain goats) and baby animals. Except for baby snakes. (Small pause to think) Oh, and also lions, and zebras. And giraffes.
Me: (Hastily, knowing this list could go on for a very long time)So I guess you don't like chickens, or cows, then, huh?
Second-grader: (With the greatest amount of condescension a second-grader can muster) Of. COURSE. Not.
{End of Discussion}

One Year In: Weathering Cultural Differences

I've lived in Tel Aviv for a little bit over a year now, and with this much time under my belt, I feel like I'm starting to glimpse some of the key cultural differences between the United States and Israel. In the name of international relations, I've compiled a partial list of these below:

1. Honey comes in glass jars. When you ask the grocer in halting Hebrew if he has, "The honey that is in a bear of plastic," he will say no, and then treat you with the bright, slightly condescending kindness he reserves for the mentally handicapped.
2. Sidewalks are for pedestrians. . .and bicycles, and electric bicycles, and electric scooters, and s egways, and vespas, and motorcycles. Also, for parked cars.
3. Movies theatres have assigned seats and intermissions. But they do not have Milk Duds.
4. There are two kinds of state-sanctioned gambling: the national lotto, and the national postal service. (Your odds are better with the lotto)
5. Pizza can be delivered to your door via motor scooter.  So can dog food, kitty litter, potted plants, air conditioners, and kegs of beer.
 6. Lines are for suckers.
7. You can always count on honest opinions of your hair style, clothing choices,  makeup job, and weight. Whether you ask for them or not.
8.If you sleep with your windows open at night, you might be awoken by three a.m. caterwauling cats or three a.m. caterwauling Mizrahi music . (The Mizrahi music is worse)
9. In Israel, as in Europe, the date is written as day/month/year: you will need to remember this when you check the expiration date on the carton of milk in your fridge.
10. Don't be disappointed when a boy you like introduces you to his male partner. "Partner" is the literal translation of the Hebrew term for "roommate."

Sushi in a Sukkha and Krembo Season

It's that time of year again here in Israel. The new year of the Jewish calender has just begun. The fasting  that accompanies Yom Kippur has been broken. Perhaps more significantly in secular Tel AViv, the scabs and bruises incurred by bike-riding, skateboarding, and skating kids who spent that holiest-of-holy days temporarily occupying the closed streets have all started to heal. We're halfway through the week long Sukhot holiday, and palm-topped Sukkhas can be sighted on small high-rise apartment building balconies and in the dusty courtyards of neighborhood shuls. The largest, most lavishly-decorated Sukkhas line the wide streets in the city center, where they shelter diners at almost all of the cafes and restaurants. They are, with barely an exception, lovely--their roofs supported by bamboo poles and their makeshift walls formed by blond palm fiber mats, their roofs a grid of green palm fronds, and the interiors decorated with ruby-red pomegranates and apples hanging on strings from the ceiling, sprays of golden date branches bound to the corner supports, and garlands of paper chains and crepe paper pinwheels, brightly-colored foil stars and strings of fairy lights. Of course, the rationale for the temporary transformation of these establishments' outdoor patios and streetside seating is based on worldly, not spiritual concerns. By providing a Sukkha, the restaurants and cafes ensure that Israelis observing the scriptural instruction to sleep and take all their meals in a sukkha for the duration of the holiday can patronize their businesses.

It's all old hat for native-born Israelis, who think nothing of brushing aside curtains of plastic beads, or ducking under rainbow-striped bunting to sit inside these little palm huts and calmly consume a cappucino (no doubt, their 8th or 9th of the day thus far) and biscotti. But I still have to giggle when I see steaming hot pizzas and lacquer bento boxes full of sushi being served inside the confines of the sukkhas. It goes to show that the Conservative and Reform Jewish sects have a point when they argue for the necessity of interpreting Jewish scripture in light of contemporary mores and concerns. I doubt Moses, in even his wildest dreams, could ever have imagined a contingency for the far-ahead in the future day when the descendants of his wandering people would survive to practice their religion (well. . . in a fashion) in their own nation-state, and furthermore would  faithfully mark the start of fall with a week spent in little forts designed to honor the improvised shelters that housed the 12 tribes of Israel he ledduring their 40 years of wandering, and furthermore would want to maintain that tradition even when satisfying a hankering for Japanese food.

Now, the advent of Sukkhot happens to roughly coincides with the annual arrival of the Krembo. No, Krembos are not a type of rare migrating bird, and they're not a band of Eastern-European avant-garde clowns. They are, in fact, a seasonal chocolate marshmallow cookie, but to describe them merely as such is the same as calling the Beatles "some British rock band." Krembos are nothing less than an Israeli icon--the confection has been popular in the country since before it achieved statehood. In pre-Israel Palestine, Jewish mammas would make homemade version of this treat--topping thin vanilla biscuits with sweet marshmallow fluff and enrobing the whole thing in a thin shell of chocolate. The treats began to be mass-produced in Israeli candy factories in the mid-sixties. Today, they comprise, along with savory n' salty Beesli snack mix, and air-puffed peanut-flavored Bamba, the holy triptych of Israeli snack foods.

Adding to their appeal is the limited production window. Scattered cardboard cases  begin to arrive in bodegas and grocery stores in mid-September, they can be seen in every kiosk, street stall, and candy shop by the beginning of October, and the supply is exhausted sometime in late January.  During "Krembo Season," they become a form of child currency. Temper tantrums and meltdowns are quelled with promises of a Krembo, they are served as classroom treats for student birthdays, and many enterprising student council candidates are known to increase their constituency through the schoolyard distribution of Krembos bearing home-computer printed campaign stickers.On college campuses, earnest petition-clutching student activists coax otherwise apathetic fellow students over to their informational booths with the promise of a free krembo, and the Magden David Adom paramedics who man on-campus mobile blood-donation trucks reward blood donors with krembos in order to restore their depleted blood sugar levels.

They are the ultimate impulse buy--speaking from personal experience, it's hard to resist adding one to a grocery purchase every so often when your sweet tooth calls out. The Ha'aretz newspaper claims that the average Israeli eats a dozen every year during the 4-month window of availability, and I regret to say that my Krembo consumption seems to be on par with that statistic. It could be worse, at 115 calories the delicate little foil-wrapped domes aren't as deleterious to one's diet as, say, a pistachio ice cream cone, a hunk of halva, a chocolate rugelach, or a Kif-Kif candy bar, all of  which are a few of the other constant favorites in the Israeli sweets rotation. And, despite their diminutive size, the little Krembos pack a sugary wallop. In fact, tne of my friends eats them with a wince, since the super-sticky marshmallow filling makes the unfilled cavities in his molars throb with pain. Interestingly, this does not appear to curtail his consumption.

There are only a few risks associated with the treat. Of course, anyone who hazards a Krembo binge will end up with a stomachache and the frantic rush of a sugar high, and the consumption of more than one or two Krembos in one sitting should be strictly avoided. Additionally, it's crucial to do a thorough inspection of any child who will be in close contact with you post-Krembo consumption. A quick scan of the child's mouth and hands is not enough. If you are lax, you will inevitably find yourself combing a knot cemented by a little bit of hardened marshmallow out of the back of your hair or blotting at a smear of chocolate on the side of your formerly clean shirt. But if you an steer clear of these two dangers, I recommend you seek out the elusive Krembo for yourself. They're a very popular export, and I'm told they can be found during the fall in many kosher delis and bakeries.

Just remember that there are two schools of thought on the proper consumption of the Krembo: one that advocates eating the biscuit first, and one that recommends sucking up the marshmallow fluff and leaving the cookie base for last . Like the conflict over which direction to hang the toilet paper roll and whether to place forks in the dishwasher tines up or tines down, this argument has divided many a household and created untoward tension in romantic relationships. Some Israelis, almost universally boys between the ages of 8 and 10 years, diplomatically avoid the entire question by embracing the practice of shoving the entire Krembo directly into their mouth, sort of like the hippos I saw at Hamat Gader who consumed entire melons in one saliva-stringed chomp. I do no recommend this practice in polite company.

Tel Aviv Celebrity Sighting!

Within this tiny country, Tel Aviv is the home of most Israeli television and movie studios, and the city of choice for many Israeli musicians, actors, politicians, and other noteables. Friends are always pointing out the celebrities and other well-known personages who we see in the CellCom store, walking up Dizengoff, and stopping for falafel at the Schwarma Agenda. It's hard to get too excited about catching a glimpse of the Israeli Eurovision contestant, or someone recently kicked-off the Israeli version of "Big Brother," or the winner of last year's season of Israeli "Survivor." Not all the sightings have been of reality TV contestants, of course. My colleagues love to tell me about the famous parents who send their kids to our well-off primary school, and it seems like every time I'm at the Cinematheque or one of the big theatres ,my friend and I share a row with some soap star or comedian or musician . And though the Israeli attitude towards celebrity is to politely ignore the famous person and let them eat their meal/walk their dog/purchase their mattress/pay their cell phone bill in peace, my Israeli friends are always disappointed when I can't share in their (discreet) excitement. Whispered explanations of the famous peoples' accomplishments do nothing to spark my enthusiasm. Often, the frustrated friend feels the need to later send me several YouTube clips showing the star we spotted at work, as if to prove my apathy was misplaced. Well, after almost a year of failing my friends, you can imagine the happiness I felt when I had my first bona fide celebrity encounter today!


GUESS WHO I MET TODAY IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD? I was walking the dog home from the beach, and I saw two (Israeli-looking) guys walking toward us, one of whom was wearing a "New Yorker Festival 2008" t-shirt. So, just like a sports nut who encounters a like-minded fan far from home, as I walked past I gave him a big smile and said, "וואו! IThe ניו יורקר ". זה המגזין האהוב עלי! (Wow! The New Yorker! It's my favorite magazine!") Only when I heard the short, t-shirt wearer hesitantly respond, "Thank you?" in English did I add his American accent to his poufy hair and slight build and realize: OMG! It's MALCOLM. FREAKIN'. GLADWELL!*

Slight fan girl freak out ensued, during which I told him how much I covet the packages of New Yorker back issues that get sent here from home, complimented him on his cancer therapy article from a few few weeks back), told him I loved "What the Dog Saw," and informed him that his books are in the English sections of all the Israeli bookstore chains.

Perhaps slightly overwhelmed by my effusion, Mr. Gladwell was nonetheless extremely kind, gracious, and modest. He also complimented Michael, who,in a miraculous display of good behavior,permitted himself to be pet by the poufy-haired stranger and even condescended to lick the man's proffered fingers.

All in all, it was a thrilling encounter. The only thing that could have made it any better would have been to see Malcolm Gladwell while in the company of an Israeli friend, so as to have the satisfaction of rolling my eyes and giving them a hushed, abbreviated bio of the famous writer when met with my friends' bemused indifference.



*In retrospect, I have to add that Malcolm Gladwell wearing a New Yorker festival t-shirt in public is sort of like seeing Thom Yorke in a Coachella t-shirt. . .Do famous people really do this?

Ulpan-a-Go-Go

My language-learning frustrations reached new heights over the course of second semester as final exams, research papers, elementary school parent-teacher conferences, report-card writing and translating, and the frantic search for summer jobs eclipsed my routine for Hebrew study.

Suddenly, (both) school years were over, summer intercession arrived, and I came to the disquieting conclusion that my ten months of residency in Ha'aretz had not coincided with the exponential growth of Hebrew fluency I had expected for myself.

Much valuable study time had been spent at the beach or in the fine establishments lining the length of Nachalat Binyamin or within the ganeem of Sonya's and Bar Giora. Much of the energy required for flash cards, conjugation drills, and writing practice had, instead, been devoted to cultivating (an admittedly lovely) bronze glow, testing all of the nieghborhood frozen yogurt stands, and acquainting myself with the pleasure of strolls down Rothschild and bike rides across the Tayelet.


In short, I have been a lazy bum.

But all that is going to change! I've just signed up for Hebrew Boot Camp!

Okay, most people would call it an ulpan intensive, but it's all semantics. Basically it consists of two solid weeks of all day, every day Hebrew instruction and studying. The idea is to take advantage of the brain's hunger for repetition and linguistic immersion, and capitalize on the gains to be had from intense, one-on-one lessons with a native Hebrew speaker.

If I manage to survive it all without blowing the fuses in my neurological circuit board (is that even an accurate metaphor? do circuit boards, in fact, have fuses?) I'm hoping that I will emerge out the other side with a vastly enlarged vocabulary and an overall improvement in "linguistic competency," (which is the applied linguistics terms for the ability to express basic needs and questions, but the inability to speak with true., practiced and sophisticated fluency).

The only Ulpanim to offer these sorts of cram sessions are the private ones. I've chosen Ulpan Or (Ulpan of Light, in English), whose slogan is "Hebrew at the Speed of Light" (hardeeh har har) and who equipped me with a cotton tote bag advertising this promise, two stacks of textbooks, and an mp3 player already loaded with the language dialogues, vocabulary lists, and other orally-transmitted flotsam and jetsam designed to help me learn.

I will report back soon from this adventure in language acquisition, so sit on your hands 'til then and wait breathlessly to hear about the results.

Washing your Israeli Floors: A Primer

I'm a firm believer in cleaning the house every 9 months, whether it needs it or not.

Okay, don't cringe in horror just yet. Even though I'm a little lackadaisical about my housecleaning routine, I do regularly sweep the floors to get rid of Tel Aviv's omnipresent dust and sand.And though I'm more sporadic about bathroom upkeep, I keep the floor clean of my long brown hairs, I scrub the toilet, I even wipe the mirror down when the smudges become unbearable. But there's one cleaning chore I loathe.

I don't do floors.

Pre-Israel, I was lucky enough to live with a boyfriend whose chore of choice was mopping and scrubbing. I'd tackle the laundry, the dusting, and the vacuuming abnd in exchange? He gladly tackled the hardwood floors in the living room and kitchen, and all the tile in the kitchen.He would even scrub down the balcony! Here, I'm not so lucky. And between the sand being tracked in throughout the year, the detritus shed during my various prep activities for school ( glitter, tiny nuggets of oil pastels ground into the spaces between the living room tiles, plaster of paris splatters and tempura paint blotches), and the dog's shed auburn hairs, the floor is pretty . . . well. . . It's disgusting, okay?

But washing the floor in Israel bears little resemblance to the ol' mop and bucket routine I knew and loathed back in the states. First of all, a mop head can not be procured within the confines of Tel Aviv for love or money. It has no utility within the time-honored floor-cleaning methods of the Sabras. Instead all cleaning is accomplished with:

1. a giant squeegee (not to be confused with one of my favorite photographers, Weegee) on a long broom stick

2. Buckets of soapy water

3. The all essential floor drain and or an open front door.

The Process: Move all your furniture to the edges of any hard-surfaced area in your home, or relocate them to your bedroom, if it's carpeted. Now, sweep. Fill up a large bucket with warm water, a little soap (Dr. Bronner's is good, and imports its unique brand of crazy-labeled castille goodness to Israel's fair shores), and maybe a little vinegar (white, not balsamic. don't be an idiot).

Now, in spite of your misgivings, dump that bucket of water all over the floor. Then repeat this process 3 or 4 times. You will now be standing in an inch or so of standing water that has spread through your bathroom, tiled living room, and hardwood-floored kitchen.

Don't Panic.

Attempt to spear a rag (a smartut) to your freakishly large squeegee and start. . . squeegeeing. Throw your smartut into the corner of the room in disgust after it falls off multiple times. Now you'll be forced to scrub at any stubborn patches of dirt with the corner of the foam blade, but mostly you'll be busy pushing the soapy water across the floor, until, with a slapshot, you sweep it out the open front door or into the waiting open drain in your bathroom.

Check outside first to keep from splashing your grumpy neighbor with dirty water as he walks by holding his mail.This is a key step.

Also, remember to temporarily maroon your dog on a high piece of furniture or confine him to the DMZ of your bedroom. Otherwise, he will augment your work with a series of small, dirty paw prints and repeatedly try to lap up the soapy water.

Once all the soapy water--now tinted a light brown by the filth formerly on your floor--has been sluiced away, repeat the process.

But this time omit the soap.

Really.

Finally. After two rounds of playing solo shuffleboard in your home, you will (ideally) have clean floors. You will also have given your triceps a nice workout, and will immediately require a shower and change of clothes.


Is this method superior to the Red-White-and-Blue mop and bucket technique? I can't really say-for one thing, most American homes aren't equipped with floor drains in the kitchen and/or bathroom so it's not like it's an option in the US. My Israeli friends ALL emphatically poo-poo mops as inferior, saying they just push the dirty water around your floor. However, there is certainly an element of insanity to any cleaning practice that temporarily floods your home, swells the wooden legs of all your living room furniture, and requires sturdy rubber footwear.

The one thing I can say with certainty is that--like so many other head-scratching, profoundly baffling customs and practices--it is eminently, authentically Israeli.


For more pointers check out:

http://igoogledisrael.com/2009/10/life-in-israel-go-mop-that-floor-with-a-squeegee

www.amotherinisrael.com/this-is-the-way-we-wash-the-floor

(hyperlinks aren't working today, so give these the cut-and-paste treatment, okay?

Michael lifeguards

Photographic proof michael had fun at the beach