Relationships Reframed

Lessons Learned – Was it my fault that i was the more exciting teacher?

By Gila Jacobs

When my co-teacher of eight years, Riki Friedman, told me she was leaving teaching for a more lucrative position, I didn’t try to stop her. Over the years, we had shared many conversations about the difficulties of living a kollel life on a teacher’s salary, and I was impressed that she was taking a proactive step to raise her income.

That didn’t mean I wouldn’t miss her and that I wasn’t concerned about who my new co-teacher would be. Because there’s something about teaching that no one talks about. We all know the value of working for a wise and fair principal in a well-run school and the importance of having a good class with supportive parents, but who talks about your co-teacher?

The teacher whose wall you share, whose door is right next to yours, and who’s the last person you see before entering your classroom and the first one you meet on your way out is more than just a co-worker.

“I’m not going to manage without you,” I lamented to Riki one day as she gave me her copy of the Navi chazarah I’d left at home.

She grinned and then offered to help me plan our upcoming siyum.

And lest you think this was a one-way street, you should know that I shared my games, contests, and teaching tips with Riki all the time. Over the years, we had settled into a smooth, comforting rhythm. A rhythm that was about to disappear.

It was mid-July, on a hot, sticky summer afternoon, when my principal, Mrs. Kaufman, called.

“I’m sure I’m catching you at a crazy time,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know that we finally hired a replacement for Mrs. Friedman.”

I squeezed my eyes closed, not sure I wanted to hear more.

Even though there are four parallel fourth grade classes in our school, the way the building is set up puts me and Riki right near each other and the other two classes around the bend.

There was no question that I would be the most affected by Riki leaving.

“Her name is Faigy Peritz,” Mrs. Kaufman said. “She came highly recommended, and we’re very excited to welcome her.”

We.

“I hope it’s going to work out,” I said as breezily as possible, trying to hide the terror that lurked beneath my words. But Mrs. Kaufman was smarter than that.

“It’s going to be an adjustment, no doubt,” she said. “But I trust you. And Faigy is a doll.”

As soon as she hung up, I frantically worked the phone lines, trying to find out everything I could about Faigy.

The first thing I heard was that she’s young. “At least seven years younger than you,” a friend said.

“She’s amazing with kids,” came the next report.

“Super organized, creative, and very smart,” went the third.

I pictured Faigy a little and then promptly put her out of my mind until the week before school when I found myself itching to call Riki. I needed a co-teacher to plan with, kvetch to, and to help me hash out ideas.

But Riki was already ensconced in an office, happily earning her higher salary.

The first day of school, I spotted Faigy immediately. Putting on my big girl smile I walked over to greet her and to welcome her to Bnos Tzippa. She smiled back and pulled her teaching bag close.

“Nervous?” I asked.

Her smile shook slightly and then she said, “I’ve been preparing for weeks.”

Okay, I thought, trying not to think of my rushed preparations the night before.

I fished through my mind for something else to say but came up blank. Then a group of other teachers strolled into the teacher’s room, and it took less than a second for me to be swallowed up in my group of old friends and forget all about Faigy. Not that I wanted to be snobby—I just had no patience to work on a new relationship.

Especially with someone who ran her classroom so differently than I did mine. It became clear quickly that Faigy wasn’t joking when she told me how prepared she was. While Riki and I had often bailed each other out of missing sheets, lessons, and divrei Torah, Faigy was so on top of her game, I felt like I was freefalling in comparison.

Her classroom ran with precision and thought, while mine ran on lots of love and schmoozing. While I gave homework to be yotzei, Faigy believed in homework as a training ground for responsibility and discipline. Most of our conversations ran in circles until we agreed to disagree. Slowly, I learned to value and respect Faigy’s beliefs, ideals, and teaching methods while still sticking to the familiarity of mine.

While I missed the friendly banter that I’d shared with Riki and the satisfaction that came through mutual understanding, I learned that there was a lot to learn from my new co-teacher, and I tried to keep that in mind.

But true friendship didn’t come, and I wasn’t sure it ever could.

The sounds coming through the wall weren’t the same—for years I had learned to pace my teaching against the sound of Riki’s voice—and the lack of give and take I had always enjoyed suddenly made me feel like an unprepared schnorrer.

That year went by and then another. We settled into a routine of sorts, schmoozing a little more, sharing a little more of our personal lives, and working to find common ground in our teaching.

We were very different, but that was okay. Every teacher has what to offer, and I knew that Faigy gave everything she had to her students.

And then came the year when everything turned upside down. My first inkling that anything was amiss was through overheard snippets of conversations between the girls in my class and those in Faigy’s. Since our doors were right near each other, it was common for the girls in our two classes to have the most connection with each other.

“You always have extra recess; did you even finish learning Birchas Yaakov?” I heard a girl in Faigy’s class say to a student in mine.

“Oh, please!” my student responded. “We had a blast learning Birchas Yaakov, and you’re just jealous because we have more fun.”

While that wasn’t the nicest conversation to hear, it didn’t raise alarm bells in my mind. Fourth graders talk the way fourth graders talk. Besides, I was proud of the excitement Birchas Yaakov brought to my classroom. The girls and their mothers loved me for it.

But the conversation didn’t end there. Over the next few weeks, Faigy and I were both privy to more talk like that from our students and then from the mothers in Faigy’s class.

What can only be described as surreal came in the form of Faigy’s students actively competing with mine about everything that went on in our classrooms. Every extracurricular activity I did, every moment we spent schmoozing, and every test or quiz I canceled or pushed off was logged and argued about.

And the destructive competition went beyond the students. Mothers were swept up in it, arguing to defend their daughters and earn them some more fun.

Without a judge or jury, judgement was passed and both mine and Faigy’s teaching abilities were locked into little boxes with titles on top. Never mind the specific needs of each class, the personalities of the teachers, or the tremendous thought and effort expended by each of us to give our students everything they needed.

All our hard work, talent, and teaching abilities boiled down to which teacher was more fun—an experience that was awful for both of us.

While I could have rejoiced that I was officially known as the more exciting teacher, I felt deeply uncomfortable with the title. The schmoozing I did with my class wasn’t to waste time—it was done with thought and purpose. Thought and purpose that was being swallowed in a destructive, runaway train of lashon hara.

Faigy felt horrible, and I felt awful that she was being pitted against me. The question was what to do next.

“Don’t change,” was the advice I got. “Give your students the best of yourself.”

But what was there for me to do? While I couldn’t pick up the phone to call every mother in Faigy’s class to share the truth about their daughter’s teacher and the ramifications of their actions, I knew I could do whatever was in my power to support Faigy and to lend my unequivocal backing to her work.

Even though our relationship was still new and stilted.

It was uncomfortable, but one afternoon, I stopped Faigy as we both left the school building.

“I’m sorry for everything that’s going on,” I said, finally putting words to a phenomenon that had grown out of our control.

Faigy looked at me, and for the first time I saw raw vulnerability beneath her veneer of calm.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

But I wondered if maybe it was.

I asked myself if I had contributed to this mess in any way, if I had enjoyed my new title or subtly encouraged my students to show off in even the slightest way.

I hoped the answer to all those questions was no, but I am human after all. Hearing my students talk about me felt like ripping off a cover to expose who I really am.

And that made me wonder.

Had I done enough to reach out to Faigy as a new co-teacher? Enough to welcome her and take the time to get to know her? To show her the respect and chashivus she deserved?

I wasn’t sure, but I also knew it wasn’t too late. Now was my chance to push past what I once thought was enough and do more.

I also learned that in situations where there isn’t much you can do, there’s a lot to be said for standing behind a person, both physically and emotionally. Even feeling for someone builds bonds.

Slowly, with care, understanding, vulnerability, and support, we got through that year and continued to work together.

Today, we’re still very different teachers with different personalities and different teaching styles, but now not only do we share a wall, we also share a friendship built of hardship that could have broken us but built us instead.