Every day during davening, I wait for the marker to land on my desk. If you get a marker, that means you were davening nicely and after davening you get to color in a space on your chart. Every time you finish a chart, you get a prize. Leah already got her first prize, a siddur keychain with her name on it. It's so cute that it made me want to finish my chart more than ever.
I don't know why I almost never get markers. I try so hard. I look in my sidur and don't fool around. The teacher says I have to sing louder and together with the class, but when I try my lips stumble over the words and they come out all wrong. And the girls go so fast I can't keep up. I don't think they're even really saying the words, it's impossible. But when I ask them to slow down they look at me like I'm crazy and then I get in trouble for shouting out during davening.
So I start off every day trying to sing along, then end up mumbling trying to keep up, then lose my voice and the class completely. Sometimes I get a marker, but not very often, and I'm not sure what the difference is when I get it or not so I don't really know how to get more.
At the end of the year, some girls are finishing their second or third charts, and I am almost finished my first but not quite there yet. The teacher calls me to her desk after class and dangles a blue siddur keychain with my name in gold. I want it, I want it, I want it! She tells me she knows I've been trying and I can have this now. I look at my chart and the four empty spaces, and I know it isn't true. I throw the keychain back on her desk and leave the room. I never see her or such a pretty keychain again.
Davening: Kindergarten
Davening is an essential fixture in every Bais Yaakov schedule, even before we learn to read. I basically enjoy it and sing along much of the time. My mother never forgets to pack some coins for tzedakah in my backpack, so I always have something to contribute. Overall, it's a rather relaxing routine and quite conducive to spacing out. As the repetitive rhythm of the prayers buzzes in my ears, in my mind I see an endless corridor with rhythmically spaced arches. The arches pass in time to the beat, their beauty magnified by subtle lighting effects. I have no idea what the words are to this song my class sings but it doesn't matter, my visualization is soothing and all mine. It is probably my earliest memory of creating art - though I could never draw the image, I will still be able to visualize it clearly over ten years later.
Welcome? Who, me?
I'm terrified of the high school entrance exams. I've heard of girls not getting accepted anywhere and I'm just positive that I will be one of them. They don't even need the exams; they can see from my report cards that I'm a flop. But I've been trying really hard lately and I really have no choice, so I put one foot in front of the other and stick really close to the other girls from my eighth-grade class.
When we finally reach the high school doors, it starts feeling more exciting than frightening. Girls dash purposefully to and fro everywhere, their uniforms so much more sophisticated than our elementary ones. Everything is different, new, maybe here I can finally start fresh, where no one knows me.
I sweat through pages and pages of test, blanking out a lot but writing things anyway. Guessing wherever there's a choice. Rambling on to fill up the essay page, how wrong could that be! Finally it's over and my mother's here to drive us home. She comes inside to offer my sister a ride home, but she's not ready to leave yet. Meanwhile I listen to my classmates comparing notes with mounting dread -- were we even taking the same test?!
As we head out, an important-looking fellow greets my mother with a huge smile.
"Well, what's this? Another daughter! What a pleasure, any daughter of yours is welcome here!" This man who will no doubt be my principal next year goes on for another few minutes (years?) about how great my sister is and how wonderful it will be to have another one of her. In fact, they're thinking of making her a chessed head next year because she's so nice and helpful besides for being such a fabulous student. And they're sure they can expect great things from me, too.
When we're finally released, the fear is gone. And so is the excitement of starting clean.
When we finally reach the high school doors, it starts feeling more exciting than frightening. Girls dash purposefully to and fro everywhere, their uniforms so much more sophisticated than our elementary ones. Everything is different, new, maybe here I can finally start fresh, where no one knows me.
I sweat through pages and pages of test, blanking out a lot but writing things anyway. Guessing wherever there's a choice. Rambling on to fill up the essay page, how wrong could that be! Finally it's over and my mother's here to drive us home. She comes inside to offer my sister a ride home, but she's not ready to leave yet. Meanwhile I listen to my classmates comparing notes with mounting dread -- were we even taking the same test?!
As we head out, an important-looking fellow greets my mother with a huge smile.
"Well, what's this? Another daughter! What a pleasure, any daughter of yours is welcome here!" This man who will no doubt be my principal next year goes on for another few minutes (years?) about how great my sister is and how wonderful it will be to have another one of her. In fact, they're thinking of making her a chessed head next year because she's so nice and helpful besides for being such a fabulous student. And they're sure they can expect great things from me, too.
When we're finally released, the fear is gone. And so is the excitement of starting clean.
The Choice
At fifteen, I consider going off the derech. I'm not particularly enjoying my lifestyle as it is, and I think I would fit in much better among the "cool" kids. I'm not outstanding at all right now, but maybe that would make them pay attention and start caring about me. At the very least it would show them how much I'm hurting, and maybe they'll learn a lesson. And besides, I really do wonder what it would be like to be someone different.
I do a little cost-to-benefit comparison and end up just about equally drawn in both directions. Then I ponder what would happen if I made the wrong decision:
If I stay frum and in five years I realize I've made a mistake and there's nothing here after all, I can stop right then. A few more years down the drain, but not such a big deal.
If I go off and in five years I realize I've made a mistake, I will have lost all my old friends, estranged my parents, and nobody will want to marry me. My name would be tainted forever.
On that basis, I decide to go with the program, at least until I can figure out what the best path for me really is. It feels like a solid decision, purely logical. I feel a surge of pride -- who would have expected this from the girl known for impulsivity and poor judgment?
It still isn't fun to be a nobody in the frum world, but my mind is at peace because I know I've made the smartest decision of my life so far.
I do a little cost-to-benefit comparison and end up just about equally drawn in both directions. Then I ponder what would happen if I made the wrong decision:
If I stay frum and in five years I realize I've made a mistake and there's nothing here after all, I can stop right then. A few more years down the drain, but not such a big deal.
If I go off and in five years I realize I've made a mistake, I will have lost all my old friends, estranged my parents, and nobody will want to marry me. My name would be tainted forever.
On that basis, I decide to go with the program, at least until I can figure out what the best path for me really is. It feels like a solid decision, purely logical. I feel a surge of pride -- who would have expected this from the girl known for impulsivity and poor judgment?
It still isn't fun to be a nobody in the frum world, but my mind is at peace because I know I've made the smartest decision of my life so far.
Tickle Torture
Fingers come at me from all sides, poking, jabbing everywhere. I scream at them to stop and inside I'm crying, but I can't get out the tears because my mouth is smiling, gasping, letting out shreiks of pain that sound like laughter. STOP! STOP! I yell as loud as I can but I can barely even hear my own voice and no one else seems to.
Along with the pokes come taunts. They tease me about being so ticklish. Am I really especially ticklish? Is there something wrong with me? I can't help it! Who can tell, they never really do this to anyone else. And these are not tickles anyway, tickles are soft and fluttery, not poking and hurting. I can feel my skin bruising under their jabbing fingers.
How long can this go on? It feels like every day but surely they must get bored of it sometimes... It's been months, I think. Maybe years. Maybe forever.
When they don't listen to my cries for peace, I finally break down and tell the teacher, begging her for help. She doesn't seem to believe me. Crying over tickling? In sixth grade?! Who ever heard of such a silly thing? She tells me things I've heard before, about how I should be less sensitive and stand up for myself. She doesn't understand that it's impossible. Why am I the one who has to change? They say big girls don't cry so much -- well I say big girls should keep their big hands off of other people.
But what I say doesn't matter. I can't control my laughter. I can't protect my body. My voice is not heard. My opinions don't exist. My wants mean nothing. Eventually the other girls grow up and the tickling stops, but this becomes me.
Brothers... sheesh.
I've always sort of wanted to join the cooler kids, and I finally get up the guts to just sit on the steps with them and join in. They're on one of their favorite topics -- things their older brothers do to drive them crazy. It's almost like a contest to prove whose brother is the most annoying.
I don't have an older brother to bug me, so I just sit on the periphery and listen for an opening. Chayala finishes her story about the dead frog that kept appearing among her various possessions over the course of a week last summer, and the girls supply the anticipated sounds of shock and sympathy. Chayala seems quite pleased at having won the annoying-brother-contest for now. I join the consensus with "Yeah, your brother sure is a real pest!"
Now she's angry at me. Why? I didn't think she liked him very much...
(Maybe I just shouldn't talk to them anymore. I don't think they like me, either.)
I don't have an older brother to bug me, so I just sit on the periphery and listen for an opening. Chayala finishes her story about the dead frog that kept appearing among her various possessions over the course of a week last summer, and the girls supply the anticipated sounds of shock and sympathy. Chayala seems quite pleased at having won the annoying-brother-contest for now. I join the consensus with "Yeah, your brother sure is a real pest!"
Now she's angry at me. Why? I didn't think she liked him very much...
(Maybe I just shouldn't talk to them anymore. I don't think they like me, either.)
The seventh grade puts on the school production every year. It is a Big Deal, and the most exciting thing about seventh grade after the last few bat mitzvahs are over. All the classes get together for most of the practices, which take tons of time from class (though maybe not quite enough).
The teachers start practice by lining us up in a formation by height. To my total dismay, I am told to stand right in front of Libby, who always picks on me in class. At my sides are girls I don't really know, from a different class.
Sure enough, as soon as the teachers go back to the front of the room to start teaching the song, I feel a jab in the small of my back. I try to ignore it, but a harder one comes. My back starts to throb. "Stoppit!" I hiss. The teacher turns and gives me a Look. I stand up a little straighter.
By the next practice, the unknown girl on my left catches on and joins in the teasing. She and Libby say things that make me feel squirmy and touch me in ways that make me uncomfortable. They are rough and some of their pokes and pulls really hurt, but as fiercely or pitifully as I ask them to stop they just grin at each other and giggle silently. They tease me about that too. I threaten to tell the teachers but I know from too much experience that the teachers won't do anything about it and Libby will really make my life miserable if she finds out.
Still, after each practice I ask the teachers in charge to please, please change my place. They brush me off as an annoying nudge and tell me seventh graders should be able to get along. I tell them that I'm trying and it's not my fault, but they say I have to be mature and take my place like everyone else. I knew this would happen. They never do anything.
I have no more personal space, I have nowhere to go, and I am too wimpy to fight back. In fact, they make fun of this too, pinching my arms and saying that they can't feel any muscle there. The black and blue marks from this will last for days but I can't make them stop. I leave my place in middle of practice and tell the teacher that she has to do something or I quit. She tells me to get back in my place because I'm disrupting practice. I leave the room instead.
I don't know what else to do, so I sit outside and try to conjure up some pitiful tears, in the hopes that this will garner some sympathy and maybe get the problem taken care of. Every time someone passes by I hope they will save me, and I am disappointed when they walk on like they didn't see me.
Finally, someone comes straight towards me. Unfortunately, this is the Evil Math Teacher. Instead of the tender concern I was hoping for, I get a verbal beating about how I'm supposed to be at practice, as if I seem unsure about that. I try to get a word in edgewise but there are no buts to be had. I am informed that I will lose my part in the production and sent to the classroom to do unbelievable amounts of boring busywork, practicing math that I already knew perfectly. After another feeble attempt at self-defense, I trudge off to meet my fate, utterly beaten.
Having never been a major fan of the performing arts, I don't really mind being docked from the production. But before the next practice I am told that despite losing my solo, I must still participate in the choir. In the same place. And now I'm a "crybaby" too.
You know, I never really wanted my solo in the first place. It was just a few words and not really a singing part, the kind they give someone with no talent because everyone had to get a part. At the time I had made fun of this tradition, thinking that getting a part is not such a compliment at all if everyone has to get one anyway.
But being the only person in the entire seventh grade without a solo is pretty embarrassing, after all.
The teachers start practice by lining us up in a formation by height. To my total dismay, I am told to stand right in front of Libby, who always picks on me in class. At my sides are girls I don't really know, from a different class.
Sure enough, as soon as the teachers go back to the front of the room to start teaching the song, I feel a jab in the small of my back. I try to ignore it, but a harder one comes. My back starts to throb. "Stoppit!" I hiss. The teacher turns and gives me a Look. I stand up a little straighter.
By the next practice, the unknown girl on my left catches on and joins in the teasing. She and Libby say things that make me feel squirmy and touch me in ways that make me uncomfortable. They are rough and some of their pokes and pulls really hurt, but as fiercely or pitifully as I ask them to stop they just grin at each other and giggle silently. They tease me about that too. I threaten to tell the teachers but I know from too much experience that the teachers won't do anything about it and Libby will really make my life miserable if she finds out.
Still, after each practice I ask the teachers in charge to please, please change my place. They brush me off as an annoying nudge and tell me seventh graders should be able to get along. I tell them that I'm trying and it's not my fault, but they say I have to be mature and take my place like everyone else. I knew this would happen. They never do anything.
I have no more personal space, I have nowhere to go, and I am too wimpy to fight back. In fact, they make fun of this too, pinching my arms and saying that they can't feel any muscle there. The black and blue marks from this will last for days but I can't make them stop. I leave my place in middle of practice and tell the teacher that she has to do something or I quit. She tells me to get back in my place because I'm disrupting practice. I leave the room instead.
I don't know what else to do, so I sit outside and try to conjure up some pitiful tears, in the hopes that this will garner some sympathy and maybe get the problem taken care of. Every time someone passes by I hope they will save me, and I am disappointed when they walk on like they didn't see me.
Finally, someone comes straight towards me. Unfortunately, this is the Evil Math Teacher. Instead of the tender concern I was hoping for, I get a verbal beating about how I'm supposed to be at practice, as if I seem unsure about that. I try to get a word in edgewise but there are no buts to be had. I am informed that I will lose my part in the production and sent to the classroom to do unbelievable amounts of boring busywork, practicing math that I already knew perfectly. After another feeble attempt at self-defense, I trudge off to meet my fate, utterly beaten.
Having never been a major fan of the performing arts, I don't really mind being docked from the production. But before the next practice I am told that despite losing my solo, I must still participate in the choir. In the same place. And now I'm a "crybaby" too.
You know, I never really wanted my solo in the first place. It was just a few words and not really a singing part, the kind they give someone with no talent because everyone had to get a part. At the time I had made fun of this tradition, thinking that getting a part is not such a compliment at all if everyone has to get one anyway.
But being the only person in the entire seventh grade without a solo is pretty embarrassing, after all.
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