From fourth grade through eighth grade, my class was controlled by a clique, and I felt intimidated by the girls in that clique. I had very few friends, and I never felt comfortable studying with other girls. It was easier to tell myself I was stupid and make peace with my low grades. That was all the teachers expected of me, anyway.

In seventh and eighth grade, I started doing better in general studies subjects. Around that time, I started reading a popular series of very long books, which I loved. This built my vocabulary and helped me get faster at reading and better at writing. Once, I got a 98 on a history test. I was floored.

Still, I dreaded going to school. I hated not being able to follow what was going on in class, I hated the way the teachers always disapproved of me, and I hated knowing I was dumb.Sometimes, at night, I would be so panic-stricken about having to go to school the next day that I lay there in my bed unable to breathe. 

One night, when I was in seventh or eighth grade, I came to my mother crying hysterically.

“What’s wrong, Avigail?” she asked in alarm.

“Just tell me I don’t have to go to school tomorrow,” I sobbed.

“It’s fine, you can stay home,” she assured me.

I felt better instantly.

I frequently had anxiety attacks about going to school. Once, during eighth grade, these anxiety attacks kept me home from school for an entire week.

I just wanted to be done with this horrific thing called school. But after elementary school comes high school, and no matter how bad you are at school, you don’t get a choice whether to go. In my community, there’s one girls’ elementary school and one high school, so where to go wasn’t much of a choice either.

Much to my relief, however, the clique that had caused me so much anguish was broken up in the transition to high school. In eighth grade, I had started making some friends, and when I entered high school, I made more. I became friends with one of the smartest girls in the grade, which boosted my confidence significantly.

My high school was unique in that the classes were divided by ability, not by grade level. For most limudei kodesh subjects, girls from ninth through eleventh grade were placed into eight different groups, called “chaburos.” Although the chaburos were officially referred to by room number, among the girls they were known as chaburah gimmel through chaburah yud, with gimmel being the lowest and yud being the highest. The lower chaburos were smaller than the higher ones, which enabled the teachers to give more personal attention to the girls who were struggling.

Initial chaburah placements in ninth grade were done on the basis of each student’s interview and entrance exam. But the principal made it clear from the outset that those assignments were fluid. “If you don’t like your chaburah, wait a month and we’ll change it,” she announced the first week of school.

“My door is always open,” she added. “Feel free to stop by any time to discuss anything.”

Initially, I was assigned to chaburah daled, the second-to-lowest group. For subjects that were not tracked, I was with a class of girls on my grade level. But my real homeroom was my chaburah. Rather than feeling embarrassed that I was only in chaburah daletd, I felt good being in the same class as some high-and-mighty eleventh graders. And because we all knew we could switch chaburos if we wanted, none of us felt stigmatized.

The difference between the chaburos wasn’t so apparent, in any event, because the lowest chaburos had the same teachers as the highest ones. My chaburah daled Chumash teacher also taught chaburah yud and chaburah ches, and the teacher of chaburah tes also taught chaburah gimmel.

Entering ninth grade, I understood almost no Hebrew. My Chumash teacher allowed us to use an English Chumash — something she would never have allowed in the higher chaburos — and she taught us the same topics and basic material she was teaching the highest-level girls. Our Chumash tests were in English, and easier than the ones our teacher gave the girls in the higher chaburos, but she worded our tests in a way that made them appear challenging even though they weren’t. This way, we were able to do well without feeling as though we had been given a dumbed-down test.

Because I had the same teacher for Chumash as the more gifted girls in my grade, I was able to discuss what we were learning with them. They had to know the meforshim inside, but our notes were more or less the same, and although we were technically at opposite ends of the tracks, we didn’t feel any different.

I was highly sensitive to being viewed as stupid — I felt that way throughout elementary school — but being in a lower chaburah never made me feel stupid. Perhaps that was because we weren’t locked into a particular track. Or perhaps it was because of the way the teachers treated us. The rabbi who taught us halachah emphasized in practically every class he gave that every girl is unique and special. That was a reflection of the school’s overall attitude, which was that every girl could and should succeed. The tracking system wasn’t about determining which students were better or smarter; it was about putting each girl in a setting where she could develop her abilities and do well.

No teacher ever came over to me individually and told me I was special. When you’re told one-on-one that you’re special, you feel like an idiot. But when your teachers keep emphasizing to the class that every girl is special — and it’s obvious that they believe it — you eventually start thinking to yourself, Oh, I really do have what to contribute. I just have to figure out what it is.

In chaburah daled, I wasn’t being challenged at all. Our Navi teacher told stories from the Navi without having us look inside, and our Ivrit teacher hardly expected anything of us. Throughout ninth grade, my Chumash teacher encouraged me to advance to a higher track. I didn’t — I was enjoying her class too much — but it felt good to be told to move up.

The next year, I was moved up to chaburah hei automatically, since the school tries to move everyone up to a higher chaburah each year. Once there, I wanted to move up to chaburah vav, but the teacher in charge of arranging the chaburos didn’t give me an easy time of it. “You’re not doing well enough to move up,” she said. “Stay where you are.”

In the past I would have heard such a thing and thought, Yeah, she’s right. I’m stupid. But now, having tasted academic success in my ninth-grade chaburah, I wasn’t ready to give up without a fight.

I’m not stupid, I told myself. And I’m going to show her that.

I began to study and work harder than ever. At night, I would study the pesukim we’d be learning the following day, memorizing the Hebrew pesukim and their English translation so that I’d be prepared when the teacher called on me to read. None of the other girls prepared the pesukim at home, but I was determined to show that I belonged in chaburah vav. And I did — so much so that in eleventh grade, I didn’t even have to fight to be moved up to chaburah ches.

Twelfth grade no longer had chaburos; instead, most subjects were divided between regular and honors. I was in the honors track for every subject. That year, I finally changed my hairstyle and cut my long hair into a short bob. I no longer felt I had to hide my face.

I credit my turnaround as a student to my high school teachers, most of whom were phenomenal. While I did have my run-ins with certain teachers, on the whole I felt that the teachers respected me, cared about me, and believed in me — regardless of my test scores. I think all the girls in the school felt that way.

My Navi teacher in eleventh and twelfth grade had a personal relationship with every girl and made every student know that she loved her. Her class was the place where you could ask all your questions, and when she answered, she was answering you. Our school was a community school, with a diverse student body that spanned the spectrum from modern to yeshivish, and yet she managed to answer each girl in a way that was tailored to her, while at the same time not offending anyone else.

My mechaneches in eleventh grade would refer to us students as “my girls,” and we really did feel that way. Our grade Shabbaton that year was held in her neighborhood, and she hosted some of the girls. She did a lottery to decide who would stay at her house, but we weren’t supposed to find out where we were staying until we boarded the bus to her neighborhood.

That Friday, I wasn’t feeling well, so at first I decided to stay home. But then, my mechaneches called and pleaded, “But you’re staying at my house!” I couldn’t pass up that opportunity, so I decided to go. The whole bus waited for me.

It wasn’t only our limudei kodesh teachers who believed in us. My chemistry teacher in eleventh grade would stay late answering girls’ questions — not just chemistry questions, but questions about career choices as well. Once, I asked him if he thought I should become an engineer.

“For sure you could,” he encouraged me. Then he listed some good engineering schools for me.

In twelfth grade, I had trouble deciding where to apply to seminary. On one hand, I had been a weak student most of my life, especially in limudei kodesh. On the other hand, I was an honors student that year, and earning top marks in every subject. My twelfth-grade mechaneches sat down with me for probably half an hour to discuss my options.

Some of my cousins had gone to a top seminary in Eretz Yisrael, and deep down I really wanted to go there as well. But when I floated the idea to my teacher, she told me I’d never get in.

My old self would have listened to her and not applied, but my new self told her that I was going to apply anyway. “I can’t give up without trying,” I explained.

Along with my seminary application, I needed a recommendation letter, so I approached my eleventh-grade Navi teacher hesitantly, knowing that dozens of girls had already asked her. “For you?” she exclaimed. “Of course!”

I’m sure she responded that way to everyone, but it felt good anyway.

My interview for that seminary went terribly. The person doing the interview didn’t talk much, and most of her questions required one-word answers, so most of the interview was a staring contest. After the interview, I called my mechaneches, who was helping us through the seminary application process. She had often told us she would cry with us if we got rejected, and she wasn’t lying. She listened to me and sympathized, staying on the phone until I calmed down.

By the time the acceptance letters came, I wasn’t even nervous, so sure was I that I hadn’t gotten in to the seminary of my choice. To my shock, however, I did get in.

But by that point I had already convinced myself that I’d be better off in a less challenging seminary. I called up my Navi teacher and said, “I don’t know what to do. How can I possibly manage in that seminary? All the classes are in Hebrew!”

“You’re not going to go there because you think you’re not good enough?” she exclaimed. “That’s ridiculous! Of course you should go!”

“We’re not going to let you turn it down,” my other teachers told me. (In the end, I decided to go to that seminary, and I had an amazing year. I finally learned Hebrew, too.)

In my high school, every girl gets an award at the end of twelfth grade. My award was for — of all things — excellence in limudei kodesh. At first, I found this hilarious. Me, Avigail, excellent in limudei kodesh? I was the girl who couldn’t read kametz alef uh. The girl who couldn’t do her parshah homework. The girl who hid at the back of the class so the teacher wouldn’t call on her to read the pasuk. The girl who, even in chaburah ches, had to memorize the pesukim and their translation the night before so that I’d be prepared when the teacher called on me.

When I thought it over, though, I realized how appropriate the award was. My principal and teachers weren’t applauding my good grades — they were commending me for the effort I had made to raise myself from chaburah daled all the way to the point where I was able to attend a top seminary.

But the real award goes to them. They wanted to see me succeed, they believed I could succeed, and they gave me the motivation and confidence to succeed. I entered high school feeling like a loser, and I left feeling like a success.

For that, I think my school gets top marks.

(Originally Featured in Mishpacha Issue 688)