I’d never taught Shira until this year, but I’d heard plenty about her. You couldn’t work in this school and not know Shira. She was the kind of student whose name came up in every staff meeting about behavior, class dynamics, and consequences. There was always something — defiance, disruption, full-on meltdowns. She’d never been formally diagnosed, but there was definitely something there — ODD, a tremendous difficulty self-regulating, something. During sixth grade, a teacher who’d taught Shira’s class had come close to quitting.

So when I saw Shira on my class list this year, I braced myself. I’d been teaching for a few years, but still, I was intimidated. And those first few weeks were as bad as I’d expected them to be. She pushed limits, rolled her eyes, refused to do work. She could derail a lesson in seconds, and most of the time, I had no idea what had even set her off.

But something pushed me to keep trying. Maybe it was the feeling of urgency, this was eighth grade, our last chance as a school to make a difference and help her grow. Maybe she was growing up a little, too. Somehow, under all the bravado and resistance, she seemed to want to change.

I met with Shira, with her parents, with the principal, with the school social worker, with all of them together. We created plans and processes, modified expectations, set goals, and rewarded every tiny step of progress. I modified assignments, exercised flexibility, stayed calm even when she was anything but.

There were days I walked out of school emotionally wrung out. And there were days I went home glowing, because she’d had a good morning, or said thank you, or even participated in class without a trace of attitude.

The biggest shift, sometime in November, was when Shira agreed to go for therapy. “I’ll give it a try,” she’d said, and slowly but surely, the tide had turned.

Was it perfect? No. We still had our moments. But it was a different girl sitting in the classroom once spring arrived — one who participated, listened, and sometimes even offered a half-apology after messing up. An acknowledgement of sorts.

And now she was weeks away from graduation.

Sometimes, when she was actually following a class, or coming in from recess on time, or handing in a piece of homework — I’d look at her and think: This is a miracle.

The last few weeks of eighth grade have their own looser pace, which is good, because no one really has the head to focus on new material. This morning, for example, was graduation practice — 50 plus eighth graders lining up to practice their march down the aisle.

I was new at this; I’d been teaching sixth grade until I’d moved up to eighth grade this year, so Tirtza Lebowitz, extracurricular coordinator, and Michal Katz, the other eighth grade homeroom teacher, were handling it — they’d done this around a million times before. So I got to sit to one side and just watch. I was in the middle of mentally composing my Shavuos menu when I noticed one girl detach herself from the crowd and quietly slip out the room.

Shira?

I stopped vacillating between fettuccine Alfredo and penne à la vodka and told Michal I’d be back in a few.

I found Shira in the classroom, at her desk, doing nothing. Almost as if she was waiting for someone (me?). For a moment, I just stood in the doorway, then I crossed the room and sat down beside her.

“Everything okay?”

She shrugged. Her lips were pressed closed, tight, tense.

I waited.

When she spoke, her voice was hard. “You didn’t see that, did you?” she asked bitterly.

“Didn’t see what?”

She looked up. Her eyes were shooting sparks. “Mrs. Lebowitz. How she yelled at me for being in the wrong place. I wasn’t — she told me last week to stand next to Hadassa, and now she forgot, and she gave me this whole speech about how graduation isn’t a game, even if I think it is….”

Ouch.

“In fifth grade, I… whatever. She’s had it in for me for years now. And she just thinks I’m messing up on purpose, even when I’m not. It’s not fair.”

It wasn’t.

And although I wanted to deny it… I couldn’t. Shira had a reputation, born of seven years of causing havoc both in the classroom and out. So yes, teachers expect the worst when they’re around her. I could understand that.

But I also understand the girl in front of me — so fragile under the bluster.

“I hate school.” Shira rested her elbows on her desk and looked at me defiantly.

I looked right back at her. “I can understand that,” I said quietly.

“They all think I’m dumb. And crazy. And that I just want to make trouble for everyone. You’re the only one who treats me like a person here, you know?” She paused for breath, and then went right on, words spilling out like she’d held them in for far too long. “And you know that dikduk test? It was my first mark in the seventies. Ever. But who cares, right? You think Mrs. Reuben is interested in me when I’m finally doing well? All she cares about is that I broke the school record of being sent to the principal’s office the most times in one year.”

A smile tugged at my lips. “Shira, I assure you, no one’s keeping records like that.”

She shrugged, slipping her mask of indifference on again. “Whatever. I don’t care. I’m leaving soon anyway. And then everyone can breathe a sigh of relief that the bad kid has graduated, and we’ll all never have to see each other again.”

Confidences time, it appeared, was over.

But her last words — I’m leaving soon anyway, everyone can breathe a sigh of relief — hit me hard.

How sad was it that Shira felt like this, after a year in which she’d literally clawed her way out of her challenges and put in so much effort to become a successful student, one who could sit in class and take notes and pass a test?

It was awful that she still felt no acknowledgment or recognition from the school’s administration, the same one that had sighed and clucked and rebuked and disciplined her for her infractions all these years.

The bad kid has graduated.

No child should feel like that. Certainly not one who’d made a superhuman effort to change, despite everything she was up against.

Was there anything we could do, as a school, to show her that her efforts were noticed, recognized, appreciated?

I was still mulling it over when I entered the teachers’ room for lunch period. It was buzzing with the fervor that meant there was a hot topic being debated.

“…the way it’s always been for a reason,” Ayala Marks, a popular middle school teacher, was saying.

“But what are we awarding, brains? Academic abilities that are simply what Hashem blessed them with?”

“It’s not just that. Every valedictorian also chose to put in efforts to get those great marks. Yes, it came easier, and yes, there are girls who put in plenty of effort and get eighties, but in every stage of life, some people have the talents and are recognized. Shouldn’t the academic girls have their chance?”

“I don’t know, I never liked the valedictorian thing,” Kayla Forster said. “Everyone knows the valedictorians are the ones who didn’t need to put in much effort for their grades. And I found it really off-putting when the school would honor girls who weren’t the best behaved, or didn’t have the greatest middos, or weren’t necessarily keeping to school rules — just because they had the highest average.”

The teachers’ room erupted at this.

“…can’t always be fair…”

“…so choose a girl who’s an all-rounder. Why get rid of honors entirely?”

“I think the new system is great, anything that gives some graduates all the attention and ignores the others is not a system I believe in.”

“But when everyone is awarded, it becomes meaningless. Why not tweak the system instead of getting rid of it entirely?”

I stood to one side, listening. This wasn’t the first time we’d discussed the school’s new system for graduation awards, but now things were getting really heated. Last year, Mrs. Reuben had introduced a dramatic shift. While in the past, graduation had always featured a Hebrew valedictorian, an English valedictorian, and one more class representative giving a speech, the new system gives every girl two minutes in the limelight where she receives an individualized award.

I understood the system. Did the stars of the class who’ve breezed through school from day one really need to be honored at graduation as well, while classmates who perhaps worked even harder were sidelined?

Still, I could also see the other side — we were losing something by working so hard to equalize everyone. We were losing the opportunity to recognize real effort, real progress, real achievement.

And as the eighth-grade homeroom teacher, I was tasked with coming up with the awards for every girl — and I’ll be honest, when there are 55 similar awards being read out, they all become pretty meaningless.

This one’s the “creative and out of the box thinker,” another gets the “math whiz award,” a third is “always punctual and organized.” What would I write for Shira, I wondered? Greatest improvement shown over the year? How patronizing. Something about her spunk and spirit? She’d see that as just a euphemism for “school troublemaker.”

And that was when I had an idea.

The system was still new — just in its second year. So many teachers were sharing their feelings about it, and not all of them agreed with how it was working out. Maybe there was a way to update it, to build on the changes we’d made last year, and alongside doing the general awards to everyone, highlight a couple of girls based on true merit, not just grades?

I could think of one or two other girls who really deserved to be spotlighted. Like Bina, who consistently studied with girls who were weaker academically, patiently leading study sessions so they could also achieve passing grades. Or Miriam, who was a role model of derech eretz, quietly helping out, cleaning up, taking on the tasks that no one else wanted to do?

And, of course, Shira.

What if we could use graduation as the opportunity to show her that yes, the school had noticed and appreciated her changes? What if her intensive inner work could be recognized and praised? Surely that would go a long way in making up for the hurt she still carried.

I approached Mrs. Reuben, our principal, feeling enthusiastic.

“I know we’ve moved away from the valedictorian model for graduations,” I said. “But I’ve been thinking, it feels like we’re missing out on the opportunity to reward girls who genuinely deserve it, because all the awards are equal.”

Mrs. Reuben furrowed her brow. I forged ahead.

“I was thinking that maybe we could introduce some special awards — for things like middos, derech eretz, and progress. Real recognition for things that deserve real merit.”

“I hear you, Leeba, it’s a nice idea. But we introduced this change specifically because wanted to ensure that we don’t highlight some girls over others,” she said.

“But what about a girl who really, really deserves it — who needs it?” I persisted. “Like Shira. You know how much she’s improved — it’s like she’s a different girl,” I said, relieve to see Mrs. Reuben nodding in agreement. “But she still feels very judged. Like she’s looked at as the ‘difficult one,’ the girl who’s always getting in trouble.”

Mrs. Reuben sighed. “It’s tough, isn’t it, to learn that a reputation can come back to haunt you.” She shook her head. “But she’s doing well now, that’s the main thing, and she’s going to get a great fresh start next year, b’ezras Hashem. And it’s so much to your credit, Leeba. The rapport you’ve built, the faith you had in her — kol hakavod, really.”

I nodded my thanks, but really, I came about Shira, not to take the credit for anything.

“She’s put in incredible effort to get to where she is. Really something significant. I don’t know if there’s anyone in the class who’s worked as hard as Shira for the successes she’s had this year.”

Mrs. Reuben nodded. “Wonderful, really. What a zechus to have helped make such a difference to a girl’s life.”

“So that’s the thing.” I swallowed. “I know that Shira… she feels like she never lost that label, that most of the school still sees her as ‘that girl.’ And I was thinking what a shame it is for her to graduate that way, you know? After she’s put in all that effort….”

Mrs. Reuben peered at me. “So what are you suggesting? Would you like me to call her in to offer an acknowledgment or something?”

“I was wondering if we could do something at graduation, actually,” I said, biting the bullet. “I know the school has really shifted away from spotlighting individual girls in graduation. But if anyone deserves recognition, it’s Shira. And obviously, she wouldn’t be valedictorian or anything like that. But maybe we could say something short about wanting to recognize one girl who’s put in effort against all odds, and been a true example of how someone can set their mind to something and really achieve… you know, it could fit with the graduation theme. And maybe we could call her on stage for a special award. Or certificate, or a little gift, something to honor what she’s done, in front of the school, in front of her parents.”

Mrs. Reuben’s face was neutral, but I forged on, determined to get my feelings out there while I could. “And her mother, think about the nachas it would give her parents. They’ve had years of heartache, they’ve worked with the school so much, they’ve tried so many things, therapies and whatever. It would be so meaningful for them to see their daughter get a positive mention for a change.”

Mrs. Reuben nodded slowly, but her face was regretful. “Leeba, that’s a beautiful, beautiful thought. And you’re a really special teacher to be so invested in each girl like that. Really.” She paused. But… I thought.

“But,” she said, predictably. “When we made the change from honoring individuals to recognizing everyone equally at graduation, we designed it without any exceptions. Because this year it’s Shira and another year it’s someone else and we start the whole thing again, risking everyone’s feelings in order to single out one or two.”

“I don’t think anyone will be jealous of Shira,” I protested. “I mean, this is an obvious case of a girl who was constantly in trouble, who’s turned herself around in an unbelievable way. This isn’t like honoring a girl for her top grades or her natural good middos.”

“And who says there isn’t a girl who’s worked just as hard as Shira, but more quietly?” Mrs. Reuben countered. “Who’s to say that there isn’t another girl in the class who struggled with wanting to misbehave, or talk with chutzpah, but hasn’t — for eight years, not just one? Is it fair for the girls to see a classmate rewarded simply for pulling her act together at the last minute — when they’ve been behaving appropriately all along?”

“But it’s so much harder for Shira!” I protested. “She definitely has challenges that the other girls don’t even have. ODD, ADHD, even if you don’t label it, it’s something. She really, really had to fight to get to where she is.”

Mrs. Reuben put out a hand. “Leeba, I know,” she said, her voice soft. “I believe that Shira has made magnificent strides, and that she’s fighting against a powerful challenge. But I’m looking at it from the outside. We have a policy not to honor any one girl at graduation, and we just can’t change it to make Shira feel good. We can find other ways to praise her hard work.”

Graduation.

I watched the girls march solemnly down the aisle. As each one’s name was called, she’d go up to the stage to receive her award and diploma.

Beautiful middos tovos, an example to all.

Conscientious and hardworking.

Always looking out for someone in need.

Then it was Shira’s turn. I’d put my heart into trying to find the right words to convey far she’d come. But how was it possible to put something that meaningful into a line or two?

Mrs. Reuben called her up and read aloud: Greatness in perseverance, for showing what it means to never give up.

I scanned Shira’s face carefully. She accepted the award with a close-lipped smile. It looked fake.

For trying, I could imagine her saying sarcastically. That’s what they think of me. The troublemaker whose biggest achievement is trying again.

It was her achievement. But we could have made so much more of it. We could have made her feel special, recognized, honored — for the first and last time in this school.

I looked at Mrs. Reuben, calmly calling up the next graduate. Did she see Shira’s slumped shoulders? Why wouldn’t she recognize that Shira had needed us to give her something more than this?

If I could tell Mrs. Reuben one thing it would be: This was our last chance to show recognition to a girl who’s battled so hard to reach this milestone, and we blew it.

Mrs. Reuben

“Mrs. Reuben?” Leah, the secretary, poked her head into my office. “The eighth-grade teachers just came by with the graduation schedule — could you confirm it and then I’ll run off the rest of the copies?”

“Sure. I’ll read it over and let you know if there are any changes.”

The schedule was pretty much a copy-paste of the year before — graduates marching, MC speech, guest speaker, awards, etcetera, etcetera. We used to do it differently —valedictorians, special honors, and so on, but a few years back, after much discussion with both our staff, and with the school’s daas Torah, we decided to make a change.

It wasn’t fair to make graduation about two or three “top girls” who often had spent years getting recognition for being the stars. Honoring three girls meant 50 more feeling inferior. Graduation was about every girl, every achievement, and every unique individual being recognized and celebrated. Every girl deserved to be seen and valued at her graduation, and that was why we made a big shift, from calling out a handful of girls for major recognition, to awarding every single graduate equally, highlighting a special achievement of their own.

The eighth-grade teachers spent a long time crafting one-line, individualized awards for every girl, and we had them printed on certificates and beautifully framed. Every girl would be recognized for her kochos and achievements. And graduation would become a meaningful experience for everyone, not just three high academic achievers.

The first year people were taken by surprise, but the general consensus was positive. Parents thanked us, teachers agreed that the new system was meaningful and special, and the girls — every one of them — left graduation having had an equal chance in the limelight.

Leeba Teller was a great teacher; she’d moved up from sixth grade to eighth just this year, when Baila Moskowitz left town. So she hadn’t been involved last year, when we launched the new system, but I was still surprised at her request to give Shira Berg a special mention.

“I think there’s room to make an exception here,” was what she said, when I explained the school’s policy again. “In this case, I really don’t think there would be any jealousy. I mean, the whole class knows how much Shira struggled, how she’s been in so much trouble over the years, and that she’s turned herself around in an unbelievable way.”

I sighed silently. Leeba was super sincere, she was dedicated and full of heart, but she also didn’t have the years of experience to see how such a thing could backfire.

“How do we know that there isn’t a girl who’s worked just as hard as Shira, but done it quietly?” I asked her. “What about the girls who struggle with wanting to act out, or who keep back their witty comments that border on disrespect? Maybe they’ve been putting in that effort for eight years, not just one. Why should they see their classmate being rewarded simply for pulling her act together at the last minute?”

Leeba leaned forward, her eyes wide and passionate. “But it’s so much harder for Shira!” she said. “She has real challenges, ODD, ADHD, whatever you want to call it. She really, really had to fight to get to where she is. Do you know she passed a dikduk test the other day….”

“I hear you,” I said, stemming the flow of words. “I really do. And it’s beautiful, that Shira has made such strides this year — under your care. But I’m looking at it from the perspective of the other girls, the ones who passed every dikduk test — even when they struggled. We have a policy not to honor any one girl at graduation, and we can’t change it just to make Shira feel good. We can find other ways to praise her hard work.”

Leeba was disappointed. I knew she’d poured so much into helping Shira, and it was really very sweet how she’d taken it to heart.

Still, this wasn’t something I felt we could do.

“What do you think of adding one or two specific special awards into graduation?” I asked Raizy Grunbaum, my assistant principal, after filling her in.

Raizy thought for a moment. “It’s a very nice idea,” she said slowly. “I can see it being a beautiful and meaningful experience for Shira. And it could definitely help her leave school with a more positive feeling toward her years here.”

I nodded, that was all true.

“But,” Raizy continued. “I agree with you that we can’t justify toppling the whole system for one girl. We did away with individual honors for good reason. And even if you say this is a major exception, next year there will be another one, and another one. The girl with the difficult family situation who needs a boost, the one who was never recognized for her amazing chesed. The girl who never received any special award and whose mother is desperate for her to get some recognition. You know how it goes. And then it will become a ‘thing’ — the extra honor, the girl who gets singled out at graduation.”

“And if we make it very clear that this is a once-in-a-blue-moon exception?” I asked, playing devil’s advocate.

Raizy shook her head. “I’m sorry, but then it shouldn’t be Shira,” she said. “I know she’s improved, I know she’s working hard. But her ‘improved’ is still well below baseline. Why should she be singled out for such a huge honor at graduation, just for achieving basic good behavior most of the time?”

“Because it was very hard for her,” I said. “Leeba was adamant that this took superhuman effort.”

“I’m sure it was. But plenty of girls do hard things,” she said emphatically. “And then there’s the other thing. Shira’s been getting attention in this school from day one. Yes, most of it was negative, but still…. Showering her with disproportionate rewards and honors is just not fair to the girls who are quietly toeing the line and possibly falling through the cracks.”

That was exactly what I’d been thinking.

“But I do hear Leeba’s point about the awards becoming kind of meaningless now that everyone’s getting the same thing,” Raizy said, thoughtfully. “And there’s been a lot of mixed reviews, from teachers, even from parents. Maybe it could be nice to do a couple of special awards for specific things. Middos, for one. Exemplary behavior… attendance record….”

I sighed. “It sounds good in theory. But we run into so many problems with this kind of thing. Who’s to judge which girl has the best middos? Do teachers even know that? And something like derech Eretz — for some girls, it’s just naturally easy. Like high grades for the academics. So we’re once again awarding girls for things that don’t necessarily reflect their own hard work at the expense of others.”

“I hear that,” Raizy said. “And that jealousy and hurt feelings is what we’ve been trying to avoid all along.”

“Exactly,” I said.

I would try explain this to Leeba again, I decided. But even if she didn’t fully understand, we couldn’t do it.

Walking the hallways later that afternoon, I spotted two girls huddled near the eighth-grade classroom. Penina Gelman, a sweet kid with a tendency to follow the leader, often to her own detriment… and Shira. Of course.

“Girls?” I said, striding toward them.

Penina turned bright red and mumbled something about going back to class. Shira said, “I’m just getting a drink,” and started walking away.

“Shira, just a minute,” I called after her.

She stopped and turned around, looking at me warily.

I smiled at her. “Shira, I’m hearing great things from your teachers. Mrs. Teller in particular says you’re doing really well. Keep it up.”

She relaxed, broke out in a tentative grin.

“And now, go take a drink, and then you know where you’re supposed to be.”

She gave a shrug-nod and went off.

Which, no denying, was an improvement for Shira. No snarky comments, no challenging authority, no eye rolls.

But still. She was spending class time in the hallway chattering with other girls — this wasn’t a girl we could in good conscience honor at graduation — especially when we’d stopped doing individual special honors in the first place.

Leeba would have to understand. There was a time and place for a public show of recognition, but here, we would have to make do with positive reinforcement in private. We couldn’t honor Shira and risk hurting 54 classmates who’d been putting in efforts all along.

If I could tell Leeba one thing it would be: We stopped doing individual awards for a reason — because as soon as we start giving special recognition to one girl, we open the door to hurt, jealousy, and politics in the rest of the class.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1066)