"When you’re older, you’ll understand.”
It’s a great line for answering questions that range from “If teachers really love us, why do they give us detention?” to “Why do we need to know trigonometry, anyway?”
And it’s true, right? We were all the same back in our teen years, somewhat egoistic, pretty much only seeing the few days in front of our noses, and certainly completely unaware of strange facts like teachers have feelings, too.
From my perch on the other side of the desk, with the great understanding of what older brings, it’s hard to remember what life felt like, back when we knew so much and understood so little.
But when I come across some of my old high school notebooks, I know I’m in for a fun glimpse into a time capsule. (And, admittedly, I’m curious: Back then, was I any better than the students I preach to?)
Notebooks one and two, from my first two years of high school, look well-cared for. Jewish History was my favorite subject; I even had a special black pen I saved just for those lessons. Neat underlined titles, full pages of notes — there we go, I was that model student I’m always urging my girls to become.
I feel momentary pride at my long-ago maturity, and nearly pat myself on the back, when I turn the page and see the flourishing signature of our JH teacher, Rabbi Fordsham. That was the signal to the office that I was eligible for a new notebook. (Question: Couldn’t they just see for themselves? I’m older now, but I still don’t understand the signature part.)
I guiltily remember complaining about that very signature, that the (gasp!) blue pen messed up my neat ink-black notes. I think of my students now, who complain that my grading makes their books look messy, that I use the wrong color pen, that I should only make checks and let them correct the other work instead of branding it wrong forever. Do I understand them better now? Well, not really, I just want them to grow up more quickly and understand me.
There are more guilty surprises in one of my sedrah notebooks: Alongside neat writing in rainbow-colored pens are numerous intricate doodles of hairstyles and wedding gowns. So I really was a teen too, once upon a time. Funny I’ve forgotten that now, as I insist on doodles being whited out or removed from my students’ notebooks, as I confiscate “Vote the hairstyle” papers that float round the classroom as I lecture. (I hide that sedrah notebook farther out of sight, very quickly.)
The biggest surprise, though, comes in an essay at the back of my Chumash notes from tenth grade. The teacher had asked us for a description of a woman we admire, and although I have no recollection of this at all, I chose to write about someone I hardly knew, a woman who lived out-of-town whom I’d met a couple of times. I described her acts of kiruv and the way she looked out for the children in her shul, and a few other pretty superficial points. It is nicely written, and I smile at the A+ scrawled in red below, but why, why did I pick some relative stranger in a far-off town as the object of my 15-year-old admiration?

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 606)