After two hours of arguing with sixth graders, I have a headache. Dejected, I explain to the teacher that the kids barely did their work during small group time in the library. I tell her about the arguing.
"As long as they argue with you in English, it's good," she says with a satisfied look on her face. "They're learning."
In Israel, there's a word we use to describe the school system: balagan. It means crazy, but when used to talk about the schools, the word seems to have a special twist. A better translation might be chaos.
Israeli schools are nothing like their counterparts in America. Between classes, you'll see children in the halls running, screaming, playing ball, and sometimes even fighting. Adults do not intervene.
Even in the classroom, there's a lot of moving around and shouting. I've heard stories of kids using their masks to cover their eyes so they could nap in class. Schedules are fluid, and it's not unheard of for a class to be canceled because we're missing permission slips or because the previous teacher wants to continue teaching.
I think my favorite example of balagan was when both the teacher and my co-assistant teacher were out sick the same day, and I had to teach two special education classes -- alone.
For context, I don't have a background in teaching, haven't been formally trained, and don't speak Hebrew (unless you count ordering tea with milk as a sign of fluency).
I was given a lesson plan for one of the classes -- a quiz and then a few pages in their workbooks. But for the younger class, I had nothing. I quickly grabbed copies of color by number activities and proceeded to teach myself the names of colors in Hebrew so that I could then teach them to the students in English.
Writing the names of colors in Hebrew on the white board was the one time I got the class to be quiet. They even stopped giggling over the word "beach" and dropping F-bombs. I think they were dumbfounded that an Americait like me, who can't speak Hebrew, can write it.
Who said the teacher is the one teaching?
It all seems so alien, but one day my co-assistant teacher and I were debating whether the Israeli system is actually more developmentally appropriate for children.
In America, as in many other places, classes are very structured. You can't leave the room without a hall pass. You can't run in the halls. And just imagine what would happen if you got up from your seat.
Most of the children here, by American standards, would be diagnosed with ADHD and other learning and behavior disorders. It's eye-opening to realize that diagnoses actually aren't standardized across the globe.
The public school system is very segregated. I teach at a secular school, but there are also orthodox Jewish schools, ultra-orthodox Jewish schools, Arab Muslim schools, and Arab Christian schools.
Of course, separate is rarely equal: Schools in wealthier areas receive more funding. Oftentimes, this means that the religious schools get more money, while the secular and Arab schools receive less. It's a national crisis.
But, even across oceans, some things stay the same.
Despite arguing with that group of sixth graders who wanted to watch "Spiderman" instead of practicing their writing, I'm otherwise pretty popular among the eleven year olds. They give me high fives and talks to me about their favorite Tik Tok videos (in English!). One of them even called me motek, or sweetheart.
And the younger kids are always a delight. They smile, they do their work. They're excited to learn and work with me, even though I can barely speak Hebrew and they can barely speak English.
Seeing the kids -- older and younger -- continue to improve and get comfortable speaking English makes me happy in a way that previous jobs didn't.
Who cares if I need to occasionally argue with small children? At least it's in English!
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