Daled class line games

Yesterday was our last Sunday before winter break. The last hour was going to be interrupted by a Chanukah party, so I tried to get everything tied up early this morning. The children were alert and eager, one of the things I like best about Sunday mornings (that do not follow birthday weekends, sleepovers, or any other sleep-disrupting activity which steals my students’ brains and makes my job three times as hard).

One of the things that is the most difficult to teach is Hebrew reading, and it happens to be the subject that I emphasize the most. I figure that my job is to take children who still don’t know their alefbet and vowels, or who can read, but not fluently, and kick them up a level to the point where I can send them on to fifth grade with at least the knowledge that they can read Hebrew. I don’t succeed as well as I would like, but part of that is because I expect too much. I sometimes forget that they’re only fourth graders, and they’re not normally going to be reading as well as an adult. The rest is because I only have them two days a week, for a total of five hours, and no matter how hard I try to persuade them, few of them read on their own at home on the days they’re not in school.

This morning, we read for a while, which they enjoyed, because today’s lesson taught them a bit of conversational Hebrew (the cat is on the table, that sort of thing). I was thinking of moving into some heavy-duty reading next, but we decided to play an educational game.

“Can we play the line game?” they asked. A week or two ago, I was trying to think of a different way to play Around the World or Jewpardy, two games that allow them to exercise their all-around skills. I had the students line up in the front of the room by my desk, and then asked the first child to read a Hebrew word on a flash card. If s/he got it, we went on to something else. If s/he missed, I’d say, “NOPE! Back of the line for you!” and accompany that with a grand gesture. The kids got a big kick out of it, partly because of the challenge of staying in front of the line, partly because it was fun to go back and forth, and partly because they like watching Ms. Yourish get silly.

Yesterday, we played the line game again, and named it Rosh HaTor (Head of the Line), because we felt it needed a Hebrew name. Hannah, one of my quietest and best-behaved students, got to the head of the line and read perfectly everything I put in front of her. So then I started asking her some difficult Mastery Skills questions (Judaica, Hebrew months, holidays, Siddur phrases, etc.). She got every one of them right. Question after question, the right answer, until she was literally jumping up and down and squeaking in delight at getting them all right. Finally, after her last correct answer, I said, “Okay, Hannah, we have to give someone else a chance, so you get to sit down and play with all the squishies!” (“Squishy” is their name for the squeeze toys I give to children who can’t sit still. I’ve been doing it since I experienced ADHD first-hand and saw the calming effect of a stress ball on a nine-year-old child.) She was both thrilled because she was retired from the game due to being so good, and disappointed, because she wanted to keep playing. But we only had a few minutes left before the party, and I needed to give the other kids a chance.

That picture is probably going to remain with me forever. Hannah was so happy, and so proud of herself for getting all of the questions and readings right. She got extra points for it, of course, and probably ran off to her dad right after class to tell him all about it. She was my only student back on Halloween, and she got essentially two hours of tutoring (mixed liberally with relaxing and playing, since neither she nor I were going to go two hours straight without a break). She scored a record-setting twelve points that day, and learned five Mastery Skills.

The extra kick in all of this to me is that the kids don’t even seem to realize they’re learning. Hannah could not only read the words in Hebrew, but she could tell me what the Beit Knesset is. (It’s a reading word, and I explain many of the words to the children as we read them.) In fourth grade. Not too shabby for a nine-year-old American kid.

In my job interviews, I tell prospective employers that I could give up teaching on Tuesdays if I absolutely had to. But I don’t think I can. I think what I can do is give it up temporarily, just long enough for my new employer to realize they need to keep me happy, and that I won’t be happy unless I’m teaching little Jews to become big Jews.

I could more easily give up blogging. I would miss blogging, but if I had to give it up due to a job, it’d be so long, and thanks for all the hits. Give up teaching? Nuh-uh.

I’d miss those moments that will stay with me for the rest of my life. Like Hannah jumping up and down and squealing with delight, because she got five questions in a row correct. Or one of my students asking if he could give his twin sister some of his points, so she could buy the prize she’d had her eye on for weeks before anyone else snatched it up. Or finding out that my insistence on teaching Hebrew cursive writing helped one of my students who went into a Jewish day school that only used cursive. Or realizing that one of my students, completely unconsciously, would act out the words I was saying, making arm motions and facial expressions without even noticing he was doing it. Or the surprise notes from last year’s class that told me I was the best teacher ever, on the day they made me stay out of the classroom until they finished writing them.

Those memories never fail to bring a grin to my face.

Yeah, I like teaching. I’m not going to give it up.