BLOSSOMS IN MY CLASSROOM

Isn’t it ironic how we celebrate Tu BiShvat smack in the middle of winter? I mean, can it possibly get any colder outside? Can the trees be any less green?

You would think that we’d celebrate the trees when they were crowned in leaves, their branches lush and green and bursting with mouthwatering fruit to grace our tables. But no, we mark their birthdays amid snow-capped mounts of garbage (sanitation pickup suspended due to inclement weather) and icy paths that pave the way to the fruit-bearing grocery stores.

So the best reason I’ve heard for this odd timing is that by marking the trees’ colorful bounty amid winter’s whiteness, we acknowledge the unseen growth that takes place beneath the earth, way down under all that cold, white fluff.  We’re saying, it’s freezing and barren out, but there’s magic happening that will ultimately produce amazing things. And no matter how cold it gets, this magic will happen. In fact, it’s happening right now.

It’s a good lesson for a teacher.

This is my first year teaching, and let me tell you that there are some days when I really think it would be easier to hack away the entire icy surface of that winding grocery path than to teach a classroom full of small people. Because it is hard work controlling them, forget about actually imparting knowledge that they are supposed to retain.

Look around the room now. Behold Shani in her shiny pixie haircut, her wide blue eyes, and charming smile. See how straight she sits at her desk, legs folded beneath her starched uniform. Look carefully at the worksheet she is supposed to be filling out. See that? There are no words there, only carefully drawn hearts and rainbows, intricately drawn images that would be impressive if this were an art class instead of a Chumash class.

Bracha over there needs no introduction; in fact, she’s probably caught your attention on her own by now. Her brown curly hair surrounds her head like a halo, but she’s no angel. She’s more like a noise machine, kicking a rhythm under her desk in time to her incessant questions that focus more on things like whether we can have extended recess than on the passuk I am valiantly trying to explain.

That’s Shira in the back left corner, slumped in her chair, eyes at half-mast. This is the most awake she’s been all week, and tomorrow I won’t even have to unfold the note from her mother to know that she was unable to complete her homework due to…this…or that. The words may differ a bit from the ones I received today, but the basic message is the same every day.  

Tehilla, Ahuva, Breindy, Elisheva…I can tell you a lot about each of the students in this room, even though I’ve only had the pleasure of knowing them for the past five months. They are eager, they are kind, they are sweet and adorable.….and they are all challenging in different ways.

I work really, really hard to compose the lessons I teach here in this room, and it’s not just because it’s my first year and I need to prove myself. It’s because I love what I teach, and I love who I teach, and I know it’s a privilege to stand here. I want to give it my all.

But some days, it’s just so frustrating. I talk and talk, and it feels like no one is listening. I ask questions, but no one responds. I get all excited about a special project, and no one even smiles.

Here’s the thing, though.  Here’s what I know, the thing that makes me persevere and smile when no one else does, talk when everyone seems half asleep.

Under all that fluff, roots are quietly unfurling. They are growing, and they are spreading, and one day we will see the magic that has taken place. The magic that is happening right now, right here.

I see it sometimes, when it’s displayed to me like fruits on a vine. I see it when Shani hands in a flower-covered paper with the extra credit question about how she’s applied the parshah lesson to her daily life carefully filled in. I see it when Bracha lingers after class one day to shyly ask if I can explain the Rashi one more time. I see it when Shira finally comes in with her homework done, her tired face wreathed in smiles.

So I’ll plug away here at the front of this classroom. It may look dreary at times to you – to them – but I know there’s magic brewing, right here.