Adult education class

I’d much rather my son has the experiences of a genuine Israeli childhood – warts and all – than the no-doubt exemplary but detached experience of private schooling among kids from the expat community. And then, there’s the cost. Actually, that should be the first thing.

By SHABBAT GOY
Adult education cartoon 521 (photo credit: Cartoon)
Adult education cartoon 521
(photo credit: Cartoon)
I have this recurring nightmare where I find myself back in primary school. The thing is, in the dream I’m still an adult on the cusp of middle age rather than a five-year-old. I can barely squeeze my overindulged stomach behind the minuscule desks; I’m surrounded by squealing, screaming children. Worst of all, I cannot understand a thing being said by the teacher. I usually wake up from this in a cold sweat, thankful that it was just a dream. Until last week, when the nightmare came to life; I attended an open morning at the local primary school.
The Small Noisy One starts first grade next fall, and as (allegedly) one of the responsible adults in the household, Mrs. Goy insists I take an active part in the decision making processes about where we send him.
So we’re sitting in a classroom, surrounded by hordes of inattentive parents, as the poor teacher at the front of the class valiantly tries to establish order and actually tell us something about the school we’ve come to see.
“We believe in listening to children,” she says. Giving kids ideas above their station, I mutter. Next thing, she’ll say that kids actually have rights and stuff. Mrs. Goy stares me into silence. “But we also believe in firm discipline,” the teacher continues. I brighten. Does this mean they have the cane? There are loads of people in this country who propose that we return to biblical values, after all. Spare the rod and spoil the child and all that... or is that the New Testament, the bit you guys ignore? Not that it matters.
Mrs. Goy has had enough. She points through an open doorway. “That’s the computer room. Go and see what it’s like,” she orders.
It seems nice enough at first. Lots of workstations, small children actually getting to grips with the art of illegal downloading and online gaming, as far as I can tell. Not like in my day, when we all crowded round a solitary computer while the class geek sat at the terminal and did strange things in obscure languages like Cobol and C+. (This, incidentally, may explain why I am now an impoverished writer rather than a hi-tech millionaire.) Then something distressing catches my eye. I rush back into the classroom.
“He can’t come to this school,” I whisper furiously in Mrs. Goy’s ear. “It’s disgusting!” She looks up. “What’s wrong? Something about the computers?” Mrs. Goy has been very concerned lately about the issue of unsupervised computer use, about the dangers that lurk in the wild unregulated jungles of the Internet.
“PCs!” I blurt out. She looks at me blankly. A couple of parents stop texting, squabbling and otherwise being disruptive, and turn to figure out what we’re talking about. “They don’t have Macs!” To her credit, she doesn’t drag me out of the class by my ear and make me stand in a corner. But, as we’ve already discovered, corporal punishment is outlawed in Israeli schools. I guess my nightmare could have been that bit worse.
This whole business of choosing a school for the Small Noisy One is daunting. I’m not very good at making sound decisions for myself, much less anyone else. But I need to take this seriously. The experts say that a good educational foundation is crucial for a child’s development. If I muck this up, am I setting him up for academic and social failure? Not so long ago, his nursery teacher took me aside to ask if I had given any thought to next year.
“The schools here aren’t like in England,” she cautioned. “They can be a little... rough at times.”

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Perhaps I might want to consider one of the private bilingual schools, she suggested.
I appreciated her concern on his behalf, but I’m not sure I want to go down that path. For one thing, it looks like we’re going to be here for a while. I’d much rather my son has the experiences of a genuine Israeli childhood – warts and all – than the no-doubt exemplary but detached experience of private schooling among kids from the expat community. And then, there’s the cost. Actually, that should be the first thing.
But putting aside concerns about Tel Aviv schools being too rough for my son (if you’ve met him, you’d know that he is quite capable of taking care of himself), something else about the conversation stayed with me: I have a choice, and I ought to remember that.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be visiting a range of schools before trying to make a decision on behalf of my son. There’s the Democratic School, the Art School, the Anthroposophical School... a choice of local state schools, even the local religious school (in the very unlikely event that Mrs. Goy decides to become religious over the next few months... although one never knows with her).
I worry about giving my child the best start in life; but then, I can choose what I think is best for him. The Israeli school system is dreadfully underfunded (we can talk about why that is another time), but the luck of the draw means that I can try to extract the best from the system for my child. Of the parents across the country sending their children into first grade next fall, most don’t have even the consolation of a limited choice; most will take what they’re given and hope for the best.
Children are supposed to be the country’s future; for lots of people, the future is already a closed book. So much for living in an equal society.
Back to the open morning. The third graders are putting on a musical show, a medley of tunes performed by recorder. The first selection for the morning is John Cage’s 4:33. You know, the one with four-and-a-half minutes of silence. Perverse, no? Actually, the kids, all 60 of them, sit stock still and silent. We parents, on the other hand, laugh and chat through the “performance.” After about three minutes, the conductor gives up. It’s obvious that we grownups can’t deal with the silence.
I’m beginning to think that I need not worry about where my son winds up. It’s me and the other parents that I’m concerned about.