Читать книгу Forgive Us Our Trespasses - Diane Gensler - Страница 10

Chapter 2

Hallowed Be Thy Name

It was a week before school started, and I sat at a science lab table in a faculty meeting with all the teachers from pre-K to the upper school. I was acquainted with the middle school teachers since I would be working the closest with them. It felt as if we were paired up like Noah’s Ark since there were two homeroom teachers for each middle school grade. The two eighth grade homeroom teachers appeared to be best friends, and the two seventh grade homeroom teachers were both former nuns and seemed well-acquainted.

Most of the teachers had been teaching there for years and, at some point, had their own children enrolled. They would get a steep tuition discount which sounded like a good deal. Mrs. A’s son had graduated the previous year.

Mr. Z led the meeting. He was a tall, dark-haired, clean-cut, suited gentleman who looked to be about the same age as Mrs. A. He had been the principal for the past several years, was well-liked, and had a good reputation. As I had learned, Mrs. A was friendly with him and was frequently in his office.

There was a lot of chatter, so he asked everyone to quiet down. He made the meeting brief, as it lasted only a half hour. Within that time he gave us our official schedules, student lists, and miscellaneous information about how the school year would run. As I held my list of students, a wave of anxiety washed over me like someone had just poured cold water down my back.

How am I going to get everything done before the first day of school? Now that I finally have the names of my students, I need to assign textbooks, set up my grade book, and create seating charts. I haven’t duplicated handouts and gathered supplies for the first week of school. We were cutting it close.

These experienced teachers had worked together for many years, and the questions they asked reflected that, such as if procedures for tutoring kids after school would remain the same and is such-and-such kid still receiving medical treatment for this or that condition. Of course, I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about.

Mrs. G was a teacher in the lower school, and her son, Wayne, was in Mrs. A’s sixth grade homeroom and English class. He had diabetes, so she gave everyone a brief lecture on how to handle if he had an episode. I was glad he wasn’t in my class because I freeze in an emergency. If somebody is standing in front of me bleeding profusely, I watch the blood pool on the floor.

One day before Christmas, Wayne was in my class for a special holiday activity, and he had an episode where his blood sugar dropped and he came close to passing out. He sat in his seat with his eyes closed and his head on the desk.

He uttered, “I don’t feel good.”

“Ms. B,” one of his classmates called. “Wayne needs help. It’s an emergency!”

My mouth dropped open, and I stood there looking at Wayne.

“Ummmm...,” I uttered.

“We have to do something,” another child said.

“Tracy, run across the hall and get Mrs. A,” I directed.

I’m doing good, I thought. I did something.

Fortunately, she came right away prepared. She brought a package of cookies and gave him one. Then she directed someone to get him a drink of water. He perked up, so she had a student walk him to the nurse’s office. A disaster had been averted and he was okay. Thank goodness!

I didn’t know the non-middle school teachers very well, but I had learned their names. Some had introduced themselves. Others seemed to shy away from me. I was too busy to give it any thought. I figured they were not open to receiving newcomers.

Whenever I didn’t know something, Mrs. A was my “go-to” person. I sat next to her in case I had any questions. I didn’t want to raise my hand and ask something trivial or foolish in front of the whole faculty.

I went to Mrs. A when I wanted to run a bulletin board idea past her. I walked into her room and saw one of the most amazing bulletin boards I had ever seen in my life. I hadn’t realized she was so talented. She had stapled indoor/outdoor carpet to the board and made a soccer field with lines and players. Her slogan was “Score High in English.” As students received points for participation and good behavior, she advanced the soccer ball on the field. They would earn a party or some kind of reward if they scored a goal.

When I marveled at the board and asked her what she thought of my idea, she said, “I never save old bulletin boards, otherwise I’d lend you something of mine.”

I didn’t ask you that, but okay….

She was standing in her closet, and she pointed to a few empty shelves. I thought it a nice sentiment, but I didn’t need any supplies. I presumed she didn’t like my bulletin board idea, although I put it up anyway and other teachers and students complimented it. I hung orange paper and placed enticing young adult book jackets in a large Halloween cobweb I stapled to the paper. The slogan was “Get Caught Up in Reading.”

After I resigned at the end of the following year (Yes, I stayed two years!!!), I returned to pick up my supplies and found Mrs. A’s soccer bulletin board hanging in my former classroom. She had given it to my replacement who, the school secretary informed me, was Catholic and now chummy with my former teaching partner. Mrs. A must have stored her supplies at home. I wasn’t surprised. In addition, I couldn’t find the supplies for which I had returned, so I assumed Mrs. A had thrown them away. I could envision her tossing my belongings into the trash, happy to get rid of anything that reminded her of me.

I was happy with my schedule, as it was relatively straightforward. I liked the double class periods because we had a lot to cover in English Language Arts. (We were required to give each student separate grades for vocabulary, literature and grammar.) Each class period was 90 minutes instead of the usual 45 minutes, which meant we could accomplish much more in one class period.

I had my sixth grade class first and second periods, then my seventh grade third and fourth periods, and the eighth graders I would see after lunch at the end of the day. I had a planning period for 45 minutes after lunch before the eighth graders.

That wasn’t much time to accomplish everything that needed to be done, such as writing lesson and unit plans, gathering and creating materials, making phone calls to parents, grading papers or tests, and at certain times completing interim reports or report cards. I would take work home every night and work after dinner until bedtime. I also worked on Sundays. I would allow myself Saturdays off to make sure I didn’t burn out. Besides, my father would remind me that Saturdays were our Sabbath which is a day of rest. On Saturday nights I would go out with friends or, on occasion, a date. When the school year started, I didn’t have a boyfriend.

The faculty meeting concluded, and I was packing my belongings when I heard someone mention moving elsewhere.

“What?” I asked. “Where are we going?”

“To church,” responded the social studies teacher.

What? Church?!

Seeing my look of disbelief, she continued, “We do this every year before school starts. This is just for the teachers.”

Church??? I have to go to church??? I’ll pass on this.

As if she read my mind, she said, “Everyone is required to go. Come on.”

I’m required to go to church? How could they force me to go? Was this in my contract? Didn’t they all know I was Jewish?

I was never one to be contrary, so I went along. Besides, I didn’t know how to get out of it. The principal would notice I was missing.

I had no idea where the church was located, so I followed everyone. I dragged my feet down the hallway feeling “like a lamb to the slaughter.” I may as well have been shackled as reluctant as I was to go. I had no idea what to expect.

The church wasn’t far. We walked to the end of the corridor and around the corner. There, another smaller corridor led to a light-filled atrium. I had heard this extension and new construction was recent, and it showed by its magnitude alone. The wide open space was lined with windowed walls and decorated with tall white pillars and fresh, new flooring. The wooden doors to the church looked like the entrance to a medieval castle. They opened to a space so big that NASA could have built a rocket ship in there.

A round stone baptismal was inside. I knew what it was from movies and television, yet I’d never seen one in person. A metal bowl trickled water into the pool. I thought this would be lovely if it were a fountain. At Christmas time they surrounded it with red poinsettias.

The inside of the church was hexagon-shaped and had seating for at least a couple thousand worshippers. Overhead was a twenty-four foot high vaulted ceiling with beautiful exposed wooden beams that matched the long, polished pews. The pipe organs set high above the altar were gleaming silver. Each pew had a moveable bar underneath. I would find out later it was a knee rest for kneeling. There was a wooden cross hanging above the altar so big it would have held a giant-sized Jesus! I knew not all churches were this massive.

How did they get a church this nice? This must cost a fortune!

I tried to stay toward the back of the group so I’d be seated in the second row. But I miscalculated and ended up in the first row because the pews held so many people. Our group filled the pews at the front of the sanctuary. Behind us were rows and rows of empty pews. It reminded me of a funeral service where the dearly departed had no one who came to mourn.

I sat uncomfortably, squeezed between teachers, my hands folded in my lap. I looked around at the big, open church. I had been in a church before but never during a service. What would they ask me to do? I wished that I were a church mouse, and I could scramble through a hole and disappear. It didn’t feel like one person sensed or cared how uneasy I felt.We sat so closely together someone should have sensed the heat emanating from my body, my legs shaking slightly, or my arms twitching.

I was accustomed to religious services, because I had attended many synagogue services. Although in my synagogue, each attendee has his or her own seat, the hinged kind that flips up when you stand. When I was a youngster, I was so lightweight that, like the jaws of a crocodile, the seat snapped closed and folded me up in it!

My mother was a reform Jew and not observant. The only time she went to synagogue was once a year during Yom Kippur to say Yizkor, a memorial prayer, for her parents. Ironically, Yizkor is said four times a year.

My father, on the other hand, considered himself an Orthodox Jew who kept the Sabbath and holidays. He often went to services and many times would take me with him.

In a synagogue there is a bema similar to an altar, and the religious leader is a rabbi. In Jewish orthodox services the men and women sit separately, and the women do not stand on the bema to read Torah, the holy scripture. Additionally, most of the service is in Hebrew which I learned how to read in Sunday/Hebrew school.

I ended up a Conservative Jew which is somewhere in the middle. I am comfortable sitting with men and women during a service. I noticed that the church had prayer books as we do in synagogue. While there was no Torah, there were objects displayed that looked to have religious significance. I did attend a service once at a reform Jewish temple that used an organ. I was accustomed, though, to no musical accompaniment, so I startled when I heard the symphonic melody of the pipe organ that reminded me of the overture to Phantom of the Opera.

The pastor started speaking. His booming voice bounced off the high ceilings and empty pews. He welcomed us and recited prayers. The teachers recited along with him. I sat silently.

Whew; it’s just a service.

At least this service was in English. But, as one would expect, there were lots of mentions of Jesus Christ. That was difficult for me. You would never hear His name come from my father’s lips. Nor would he ever write it. If he had to write “Christmas,” he’d write it as “x-mas.” As a matter of fact, when we’d drive past a local church, my father would say, “Our rabbi told me that Jews should never go into a church.” Ironically, here I sat.

Sorry, Dad. How many of your rules have I already broken just by working here?

My father grew up in an Orthodox Jewish household in Baltimore City, the son of immigrants who fled Poland and Russia in the early 1900’s due to persecution of the Jews. Both my parents had relatives who perished in the Holocaust. Both had grown up with childhood incidents of being taunted and beaten due to their religion.

They sent me to a public elementary school where I was the minority among a population of African Americans. I was friendly with everyone. To my knowledge, no one ever mentioned my religion or ridiculed me about it. While my parents were sensitive to these issues, they made sure I led a relatively protected life.

When I learned of the Holocaust in Hebrew School, I had a nightmare that the Nazis were invading our home. I have never forgotten the scene that played out in my sleep—the soldiers entering my bedroom and pulling me out of bed with their guns pointed. I was standing before them in my long pink nightgown, trembling, about to urinate on my lime green bedroom carpet, unsure of what torture they were going to use on me. The nightmare has always served as a reminder of my ancestry.

The fact that I was teaching at a Catholic school upset my father. He wasn’t thrilled about the Virgin Mary lodged in my classroom whom he saw when he helped me bring my materials to school. But he had resigned himself to letting me “do my thing,” even though, every so often, he tried to talk me out of teaching there.

“You know you can leave anytime,” he’d say to me occasionally.

“Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind about teaching there?” he’d ask.

My mother didn’t seem bothered by it.

I knew not to kneel in church as that would be considered bowing before Jesus Christ. I must have learned that in Hebrew School. I had no interest in taking communion. And if anybody thought I was going to cross myself, they were crazy!

If my father knew I was here, he’d pitch a fit. I will never tell him that I am going to church services. He’d make me quit my job immediately.

I sat listening, enjoying a hymn, and admiring the splendor of this newly created, magnificent House of Worship. I started to relax a little and feel a little less out of place.

Then the pastor announced, “I invite you all to come up and join me.” His arms were outstretched, and the sleeves of his long white robe cascaded to the floor. He reminded me of an albatross about to take flight.

You want us to do what? Come up there?

All the teachers stepped up to the altar, while I remained seated. The two eighth grade homeroom teachers waved me up, encouraging me to join them. I politely nodded my head “no.” But they wouldn’t give up. So begrudgingly, I dragged myself up there. After all, I wasn’t a rabble-rouser.

“Let us all hold hands,” the pastor instructed. My hands were grabbed from each side.

There’s no running away now! At least they aren’t holding my hands behind my back and forcing me to bow down. How many times throughout history were the Jews forced to bow down to other gods?

At least their grip isn’t iron tight, so I could still run away if I had to.

What now? I assume we aren’t going to do a folk dance. I hope I won’t be asked to speak. Please don’t put me on the spot and ask me to recite some prayer I don’t know.

Are we going to turn out the lights and use candles? Are we going to perform some kind of ritualistic ceremony? Is there a lamb to be slaughtered or some kind of sacrifice to make? It isn’t me, is it?! Are they going to ask me to chant something in Latin? What have I gotten myself into?

The leader directed us to bow our heads. After watching everyone else, I did the same.

“Let us pray,” he said. “We pray for a good school year. We pray that our students will learn and grow with us.”

My whole body relaxed and I started breathing again. I felt the grip of the teachers’ hands.

Did they notice my hands are sweaty?

The leader continued, “We pray that we make the best possible decisions for our students.”

He prayed a little more and asked the Lord to watch over us. When he stopped speaking, everyone dropped hands.

That was a beautiful prayer, and one I agree with wholeheartedly. You don’t have to be Christian to deliver a prayer like that.

As my body started to relax, I could feel my toes again in my dress shoes.

I have to stop getting so worked up. It’s only a prayer. They didn’t even mention Jesus Christ this time.

During my interview the principal had informed me that I was required to bring the children to services. I didn’t realize the frequency, once a month or more. The first time I took my homeroom class to church, I directed them to sit in the pews. After they filed in, I turned to head out the door when I noticed all the teachers seated with their classes.

Oh no! Am I supposed to stay? Nobody told me that. I wonder if they would say anything if I just walked out. There’s the door. It’s only about fifteen feet away. I could just walk out as if I have somewhere to be. I better not. If I do that, I’ll probably get in trouble.

I sat down next to the last student.

Darn it. I know I’m expected to be here. They seem to always expect these things of me.

I asked Mrs. A after we returned to our classes and I saw her in the hallway. She confirmed that I was required to stay. I grew accustomed to attending church services, even learning several prayers. By the end of the year I told some friends that I felt as though I was half Jewish and half Catholic! I was actually proud that I was familiar with a religion other than my own.

When the teachers’ service was over, I was happy we were permitted to go home early. I couldn’t wait to get out of there! I’d already been forced to do something that didn’t feel right. I thought I should have been given the option of my level of participation since everyone knew I am Jewish. A little warning beforehand would have been appreciated as well!