Next Year in a Stone School
We rode the bus tonight for back to school night. It kind of makes me sick. I mean, an un-airconditioned bus with a bunch of kids and parents when you haven't really been home for four days and you went to work anyway, is really a lot to ask of anyone. But then tonight, back to school night, which usually means an evening at the beautiful stone building that is my kids' school, was a bus ride to the suburbs and a crazy, loud tour of what is really a strip mall on the edge of town. The public school system leased the building because they are doing major renovations on schools and they need somewhere to keep the kids in the meantime. There is a schedule for the renovations. Last year it was a different neighborhood school, and this year it is my kids' school.
As the bus pulled in the parking lot of the strip mall/temporary school, my friend, who is Jewish (and this is important to me right now), looked at my forlorn look, shrugged her shoulders, and said, "Eh, it is still their school."
The teachers, who I know as well as the teachers of my childhood, fill the strip mall. My son is being taught by the same 3rd grade teacher that my oldest child and my middle child had for third grade. I want this consistency and history for my children. It makes my heart full and mournful.
"Go introduce your brother," their father urged when we got to my son's new classroom.
I watched my son move forward through the crazy fray with a sister on each side of him. The teacher saw her former pupils, and met Anna's eyes first, and they embraced, and then the teacher saw Mary, who hangs back and doesn't hug, but the teacher smiled at her and put her hand on her shoulder, and I saw the sisters push Frank forward with his hand out stretched and he formally shook hands with the teacher that he would spend time with in this bizarre makeshift school.
I thought about my friend's comment and I thought about the historical plight of the Jews and I thought, you know, we should all have such perspective (without the Holocaust). Your school is where your friends and teachers are. That's what I decided by keeping them at the school in this year of transition and strip malls on the outskirts.
From the book I am reading, The Yiddish Policeman's Union, which takes place in the fictional district of "Sitka," a temporary safe haven created for Jews in Alaska after the collapse of Israel in 1947, "You have to look to Jews like Bina...to explain the wide range and persistence of the race. Jews who carry their homes in an old cowhide bag, on the back of a camel, in the bubble of air at the center of their brains. Jews who land on their feet, hit the ground running, ride out the vicissitudes, and make the best of what falls to hand, from Egypt to Babylon, from Minsk Gubernya to the District of Sitka. Methodical, organized, persistent, resourceful, prepared. A mere redrawing of borders, a change in governments, those things can never faze a Jewess with a good supply of hand wipes in her bag."
I really mean this all in the most respectful way, but I would never explain to my friend why her perspective struck me as so wise. And it really doesn't matter why I thought what I did. What is important is that I embrace this school year positively and that my kids and I come through this with a sense of humor.
Next year in a stone school with real landscaping.
That is my prayer.
As the bus pulled in the parking lot of the strip mall/temporary school, my friend, who is Jewish (and this is important to me right now), looked at my forlorn look, shrugged her shoulders, and said, "Eh, it is still their school."
The teachers, who I know as well as the teachers of my childhood, fill the strip mall. My son is being taught by the same 3rd grade teacher that my oldest child and my middle child had for third grade. I want this consistency and history for my children. It makes my heart full and mournful.
"Go introduce your brother," their father urged when we got to my son's new classroom.
I watched my son move forward through the crazy fray with a sister on each side of him. The teacher saw her former pupils, and met Anna's eyes first, and they embraced, and then the teacher saw Mary, who hangs back and doesn't hug, but the teacher smiled at her and put her hand on her shoulder, and I saw the sisters push Frank forward with his hand out stretched and he formally shook hands with the teacher that he would spend time with in this bizarre makeshift school.
I thought about my friend's comment and I thought about the historical plight of the Jews and I thought, you know, we should all have such perspective (without the Holocaust). Your school is where your friends and teachers are. That's what I decided by keeping them at the school in this year of transition and strip malls on the outskirts.
From the book I am reading, The Yiddish Policeman's Union, which takes place in the fictional district of "Sitka," a temporary safe haven created for Jews in Alaska after the collapse of Israel in 1947, "You have to look to Jews like Bina...to explain the wide range and persistence of the race. Jews who carry their homes in an old cowhide bag, on the back of a camel, in the bubble of air at the center of their brains. Jews who land on their feet, hit the ground running, ride out the vicissitudes, and make the best of what falls to hand, from Egypt to Babylon, from Minsk Gubernya to the District of Sitka. Methodical, organized, persistent, resourceful, prepared. A mere redrawing of borders, a change in governments, those things can never faze a Jewess with a good supply of hand wipes in her bag."
I really mean this all in the most respectful way, but I would never explain to my friend why her perspective struck me as so wise. And it really doesn't matter why I thought what I did. What is important is that I embrace this school year positively and that my kids and I come through this with a sense of humor.
Next year in a stone school with real landscaping.
That is my prayer.
posted by Lea at 7:59 PM
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