My work as a designer was pretty flexible; I was my own boss. The younger girls had all spent first half in camp, but now they were back. Yaeli would be leaving for seminary in a couple weeks, and Avigail had some job in a day camp for kids with special needs back at home, but we managed to finagle this “girls only” vacation week, rent a gorgeous villa with a pool in Florida, and fly out together for a real break.

Brenda Marcus aside, I wasn’t planning to work at all. We had the pool, the grill, the beach right nearby, and I think Tamara had drawn up some kind of trip itinerary for the next few days.

“What did you have planned for today?” I asked her.

Tamara looked up from her phone. “Today? Ah, I figured we would stock the pantry a little, and then hang out here by the pool… and then tonight, we could go out to eat, there’s a great restaurant not too far.”

“Sounds amazing.” When did I ever get to chill with my girls like this?

The pool was blissful. Warm sun, warm water, picture perfect blue sky… dreamy!

“Avigail, you aren’t gonna join?” Yaeli called, and then I noticed that my youngest daughter wasn’t in the pool — she was fully clothed, sitting on a lounge chair with a book.

She shrugged, squinting against the sun. “Not in the mood… I’m gonna read,” she said.

I narrowed my eyes. Avigail loved the pool. She wasn’t “not in the mood.” It must be….

I looked around. The pool area was set inside a ring of bushes and trees, shielding it from the road. But maybe it wasn’t out of sight enough for Avigail? She’d become very “into” tzniyus since her bas mitzvah, learning from a sefer for teens every night with her friends. And it made sense that she was making excuses instead of telling me straight out; she always made an effort not to impose her views on anyone else.

She was a good kid, Avigail. I was proud of her, in a kind of surprised way, as she took on different things, davened three times a day, decided of her own accord to stop reading secular books….

She didn’t even go to camp with her sisters. We always send to Machaneh Moriah. My sister-in-law runs the place, and we get discounted rates as family. But Avigail asked to go to a more “Bais Yaakov” style camp this year, with her friends, and she spent the entire year working as a mother’s helper so that she could earn enough to make up the difference in cost.

She was definitely the tzadeikes of the family. Who would’ve thought?

Vacation with my daughters was a delicious slice out of reality, but it was over all too fast. Back at home, I riffled through the accumulated mail — David had no patience for slitting envelopes and sorting bills from appeals, so he left it for me.

Bunch of bills, one fundraiser, and some random flyers, which I dumped. A postcard from Avigail’s friend Fraidy, adorable. And a thick-ish envelope from Avigail’s school.

I opened the letter. Something about community growing, school growing, blah blah. Needing to open more classes per grade. Yada yada yada…. And then, ah. The point of the letter.

The decision has been made to divide the classes within each grade. This is both in order to keep class sizes manageable, as well as to allow for the many new families joining the community to have a place in the school….

Careful deliberation has gone into the placement of every girl into the division that is most suited to her needs….

Okay, the point?

I found it on the second page; a short, personalized note:

Your daughter, Avigail Silver, will be in Grade 8A, homeroom teacher Mrs. R. Schreiber.

Rivky Schreiber, nice, she had taught Avigail in sixth grade. Guess this was a promotion for her. I just hoped that Avigail would be with her friends. Reshuffling as a teen was no fun.

And it was only in the past year or two that she’d found her place, really settled with this solid group of friends. Fraidy, Elisheva, Bracha Tova, and the rest. Sweet girls, mostly from kollel style families. Always polite and respectful when they visited, please and thank you and the snacks were delicious. Avigail really blossomed this past year; this group of friends was good for her.

I showed Avigail the letter. “Check if your friends are in the same class,” I suggested, but she was already dialing.

“Hi, Elisheva? It’s Avigail… yes, we got the letter! 8A… oh.” Her face fell. “Oh well. I’m going to try the others….”

She hung up. “Elisheva’s in 8B. I’m calling Fraidy.”

Fraidy’s phone line was busy, so was Miriam’s. They were probably all calling their friends to try figure out who was in whose class. Why hadn’t the school just sent out a class list instead of doing it this way?

I would have offered to message the mothers — the class moms’ WhatsApp chat was already busy with mothers posting which class their daughter had been assigned to — lots of 8As, made me wonder who the Bs were, was it a smaller class?  — but none of her friends’ mothers were on WhatsApp.

The phone rang. “It’s Bracha Tova!” Avigail snatched it up. “Hi! I can’t get through to anyone! Which class… oh. Oh, shame… I’m in 8A… and Rochelle also? Elisheva’s also in 8B… you guys are all together….” She sounded like she was about to cry.

She looked over at me. “Elisheva, Bracha Tova, and Rochelle are all in 8B. I can’t get through to Fraidy or Miriam yet… maybe they’ve just split our group in half, right? Probably Fraidy and Miriam are with me….”

But they weren’t. Not Fraidy, not Elisheva, not even Chaya Suri who wasn’t exactly part of the chevreh, but liked to hang around with them.

Avigail was in tears. “I can’t believe it. I’m the only one separated from everyone. The only one.”

My heart contracted. It’s so, so hard for a pre-teen — or anyone, for that matter — to have their social scene upended! And especially Avigail, who took so long to find her place in her class, and was finally, finally happy….

I looked at my phone. So many sweet girls in 8A, but no one Avigail had much to do with.

“Hadas from down the road is in your class,” I said. “And so’s… hmm… Shana Newman… Rikki Tascher….”

Avigail sniffled. “Not my type.”

Not my type.

Wait. Wait.

Realization dawned, just a little too late.

There was a reason why almost all the WhatsApp moms had daughters in 8A.

And why all the kollel girls were in 8B…

I speed-dialed my sister Meira. She had a daughter in 6th grade. The A-division, of course.

“The separating. This new system. They’re doing it according to—”

“Type? Oh yes,” Meira says. “The yeshivish families are all in the B division. Rosie’s friends are all in 6A, together with her.”

But Avigail’s friends were not.

TOsay that my daughter was devastated would be an understatement. She was… she was heartbroken. It had taken her so long to find her place, find her friends. And the she was just like them! The way she davened, said Tehillim, learned hilchos tzniyus… the way she (very politely, very respectfully) nixed half the outfits I ordered for her to try, and gravitated towards the styles her friends wore… the sleeves till the wrist and the checking of necklines and the pearl stud earrings and accessories in subdued colors… She’d worn tights all summer long, even when my other daughters wore socks.

She dressed, spoke, acted like her friends. How could they place her in the other class because of her family?

Icalled the principal that night. Of course, she gave a pat answer about not making any changes for anyone, trying it out first… of course, I couldn’t be the only one complaining. There must be 50 others whose daughters aren’t with friends, or don’t like the homeroom teacher, or whatever. But this was different.

We knew exactly why Avigail was placed in the A-division. But she genuinely didn’t belong there.

“There was a lot of thought and consideration put into the class lists,” Mrs. Pressman said. “It’s not something we took lightly.”

“I understand, but this is a girl who worked so, so hard to make these friends. She belongs there, Mrs. Pressman, she really does.”

“I know it’s disappointing for a girl to be separated from her friends,” the principal said, sidestepping the belonging part. “Like I said, the school policy is not to allow any changes until everyone has given this a solid trial. I have no doubt that after a couple of months, Avigail will find that things work out beautifully in this class, too.”

I had a lot of doubt about that.

But I also knew the principal was bound to refuse at first. Switching classes for individual girls was a recipe for disaster — everyone would be calling, complaining, asking to move around….

Still, we weren’t going to give up. I would call again, and again, if necessary. We would make an appointment with the mechaneches, the principal, whoever it would take.

Avigail might not be exactly like me, like her sisters, but we were proud of her. And she deserved to be in the class that was a good fit for her.

She also deserved to be happy. And right now, she was absolutely miserable.

The class wasn’t her type at all. She had no friends whatsoever, and barely found girls to sit with at lunch. The parallel classes had different teachers for some subjects, so her old friends ended up getting together to do their homework and leaving her out. And since they were together all day, they sort of naturally drifted away from my daughter.

She tried to join them at lunch, at recess. But things happened — the day a teacher kept her own class in later, while her friends went off to the schoolyard for lunch, and she didn’t find them until lunch break was almost over. The day their class was dismissed early and her friends walked home without her. Even when she did get together with them, there were references to events, teachers, assignments that she didn’t know about.

She was losing them, and she knew it. My Avigail, so serene and content just a few months before, was shriveling up before my eyes, withdrawing into herself. Crying into her pillow at night. Spending hours on her homework, alone in her room.

The phone never rang for her anymore.

I couldn’t bear it.

I set up a meeting with the principal.

“You know and I know that Avigail is a good girl, a great girl,” I said. “Look at her tzniyus, look at how she davens, you know she spent half her summer volunteering with children with special needs? And she’s so careful with halachah. She took so much on herself, especially this past year. She deserves to be in the other class. If you just look at her on her own — she belongs with them.”

Mrs. Pressman was courteous, but firm. “It’s not a matter of deserve, Mrs. Silver. A lot of consideration went into the class divisions, and for various reasons, we think Avigail would do best in 8A.”

“It’s obvious that you’re grouping according to family ‘type,’ ” I protested. “I see it, everyone sees it. And that’s okay. But Avigail is very different from her family, and I think that should be taken into consideration.”

She didn’t deny it. “Look, Mrs. Silver. There’s reasoning behind the class divisions, and that hasn’t changed. I’m sorry that your Avigail is finding it hard, but—”

“Not hard. Devastating.” I corrected. “She’s lost her entire social circle. She has no friends in her new class, and the old ones are drifting away, simply because she’s never there with them. She cries every single day and night. She’s broken, Mrs. Pressman, and I’m worried for her.”

“I understand. That’s really painful for her, and we can think about ways to support her. Encourage her to make friends in her new class. I know there are many girls who would love to be friends with her,” the principal said. “Speak to Mrs. Schreiber, the homeroom teacher. She’s great with the girls, she could do a lot to help Avigail integrate. I could speak to her, too. And the school social worker would be happy to talk her through the process, because of course it’s hard to have such a change at this age….”

“She doesn’t need therapy. She needs her friends back. Why can’t she simply switch classes, and everything would be fine?”

Mrs. Pressman looked sympathetic, but I could see it on her expression: I hadn’t changed her mind.

“Making it work in her own class will be best for Avigail,” she said.

If Ariella could tell Mrs. Pressman one thing it would be: My daughter worked on herself to become a model student in every way — and this is how she is punished for her growth?

Shoshana

Being principal of a girls’ school is a rewarding job — but one that comes, of course, with inherent challenges. And when it’s a community school, the only one in the vicinity, it can be even harder.

Especially when the community has grown dramatically in the past few years. We went from averaging 20 girls per grade to an easy 30, and in recent months, more and more families have moved in — maybe 40 families just this summer alone.

We’d been talking about dividing the classes for years, ever since the school had grown enough to necessitate having more than one class for certain grades. And while at the beginning we made the classes random, there was always talk about doing it differently — grouping according to family background and standards, like many community schools did.

I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that the decision was years in the making. With each new application I found myself thinking about it again. When phone calls came in from parents — and it happened year after year — with problems relating to girls from more sheltered backgrounds being exposed to concepts, technology, media because of classmates whose families allowed such things, I thought about how sorting could potentially curb these issues. And on the other side, there were always girls getting hurt when their classmates weren’t allowed to go to their homes….

“Short of having a new school open up to cater to the kollel crowd, I don’t see another option besides sorting the classes,” I told the board a couple of years ago.

We’d been bandying the idea around for a long time. Some of the board members were very for it, others were more hesitant. But then things came to a head.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was a relatively minor incident: A group of parents were very upset that a class study party had included watching some sort of educational movie or something. But it developed into a huge rift in the class between girls at either end of the spectrum, and many unhappy parents, and although we’d dealt with things like this before — it’s par for the course in a school where girls of different backgrounds are all lumped together — this time, a group of the kollel parents felt that enough was enough.

“It worked years ago, it doesn’t work anymore,” one of them told me emphatically. “It’s 2024, it’s a crazy world out there, and the diversity in the classes isn’t cute, it’s destroying everything we’re trying to achieve with our children’s chinuch.”

It wasn’t just talk. The next thing I knew, there was serious talk of a new school opening, which would cater to a small group of serious, kollel families. There were two mothers behind it, backed by a couple of community askanim and with guidance from a local rav. They had applied for funding, they were approaching teachers to discuss potential employment opportunities, and seemed intent on opening a new school for the coming year.

There was a meeting, of course — many of them. Opening a new school would put us at a tremendous disadvantage, both financially and in terms of losing the “cream of the crop” of our student body, which would negatively impact the standards of the whole school. It would break up the community and pit the schools against each other in terms of recruiting top-quality staff. Our community was growing, but we were still limited in terms of resources — if we’d lose half our teachers, the school would face serious issues.

“We have a lot of hakaras hatov to the school, we don’t want to cause damage to you,” said Mrs. Lieber, one of the women behind the new school project. “But what alternative do we have, if we’re looking for a more sheltered environment for our daughters?”

Sorting. It was the only solution.

We hashed it out — the options, the fallout, the way things could work. Eventually, the parents agreed — if we’d arrange the classes so that girls would be placed with classmates from similar backgrounds, they would put the plans to open a new school on ice. Everyone could continue to support the community school, we could work together to help every girl receive the best education in a good environment, and the community could remain united.

It took several months to hammer out the details, assign homeroom teachers to each class, and figure out how to expand our premises to hold the newly opened classes. We’d have had to do that anyway, with the 40 new families slated to join in September, but now we had the extra push to open two classes per grade — the fifth grade would even need three. We kept it as discreet as possible while the plans were in progress. Only once the summer was in full swing did we invite the staff to a meeting to explain the changes and what the new system would look like. Then we got to work.

There was a sense of urgency as we developed and ironed out the huge change the school was about to undergo, and I felt the heavy burden of responsibility on my shoulders. The pressure to give every girl what she needed — and at the same time, keep the school from imploding. Getting it right was our only chance to save the school — and community — from literally splitting apart. Getting it wrong would be a disaster. So we davened. We spent hours in meetings, phone calls, long emails back and forth — the board, the administration, the rav. I spent days closeted with the homeroom teachers of each grade, working on the class placements and divisions. And then, finally, the secretary sent out individual letters to every parent, with a carefully composed explanation for the change and their daughter’s newly assigned class.

And then I sat back and braced for the impact.

All in all, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

The rule is that for every unhappy parent calling to complain, there are ten more who are happy and have no reason to pick up the phone. But even without the happy ones calling to tell us, I was hearing from teachers, acquaintances, and friends that a lot of parents were happy with this change. Many of the parents whose homes were more sheltered were relieved — it had been getting harder and harder to keep up their family’s standards when the girls were exposed to so much by classmates who meant no harm, but were simply being brought up differently.

Other parents were confused, or wanted their daughter switched to the other class for whatever reason, but when we explained a little, or asked them to give it a try, they acquiesced. For the most part, it simply made sense. Most girls in any case gravitated towards friends of their own “type” — so they were with their social circle anyway. And they were young, adaptable. Second, third graders adjusted easily. Even slightly older girls would be fine after a week or so. The upper elementary classes were more difficult to shuffle and rearrange, but I believed things would settle down within a couple of months, maximum.

When the first week of school arrived, I breathed a sigh of relief. We would have to get through these first few weeks — new system, new classes — but once that was done, things would hopefully be a lot smoother in the long run.

And then Mrs. Silver made an appointment to see me.

She’d called soon after the letters were sent out, and I knew exactly why. The Silvers had four daughters; all of them had been through the school. Cute girls, good middos, popular. And worldly. They weren’t rebels — not at all. They were simply brought up with more exposure — to the Internet, social media, secular books and music and entertainment. Not in a bad way, just different to the homes that other students came from.

Tamara, Yaeli, and Dina were all lovely girls, but the way they dressed, the styles, the phones they were using when I saw them around — look, what can I say? Our school has several girls whose fathers are still in kollel, serious yeshivish-style families. And the Silvers were Torah-true and had beautiful middos, but their family style was different.

Except for Avigail. Looking at her, you would not have thought she was a Silver. Technically, on the outside at least, she fit right into the “yeshivish” class, the group of girls she’d befriended a year or two ago. I knew the change of classes had devastated her. But there was no going around it — her family culture was different. She came from a different background. She was exposed to things that they weren’t, and didn’t want to be.

The mother was very, very desperate to make things right for her daughter. I respected that; parents can and should advocate for their child. As a school, we look out for the individuals as much as possible, but it’s the collective that takes priority. And a parent who sees their child unhappy should always come forward and try to do something about it.

It was just that, in this case, my hands were tied.

“Every one of Avigail’s friends are in that class,” Mrs. Silver said again. Her voice was pained. “Do you know how she feels? How she cries every day, every night?”

“I hear how tremendously challenging it is for her,” I said gently. “Just remember, this is eighth grade, it’s a transition year… it might be hard now, but she’ll make other friends. She’ll figure it out, she’s a good student and a good friend.”

Mrs. Silver wasn’t happy. She pushed for a while, until it was clear that the school couldn’t budge on this point. I watched her go, wishing I could tell her the truth: The parents of Avigail’s old friends were among the ones who had pushed so hard for this change. That as much as she was working to fit in with them, it simply was not fair to expect a girl brought up with so much exposure to know automatically what should or shouldn’t be shared; to have her always feel like she has to prove herself; to have her friends’ parents quietly ask them not to spend too much time in her house, since they weren’t happy about the easy access to technology….

ITwas hard to let Mrs. Silver leave, knowing that she was deeply unhappy — and probably hurt and betrayed, too. It was even harder to turn down Avigail herself.

She came to see me a few weeks into the school year. Sweet, earnest, refined, gentle — and with reddened eyes, drooping shoulders, and a pall of sadness around her.

As she sat down and began to make her case for switching to the parallel class, I felt my heart ache in sympathy.

She wanted it so badly, and she truly believed she fit in with her old friends. And yet I knew that if I would give in and switch her, those friends might end up letting her down. We grouped the classes this way for a reason — and that was because too often, there were complaints from parents about exposure and influences. I knew the Silvers, where they went, how they dressed, the level of technology access and exposure; putting Avigail back with her friends was simply defeating the purpose of the split in the first place.

There was another angle, also. I’ve seen it happen that when a girl changes so drastically, and does something so different from her family in order to fit in with friends. In the end, she often gravitates back to girls from more similar backgrounds. If we placed Avigail in the yeshivish class now, and she didn’t quite fit in, where would that leave her?

“Avigail,” I told her. “I know. I know it’s really hard. And what I’m asking you to do is not easy. But the way the classes are split is not going to change. You’re sociable and kind and a good friend. I’m sure there are many girls who’d love to hang out with you. Why not work with what is and try to make new friends from the girls who are in your class now?”

If Shoshana could tell the Silvers one thing it would be: Your daughter wants to be with her friends… but those friends’ families are one of the reasons we made this change in the first place. 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1042)