The End of Being a New English Teacher

As a new English teacher I am required by the Ministry of Education to take a new teacher workshop for my ongoing training. It is bureaucratic business at best; at worst a sausage factory spilling out unknowns and just more mess. Oy, a student in 10th just now texted me that her Moed Bet was scheduled for another Gush, to which, having stopped writing this, I replied: My schedule shows Gush B - lessons 1 and 2. But, no matter, whenever you have English, you will be taking the Moed Bet—English Lit., tests… wow. I just finished grading the rest, from both Gush’s pupils a pile of damn tests. That’s the hardest part of my job, I can attest, grading and writing, commenting and scoring … that is definitely the worst and the best.

Actually, there ‘is’ that Zen that creeps in from the edge of the classroom, slinking in and only then becoming relevant—when students notice life moving in front of them, when they exert themselves into a realm of the living. Yes, there are other realms too, we know and understand. However this particular realm of the living produces movement beyond, and does so for all that can tell. This is why I teach. Watching a student grow over the years builds me as well. And, surprisingly, that growth can be seen even in the tiny bureaucratic business in which our world requires us to dwell. Posting the Tziyun Hagashot in 11th, haggling over English Lit. in 10th, grammar, vocabulary, and the English Bagrut, and dealing with a government under siege all at the same time from within and borders beyond … the chaos produced is always, somehow, ordered by my mind.

All I really know is what is left when the day is all but done, the glowing awareness that I had an affect on my students, amidst pandemics and projectiles, riots, injustice … politics, tragedy, and extreme unrest—so yes, with this awareness I can now attest that I am no longer new.  

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