I work at a school called El-Zahra, a name which I don’t know the meaning of. The school reminds me of blue skies and sunlight peeking through the shadows. The outside is lined with flowers and plants that little hands put into the ground, dirt embedded in their fingernails. There is a greenhouse, the size of which my father would be proud of, and strawberries that will never look as luscious when grown on Long Island.
We visited four schools to volunteer at and this was my first choice: the school surrounded by flowers and growth. It has a courtyard in the center, the ceiling covered by strips of tarp, and open hallways that are exposed to the elements. I wonder what happens when it rains. Birds periodically fly through the halls. At first, it seems beautiful, until you realize there is no janitor to clean up the poop left behind in the hallways and on the walls. And for the first time, you realize that every school does not come with a janitor, like a thoughtful package.
It’s a school run by a woman - vibrant and determined. She is always sprinting to do something so you only ever see the tight curls of her hair as she whips by. The assistant principal is a man - strict and punctual. He yells with such terror when a teacher doesn’t show up to work that I hope to never disappoint him. The kids - I can not explain by merely two sentences, for it would not do justice to their wild spirit and yearning eyes. But I will try, in hopes of capturing the essence of their sweet innocence and how they have brought out the tender parts in me.
I tutor them in English, a language that can unlock doors that I never knew were bolted shut and covered in barbed wire. Doors that can help them catch up to children with lighter skin and eyes. They have names that I’ve seldom heard or never heard at all - like Waed, Siwar, Fars, and Yumna. My first stab at making the guttural sounds of Arabic and failing miserably, leaving me to be corrected again and again. I do the same for them every time they say Dina when pronouncing my name, Dana. I guess we are learning together.
On the first day, three months ago, I sat in a circle with each group - vulnerability pouring out of every one of us, our eyes so eager but hesitant. We went around saying our names and asking questions in a way that my friends and I have coined the Maayan Circle. Maayan is our Hebrew teacher, and we too sit in front of her eager and hesitant, and take a stab at a new language that may not unlock a bolted door but will build connection. She is a teacher who says wonderful after every Hebrew word that’s forced from our mouths, our tongues and jaws moving in ways that feel wrong. So my goal is to say wonderful after every word my students utter, even when it’s not perfect. I know how much validation can help keep a person going.
I tutor 4th-6th graders and the difference between the three bewilders me. Did I change so much in three years? Did I also go from an unknowing child to a kid whose innocence was dwindling, and boundaries were being pushed? To whom the world slightly seemed less sunny but more real and the veil of childhood was slowly pulled off? Whether they are ready or not, a new image of the world is coming to them. I wish I could capture their innocence in a jar and give them doses when they need it, when hope seems far and they begin to question why the world is unfair, or maybe they have known it all along but now it is a looming fact in the forefront of their mind. I wish I could take a dose of that innocence for myself, on days that are so melancholy, stagnation feels satisfactory. Jars of innocence held in secret capsules, in a faraway land, protected by the knights of childhood dreams, like all the fantasy movies.
The second week was the most overwhelming. Every time I went to pick up the kids from class and bring them to our tiny three-walled study room, my heart beat faster and faster. Their excitement warmed my heart but also made me think I was so under qualified to satisfy their desire to learn. Or maybe that is something to never satisfy but grow, which makes my task more daunting - to be interesting enough for them to want to keep learning. I slowly learned how to lesson plan and create structure for souls that just want to play. And how can I blame them for wanting to play when I’m rooting for their innocence to stay intact? The secret is, I want to play too and pretend the floor is made of lava and we have to jump from stone to stone to protect ourselves from the steaming liquid and if we fall off we will perish to a fiery death. But you need mutual language to fully play. So instead I teach.
There is one student in fourth grade, who has stuck out in my mind from the beginning. Her name is Waed and she desperately wanted to color the first day. She raddled off every sentence she knew in English to prove they knew enough so now there was time to color. Shamefully, I had no markers or crayons and the “teacher” in me felt there is no time for fun when there is so much to learn. When was I taught that toxic idea? She would become the same student who memorized all the facts about my life. I am 27 years old, I have one brother, his name is Spencer, I am from New York and I like to paint. She says it proudly every week, like she is telling me, “I love you and all your facts and please say more so I can keep telling you about yourself because I think every part of you is wonderful.”
As the weeks passed, I slowly learned how to create structure for these kids who seem to have so little, who can leave class at any moment to go to the bathroom or just walk the halls and hide when the principal passes by. These are kids who do not walk from class to class in a line or have assigned seating in the lunchroom or have a lunchroom at all. They are kids that get a ten-minute break at 10:40 am and when that clock strikes it is like a flock of birds soaring to the South, where there is freedom from the cold. You better watch out or you will get bumped by every kid sprinting your way to try and get to the basketball court the fastest in order to soak up every bit of those ten minutes. Isn’t that beautiful?
There are many things here that question by belief in teaching and my own experience as a child. Like, when is structure too much structure and when does running around the halls need to be disciplined and when do you just let them be, to make mistakes and laugh and cry and even be mean. How much is meant to be controlled and how much should be free, for them to discover? And then, how do you give them the confidence to discover on their own? It is love and tenderness or strict structure? Is it tests and grades or is it planting your own seeds and learning about how their roots will take form in the coming weeks?
I often think about June, the hot, dry, yet sticky Israeli weather, the dark color of the sand, the dried-out grasses. I think of June because that is when I have to say goodbye to the eyes that have so much wonder and have given me love that will stay with me for years. I think about every time they tried to ask, “How old are you?” always leaving out the word “old” because it sounds similar to “are” and is hard to pronounce anyway. I will miss trying to explain why their response, “I am ten years old” needs to include the word “years” if it does not show up in the question. I will miss the countless times they ask me to play and the countless times I say English first, play second, while always questioning why it needs to come second. I will miss the students who I always need to tell to sit down and the ones who sit anxiously waiting for me to speak. I will miss their innocence and ability to love so quickly, no questions asked. Most of all, I will miss their drive to learn and the fact that they are trying to move forward at such a young age - their ability to breakdown a barb-wired door that is bolted shut.