Americans Have Tempers Too

This was one of those weeks where if I’d been in America, I’d have been fired. Since I’m in Israel, I got a promotion.

One of the weirdest cultural differences between the States and Israel is the channels through which things are accomplished. Or not accomplished. In America, if I want to advocate for a student, I know exactly what to do: I send confidential written communications to the people in charge, explain clearly and succinctly why the student needs what they do, and make my case to them in level, pragmatic language.

So, I tried that here. It didn’t work. So I tried some other things, one of which was allowing myself to be drawn into a shouting match in the staff room with the head of the dorms (if you shout at me, I will riposte), and lo and behold, I was called into the principal’s office an hour later.

“Are you Moroccan?” She asked me.

I looked at her blankly. “No.”

“You sure? Because Moroccans are famous for their tempers.”

“Americans have tempers too,” I told her. She grinned. By the end of the day, my student had received what she needed, the dorm guy was trying to make up with me, and I’d been given a new post for next year. I’d also acquired an even greater respect for my principal’s negotiation of what she calls the Levantine-international divide. And an unwilling belief in the pundits’ claim that Middle Easterners need a show of power to impress people.

How does this poster not fuel those stereotypes?

Speaking of Moroccan stereotypes: a recent article I read about students benefiting from same-race teachers in the States has me pondering how my own racism affects my students. Of course I started making a list of students and how I treat them, how much time I spend with them, how highly I rate their abilities and potential, and then organizing it by race or nationality to check out my prejudices. I counted it up and discovered that I always give time to the one American whenever she asks for it and no matter how many other students I’ve brushed off that day, that I need to get rid of my prejudice and have more faith in the academic honesty of Eastern Europeans, that I should spend more time with the kids from quieter cultures (Asians especially), and that I spend less time listening to the Israelis worry about their upcoming army service than to the Palestinians worrying about their identity crises. The Israelis have ethical dilemmas about whether to join units where they will avoid dealing with Palestinians entirely, or where they will be able to be a voice of humanity in the midst of combat, while the Palestinians struggle with how their friends and communities see them at home and whether they are traitors for attending an Israeli school.

My faith in the abilities of Israeli and Palestinian students is statistically similar. I worry that I spend more time teaching those Israeli-Arabs and Palestinians who don’t mention their identity as much—who don’t remind me constantly that their world views posit a reality in which I don’t live here—and more time just listening to those who are constantly thinking about their identity and need an ear. While listening is important, I need to push them academically as much as the others, not allow them to use their identity as a buttress against effort. It also crossed my mind that I have to guard against not wanting to teach them, or to push them academically—that I have to teach them to express themselves just as well as the others, even if they will use it to say things that make me uncomfortable.

Lately I’m working on a new writing project, choosing different students and writing stories from their perspectives as an effort to get inside my kids’ heads. Much of what I’ve written, I can’t share, so I haven’t blogged in a while because it all seems bland against the reality. I'm writing now because I'm trapped inside by the weather report-- a blend of dust and terror attack predicted for Tel Aviv this afternoon. Anyhow, my students' stories are so rich, and what I can tell you, so little—just nuggets of things that have worked in the past few months, or classroom strategies that I’m playing with:

·      Changing my homeroom from large-group complaining sessions to mixtures of group-building activities, current-event debates, and one-on-one meetings.

·      Turning students’ essays (with permission) into class worksheets so the whole class annotates, grades, and restructures the essay.

·      Telling a kid with suicidal thoughts, “I would carry that forever, if you did that,” and the response that that would give them pause.

·      Having students bring in materials for us to read and write about (been doing this for awhile, but just gave my kids our mid-year surveys and most of them wrote about how they loved this. It also saves me work).

·      Posting the names and research question of each student who finishes their Extended Essay on a corkboard for the whole school to read—the second years are so proud, the first years so curious, the teachers so impressed by their students.

·      Changing the school survey from “what do you like about your teacher” to “what does your teacher do that you like”—I don’t want to hear their opinions on my hair or accent.

·      Being utterly transparent with individual students that yes, I am going to pick on them for the things in class with which they struggle because I have complete confidence in their ability to do it.

Our school is organizing a Tedxtalk series at Tel Aviv University in a fortnight, and I’ve been asked to speak. Something about being handed a TedxTalk is oddly soul-defining; what do I want to say that I really want to be heard? And what on earth can I offer when compared to the others speaking: the Oslo Accords writer, the Palestinian peace activist, the famous Yemini singer, and the accomplished filmmaker? I’ve tossed around several ideas, and feel that I’m going to end up delivering a parody of my favorite TedTalk of all time:

Because I was offered a TedTalk, and dammit, I’m gonna see it through.