No one, and I mean no one, doesn’t work in my class

O

utwardly, there was nothing unusual about Dally. She stood a little taller than the rest of her class, but didn’t hold her shoulders back, so even that distinguishing detail was minimized. At first, she was just one of a boisterous group of friends.

We had moved to the city that summer, and I had been so busy with the details of the transition that I hadn’t looked for a job. I couldn’t believe my luck when I was able to find a position just two weeks before the start of the school year. The fact that this school had an opening so late in the season should have been a warning. But it flew right over my head. I was simply thrilled that a position was available at all, and in my chosen age group, to boot! I thought it was swell — just swell.

Disclaimer: I enjoy teaching junior high.

Junior high suits me. They’re spunky enough to challenge me, yet young enough that I can direct them toward wholesome, productive paths. I put great faith in planting when I teach. It means that you might not see results — sometimes for years, sometimes forever. But deep inside the student’s subconscious, you’ve left a thought, an idea, an aspiration. A seed has been planted. I live for those seeds. I’ve been a career teacher long enough to experience the miracle of delayed growth countless times.

In the business of chinuch, patience is not just a virtue; it is the fundamental prerequisite!

In this seventh-grade class, there was nothing irregular to report. They began the year with distrust and suspicion. It wasn’t odd with a newly hired teacher with no reputation. I had no established record in the school’s lore. There were no expectations, positive or negative. Twelve to fourteen is a skeptical, watchful age. These girls cope with limited self-knowledge, underdeveloped integrity, and punishing peer pressure. And in all those things, Dally presented as average.

That changed on Day Two. We had just completed the first few pesukim in the Chumash. My rule for learning new material was this: no writing until we’d mastered it. That way, stress is reduced and students can freely contemplate the context, translation, and message of each phrase in the pasuk. Only after that do they write down notes and solidify the data.

I announced that the class could open their binders and fill in the sheets. But Dally simply did not move. She did not open her binder. She did not attempt to write anything down. She did not look at the seforim on her desk. She simply turned her attention away from the rest of the class.