Saturday, January 31, 2009
AAA: THE ASSOCIATION OF ACRIMONIOUS ACRONYMS
Since returning to Hillel a year ago, I’ve rediscovered an organization that embraces innovation and creativity and strives for excellence. I’ve also been reintroduced to the Hillel culture of odd word usage and unusual acronyms. I therefore am engaged in CAT – the Campus Advancement Team. I hate cats and worked for days on an acronym that would spell out PUPPY. In the end, I had to settle for being passive aggressive and insisting on referring to our group as the Schusterman International Center Campus Advancement Team or, the SIC CATS.
This fascination with phrases, wizardry with words, or as my cousin Jonathan used to say, antics with semantics is not new in the International Center of Hillel. Close to ten years ago Richard Joel embraced the word “engagement” and would verbally assault anybody who had the temerity to use the word “outreach”. The term “verbal assault” was soon replaced by the word “supervision” in the Hillel lexicon.
Who can forget the term “interdependent self-sufficiency” used by the International Center to describe the intermeshing of national and local development efforts. Ultimately, the term came to mean that the International Center was soliciting your major donors without your approval for a greater good that was beyond your comprehension.
I now find myself cringing every time I am sitting in a meeting SIC folks who start harping about the BHAG (Big Hairy Audacious Goal). I can’t quite get comfortable with it and have silently vowed never to use it in a public setting – much in the same way I would rather face water boarding than use the term “venti” when ordering a large coffee. By the way, is water boarding considered an immersive experience? It is fair to say that alternative spring break trips to New Orleans are clearly immersive experiences. One might, however consider that to be an unfortunate use of the term.
Rather than simply whining, which I am prone to do, I do have an alternative suggestion: Big Hairy Improbable Vision of Excellence = BHIVE. Think of hundreds of busy professionals, buzzing around, creating something profoundly sweet The term also lends itself to much better graphics. With our CAT and our BEE’s we are creating a virtual Noah’s Ark of innovation.
The most recent lamentable and laborious use of lexicon is the term “Thought Partner” coined by a recent task force group to describe lay committee chairs. The intent is good but the choice of words is questionable. The notion of a “Thought Partner”, is in my thinking, not a little bit frightening. Other than my wife Jo who knows what I’m thinking before I do, I’m not sure I want anybody sharing my thoughts. Nor, by the way, do I have any particular desire to peer into the thoughts of others. I spent two years as a clinical social worker – first at a National Public Health Service Hospital and then at a Mental Health Clinic. I’ve done some peering into people’s thoughts. Quite frankly, it is overrated and, more frequently than not, unsavory.
Thus, we continue to develop our own unique Hillel dialect. We ask our thought partners: “How do SIC professionals contemplate engaging students in immersion experiences in advancing the BHAG?” In the same way that Latino is a joining of Hebrew and Spanish and Yiddish is the coming together of Hebrew and German, some might say that “Hillelish” can be described as the marriage of English and pretense. Since my paycheck comes via SIC I, of course, would never utter such heresy.
Speaking of Yiddish, our “mama lashon” provides a wonderful parallel for us to draw on. Years after a generation of parents used Yiddish as a secret code to prevent their children from understanding what they were saying (e.g. ”Uncle Izzie liked to dress up like Carmine Miranda and dance around trays of pot roast” or “Aunt Fanny has a stomach tumor the size of a meatloaf”) Yiddish still provides a unrivaled richness and nuance of expression. One cannot truly translate “shlamele” without losing the rich texture. Compared to I’m “ferklempt”, “I’m tired” is so one dimensional. If you truly want to brush somebody off, forgo “buzz off” or “get lost”. Neither can match the rich visual imagery of: “Gey kaffen yam (go crap in the ocean). Thus, too, professionals who work at SIC are creating a rich an nuanced language with which to fully describe the complexity of our work (COW).
SIC’s efforts to expand the English language are nothing short of Shakespearian. Four hundred years ago Shakespeare refused to be bound by the limitations of existing language and created hundreds of new words to express his creative brilliance. Amazement, anchovy, barefaced, bloodstained, coldhearted, eyeball, lackluster, sanctimonious, watchdog and, eat your heart out Richard Joel….. engagement, are just a few. He also coined a broad array of phrases without which our capacity for verbal expression would be severely hampered. We can thank the Bard for: “in my heart of hearts”, the “naked truth “wild goose chase, ‘for goodness' sake”, “one fell swoop”, “play fast and loose”, “too much of a good thing” and many others. Thus, as SIC professionals, we are truly Shakespearian in our thinking (SIOT)
I quote from a recent e-mail: “Most of you know that in recent years, we have facilitated something called the Self-Assessment Survey, which has given us a great deal of data about Hillels. Because of our expanded Organizational Learning agenda, we are building on the SAS to create something called the Annual Hillel Assessment (AHA).”
But there is a serious concern here; has anybody checked to see if the acronym AHA is already taken. What if, just last week, the fiscal department created “Audited Hillel Accounting” statements, or if the development department put together a fundraising program for South America entitled “Advancing Hillel in Argentina” (Australia would work here as well – my guess is that Austria is less of an issue).
Thus, in keeping with my belief that “800” should not only be the address of the SIC but the target number of professionals, I would propose that we create the DOAE – the Department of Organizational Acronyms and Euphemism. I believe that this new department will serve the BHAG and prepare us for next year’s AHA. We will need to ensure that all new acronyms are shared with HPCs and that they are consistent with the CEI and EEE initiatives. We will also need to consult with our Thought Partners. Otherwise, we could be SOL and things would become FUBAR.
This fascination with phrases, wizardry with words, or as my cousin Jonathan used to say, antics with semantics is not new in the International Center of Hillel. Close to ten years ago Richard Joel embraced the word “engagement” and would verbally assault anybody who had the temerity to use the word “outreach”. The term “verbal assault” was soon replaced by the word “supervision” in the Hillel lexicon.
Who can forget the term “interdependent self-sufficiency” used by the International Center to describe the intermeshing of national and local development efforts. Ultimately, the term came to mean that the International Center was soliciting your major donors without your approval for a greater good that was beyond your comprehension.
I now find myself cringing every time I am sitting in a meeting SIC folks who start harping about the BHAG (Big Hairy Audacious Goal). I can’t quite get comfortable with it and have silently vowed never to use it in a public setting – much in the same way I would rather face water boarding than use the term “venti” when ordering a large coffee. By the way, is water boarding considered an immersive experience? It is fair to say that alternative spring break trips to New Orleans are clearly immersive experiences. One might, however consider that to be an unfortunate use of the term.
Rather than simply whining, which I am prone to do, I do have an alternative suggestion: Big Hairy Improbable Vision of Excellence = BHIVE. Think of hundreds of busy professionals, buzzing around, creating something profoundly sweet The term also lends itself to much better graphics. With our CAT and our BEE’s we are creating a virtual Noah’s Ark of innovation.
The most recent lamentable and laborious use of lexicon is the term “Thought Partner” coined by a recent task force group to describe lay committee chairs. The intent is good but the choice of words is questionable. The notion of a “Thought Partner”, is in my thinking, not a little bit frightening. Other than my wife Jo who knows what I’m thinking before I do, I’m not sure I want anybody sharing my thoughts. Nor, by the way, do I have any particular desire to peer into the thoughts of others. I spent two years as a clinical social worker – first at a National Public Health Service Hospital and then at a Mental Health Clinic. I’ve done some peering into people’s thoughts. Quite frankly, it is overrated and, more frequently than not, unsavory.
Thus, we continue to develop our own unique Hillel dialect. We ask our thought partners: “How do SIC professionals contemplate engaging students in immersion experiences in advancing the BHAG?” In the same way that Latino is a joining of Hebrew and Spanish and Yiddish is the coming together of Hebrew and German, some might say that “Hillelish” can be described as the marriage of English and pretense. Since my paycheck comes via SIC I, of course, would never utter such heresy.
Speaking of Yiddish, our “mama lashon” provides a wonderful parallel for us to draw on. Years after a generation of parents used Yiddish as a secret code to prevent their children from understanding what they were saying (e.g. ”Uncle Izzie liked to dress up like Carmine Miranda and dance around trays of pot roast” or “Aunt Fanny has a stomach tumor the size of a meatloaf”) Yiddish still provides a unrivaled richness and nuance of expression. One cannot truly translate “shlamele” without losing the rich texture. Compared to I’m “ferklempt”, “I’m tired” is so one dimensional. If you truly want to brush somebody off, forgo “buzz off” or “get lost”. Neither can match the rich visual imagery of: “Gey kaffen yam (go crap in the ocean). Thus, too, professionals who work at SIC are creating a rich an nuanced language with which to fully describe the complexity of our work (COW).
SIC’s efforts to expand the English language are nothing short of Shakespearian. Four hundred years ago Shakespeare refused to be bound by the limitations of existing language and created hundreds of new words to express his creative brilliance. Amazement, anchovy, barefaced, bloodstained, coldhearted, eyeball, lackluster, sanctimonious, watchdog and, eat your heart out Richard Joel….. engagement, are just a few. He also coined a broad array of phrases without which our capacity for verbal expression would be severely hampered. We can thank the Bard for: “in my heart of hearts”, the “naked truth “wild goose chase, ‘for goodness' sake”, “one fell swoop”, “play fast and loose”, “too much of a good thing” and many others. Thus, as SIC professionals, we are truly Shakespearian in our thinking (SIOT)
I quote from a recent e-mail: “Most of you know that in recent years, we have facilitated something called the Self-Assessment Survey, which has given us a great deal of data about Hillels. Because of our expanded Organizational Learning agenda, we are building on the SAS to create something called the Annual Hillel Assessment (AHA).”
But there is a serious concern here; has anybody checked to see if the acronym AHA is already taken. What if, just last week, the fiscal department created “Audited Hillel Accounting” statements, or if the development department put together a fundraising program for South America entitled “Advancing Hillel in Argentina” (Australia would work here as well – my guess is that Austria is less of an issue).
Thus, in keeping with my belief that “800” should not only be the address of the SIC but the target number of professionals, I would propose that we create the DOAE – the Department of Organizational Acronyms and Euphemism. I believe that this new department will serve the BHAG and prepare us for next year’s AHA. We will need to ensure that all new acronyms are shared with HPCs and that they are consistent with the CEI and EEE initiatives. We will also need to consult with our Thought Partners. Otherwise, we could be SOL and things would become FUBAR.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Excerpts from Bayside Oaks II - Going to Israel
The Dance
Three large suitcases sit in the living room packed and ready to go. We have told my mother that she is going to visit Ruth in Israel. And we have told her again, and again. But it is difficult to know just what she comprehends and what has been retained. The taxi arrives to take us to the airport. I take the suitcases outside and Leon helps her put on her coat.
“He is very nice.” She says of the cabdriver. And he smiles.
The airport may be the ideal location to camouflage an individual with advancing Alzheimer’s disease. This may be especially true of the El Al terminal at JFK. The noise level is deafening. It seems as if everybody is muttering to themselves. Hoards of travelers pushing baggage bumper cars; lines that seem to go on forever; legions of security officers, ticket agents, and airline officials all of whom seem to numb to the maddening cauldron of human activity and emotion that surrounds them. My mother is lost and dazed. But no one seems to notice.
As we pass through the metal detectors, there is a wonderful moment of profound humanity. Leon and I have helped her remove her coat, shoes and jewelry, patiently explaining that we will return it in a moment. I walk through the metal detector and begin to reclaim and repack my valuables (computer, watch, shoes, passport, toothpaste, shampoo) on the other side. But my mother does not know what to do and neither Leon nor I can take her hand and walk her through the detector. For a moment time stand still and the legions of travelers behind her begin to stare angrily. Then, a young, lovely Black security agent reaches out and clasps my mother’s hands. My mother smiles and, having found a new partner, begins to sing and dance. And the security agent dances with her and gently pulls her through the metal detector. They hug and my mother proclaims: “You’re beautiful”. It is a moment that brings me great joy in the midst of a difficult time and gives me hope for this yet to be experiment – still in progress – that we have entitled human kind.
The Kikar
We walk her through the cobblestone streets of the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem. Orthodox women pass by with infants in strollers and multiple children in tow. My mother coos and sings. Men in dark wool suits, fedoras and tzitzit flapping go rushing by. Large groups of Birthright students gathered around outdoor tables are munching on falafel and pizza. I lock my arm in hers, or hold her hand and we move ever so slowly through the alley ways. Young girls in long skirts and long sleeve shirts and sweaters hurrying to school squeeze by us. We move forwards so tentatively, the world swirls around us, and it is as if in we are in another time dimension. We make our way to the “kikar”, the central square, find a bench in the sun and sit. My mother tilts her head up towards the sun and closes her eyes. Directly across from us workmen scurry across scaffolds on the soon to be completed rebuilt Hurva Synagogue, whose yet incomplete concrete dome rises high above the Jewish Quarter. The sound of saws, hammers and concrete mixers fills the air. In the face of the noise and the swirls of people, or because of them, it is a moment of sacred peacefulness.
Family and friend call to ask how the move to Israel is going. For me it is impossible to respond more than in the moment. Now my mother is fine. This morning was difficult. She took a nice nap this afternoon. This morning we went for a long walk to the “kikar” ( the central square). I cannot say how things will be next week or even in the afternoon. My mother’s life is in the moment.
Three large suitcases sit in the living room packed and ready to go. We have told my mother that she is going to visit Ruth in Israel. And we have told her again, and again. But it is difficult to know just what she comprehends and what has been retained. The taxi arrives to take us to the airport. I take the suitcases outside and Leon helps her put on her coat.
“He is very nice.” She says of the cabdriver. And he smiles.
The airport may be the ideal location to camouflage an individual with advancing Alzheimer’s disease. This may be especially true of the El Al terminal at JFK. The noise level is deafening. It seems as if everybody is muttering to themselves. Hoards of travelers pushing baggage bumper cars; lines that seem to go on forever; legions of security officers, ticket agents, and airline officials all of whom seem to numb to the maddening cauldron of human activity and emotion that surrounds them. My mother is lost and dazed. But no one seems to notice.
As we pass through the metal detectors, there is a wonderful moment of profound humanity. Leon and I have helped her remove her coat, shoes and jewelry, patiently explaining that we will return it in a moment. I walk through the metal detector and begin to reclaim and repack my valuables (computer, watch, shoes, passport, toothpaste, shampoo) on the other side. But my mother does not know what to do and neither Leon nor I can take her hand and walk her through the detector. For a moment time stand still and the legions of travelers behind her begin to stare angrily. Then, a young, lovely Black security agent reaches out and clasps my mother’s hands. My mother smiles and, having found a new partner, begins to sing and dance. And the security agent dances with her and gently pulls her through the metal detector. They hug and my mother proclaims: “You’re beautiful”. It is a moment that brings me great joy in the midst of a difficult time and gives me hope for this yet to be experiment – still in progress – that we have entitled human kind.
The Kikar
We walk her through the cobblestone streets of the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem. Orthodox women pass by with infants in strollers and multiple children in tow. My mother coos and sings. Men in dark wool suits, fedoras and tzitzit flapping go rushing by. Large groups of Birthright students gathered around outdoor tables are munching on falafel and pizza. I lock my arm in hers, or hold her hand and we move ever so slowly through the alley ways. Young girls in long skirts and long sleeve shirts and sweaters hurrying to school squeeze by us. We move forwards so tentatively, the world swirls around us, and it is as if in we are in another time dimension. We make our way to the “kikar”, the central square, find a bench in the sun and sit. My mother tilts her head up towards the sun and closes her eyes. Directly across from us workmen scurry across scaffolds on the soon to be completed rebuilt Hurva Synagogue, whose yet incomplete concrete dome rises high above the Jewish Quarter. The sound of saws, hammers and concrete mixers fills the air. In the face of the noise and the swirls of people, or because of them, it is a moment of sacred peacefulness.
Family and friend call to ask how the move to Israel is going. For me it is impossible to respond more than in the moment. Now my mother is fine. This morning was difficult. She took a nice nap this afternoon. This morning we went for a long walk to the “kikar” ( the central square). I cannot say how things will be next week or even in the afternoon. My mother’s life is in the moment.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Are We Clear?
Clearly, (that word will come back to haunt us in a moment) among the chief joys of life in the fifties (my fifties, not those of “Ozzy and Harriet”) is the colonoscopy.
I arrived at the outpatient surgical center having subsisted on lime Jell-O and diet Sprite for the last 36 hours. Further, having drained the requisite 3 ounces of “Fleet® Phospho-soda® EZ-Prep™ Bowel Cleansing System” I had spent the better part of the previous 10 hours running to the bathroom and, not to be overly graphic, running in the bathroom. I was not at my patient and magnanimous best.
The receptionist glanced at me with some combination of disinterest and condescension and could not have been curter:
“Did you fill out the paper work we sent you?”
I had not. And, with a cold, condescending look, she handed me the multitude of documents; medical history questions (heart murmurs, medicines, mental disorders?) , release forms clearing (that word again) the physician of any liability should he puncture the lining of my large intestine, and insurance documents all attached to the requisite clip board along with the click ball point pen advertising another in a series of pharmaceutical wonders. Dutifully, I completed them to the best of my limited capability.
I had not completed my charge adequately.
With a voice dripping with officious disdain, the receptionist calls me to the window, and to the mat.
“Mr. Raphael, you did not complete the questionnaire”
By now, with my patience level dramatically shortened by the tribulations of the last days and I am prepared to do verbal battle.
“What parts?”
“What bowel cleansing regimen did the physician prescribe?”
“Fleet® Phospho-soda® EZ-Prep™ Bowel Cleansing System”
When did you last have anything to eat or drink?
“Between 5:00 am and 6:00 am I had 24 ounces of clear liquid”
“Are you clear?”
Now, I know what she is asking but, to me it (1) seems intrusive coming from someone with a clipboard and a high school education and (2) is vague enough for me to be mean-spirited and passive aggressive.
Realizing that this clerk would, most likely, not recognize get “A Few Good Men” reference if I responded “crystal”, I simply responded: “Clear about what?”
Now she is fumbling for the phrasing required. I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.
Clearly, the last laugh was on me.
I arrived at the outpatient surgical center having subsisted on lime Jell-O and diet Sprite for the last 36 hours. Further, having drained the requisite 3 ounces of “Fleet® Phospho-soda® EZ-Prep™ Bowel Cleansing System” I had spent the better part of the previous 10 hours running to the bathroom and, not to be overly graphic, running in the bathroom. I was not at my patient and magnanimous best.
The receptionist glanced at me with some combination of disinterest and condescension and could not have been curter:
“Did you fill out the paper work we sent you?”
I had not. And, with a cold, condescending look, she handed me the multitude of documents; medical history questions (heart murmurs, medicines, mental disorders?) , release forms clearing (that word again) the physician of any liability should he puncture the lining of my large intestine, and insurance documents all attached to the requisite clip board along with the click ball point pen advertising another in a series of pharmaceutical wonders. Dutifully, I completed them to the best of my limited capability.
I had not completed my charge adequately.
With a voice dripping with officious disdain, the receptionist calls me to the window, and to the mat.
“Mr. Raphael, you did not complete the questionnaire”
By now, with my patience level dramatically shortened by the tribulations of the last days and I am prepared to do verbal battle.
“What parts?”
“What bowel cleansing regimen did the physician prescribe?”
“Fleet® Phospho-soda® EZ-Prep™ Bowel Cleansing System”
When did you last have anything to eat or drink?
“Between 5:00 am and 6:00 am I had 24 ounces of clear liquid”
“Are you clear?”
Now, I know what she is asking but, to me it (1) seems intrusive coming from someone with a clipboard and a high school education and (2) is vague enough for me to be mean-spirited and passive aggressive.
Realizing that this clerk would, most likely, not recognize get “A Few Good Men” reference if I responded “crystal”, I simply responded: “Clear about what?”
Now she is fumbling for the phrasing required. I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.
Clearly, the last laugh was on me.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Solomon Schechter
I ponder the core influencers of my life. The death of my father, my marriage to Jo, the birth of my children and confronting Jacob’s developmental challenges immediately come to the fore.
But as I reflect, I increasingly focus on my own learning challenges as a central framing element in my life. It wasn’t until graduate school, when I chanced to read an article in the New York Times on the linkage between dyslexia and auto immune diseases that the pieces fell into place. Two years earlier, I had been diagnosed with idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura (ITP) an auto immune blood disease that caused my platelet count to drop to a tenth of its normal range . As I read the article, all the pieces began to fall into place. In articulating the symptoms of dyslexia, the author was describing me; my childhood learning challenges, an inability to decode written words; reversing letters; disastrous, undecipherable handwriting and most profoundly of all, a complete inability to spell even simple words – a characteristic that remains with me until this day.
I think back to Mr. Gladstone’s third grade Hebrew Class at the Solomon Schechter School. He was kind and gentle and, in order to spare me the embarrassment of my inability to keep up, he set me aside and gave me the menial task of cutting strips of paper. Even as a third grader I knew this was wrong. He had given up on me and deemed that I was incapable of learning. And I understood that message.
My struggles with Hebrew and other subjects continued and I was a consistent failure in my Solomon Schechter classes. At a young age I accepted my status as a failure and a fool. I remember one fifth grade evening, determined to do best and really try I worked for hours on assigned Hebrew essay. The following day Mr. Chorovsky read my paragraph out loud – and laughed while he derided it in front of the class. I never tried again. That memory lingers in my consciousness and as I retell it, the feeling of embarrassment wells up. It is not a distant memory but a present sense of pain and anger.
These memories of frustration and embarrassment come cascading forth. Mr. Katzir telling my mother, as I stood watching, that I shouldn’t take the New York Statewide Hebrew Regents examination. I would fail and my failure would be a negative reflection on the school. My mother’s response “He needs to learn to fail”. I so distinctly remember being heartbroken by my mother’s response. She saw no hope either. Mom, with all do respect, fuck you. How about “Let’s figure out a way to succeed”. I took the test. And got a 95%. Fuck you Mr. Katzir.
A friend of mine talks of being in the “C” group in a prestigious private school in Baltimore. The “C” group was just what it sounded to be – third tier students who had been tagged and labeled with low expectations. As a perennial “C” group student at Solomon Schechter School I fully related to his experience (having graduated from Johns Hopkins University and Georgetown University Law School my friend is now a highly successful attorney in Baltimore). To this day I get flushed and feel a profound sense of failure, of embarrassment of being in the “C” group when I misspell a word in a work document, mispronounce a word when reading out loud or get caught in a malapropism. That sense of embarrassment quickly transitions to a burning anger.
While my dyslexic and ADHD-based limitations and failures were framing my life, there was always a subtle but unidentifiable counter force in the background. A second set of incongruous clues that seemed not to make sense in the context of my daily frustrations began to emerge. One day in seventh grade, the abominable Mr. Katzir announced that he had a headache and left our class alone for an hour. As consciences and thoughtful students in a Jewish day school, we did what any thoughtful group of pre-teens would do in that situation – we rifled through his desk, discovered his record book and perused its pages. In it we found a listing of the IQ’s of each member of the class. Janet’s IQ topped the charts at 160. That was an eye popper. But, strangely enough, incomprehensively, mine was among the highest in the class. It was, in fact, higher than many successful students in the de-facto A group and higher than those who were perennial favorites of the teachers.
Our study of the Bible in the Solomon Schechter School began in third grade. If learning Hebrew was difficult for me that learning to read the bible in that alien language was exponentially more difficult. It wasn’t pretty. The standard for accessing our biblical knowledge was the “Me amar Le me” (who said to who) question. We were given a line from the biblical text and had to recall which biblical figure had said it and to whom. As an example, the text “'Wilt Thou indeed sweep away the righteous with the wicked?” would be written on the exam (in Hebrew) and we would be required to remember that it was Abraham speaking with God in Genesis; negotiating for the salvation of the occupants of Sodom. With profound challenges in reading, decoding and consequently, memorizing, Hebrew text, these test were among the low points of my academic life and a regular confirmation of my incapacities.
But one day in seventh grade, Rabbi Alex Kaplan, the school principal, came to speak to our class. He asked us a puzzling question:
“In the story of creation, God created light on the first day but did not create the sun and the moon until the fourth. How is that possible?”
As always, the A group students were the first to respond”
“Perhaps God created fireflies”
“Maybe the rocks glowed”.
Rabbi Kaplan nodded and graciously accepted these answers.
Risking embarrassment and the furthering of my humiliation in the classroom (can I possibly be reduced below C group status) I raised hand and ventured:
“Maybe the light represents knowledge and wisdom”.
Rabbi Kaplan smiled with gentleness and warmth. It was a spark of success, a moment of accomplishment in a decade of frustration and failure. But in that moment, I had a fleeting sense that I possessed a level of understanding that was of value. I had no capacity to comprehend what it meant but I instinctively knew that it was important. In retrospect, I now understand that I possessed a symbolic capacity that many of my classmates lacked. I understood the meaning of “light” as a metaphor. But symbols and meaning were not the currency of academic success in grade school or, for that matter, in high school. Me amar l’me”. What can you remember? What can you spell? “What can you repeat?” I could do none of these.
Still can’t
But as I reflect, I increasingly focus on my own learning challenges as a central framing element in my life. It wasn’t until graduate school, when I chanced to read an article in the New York Times on the linkage between dyslexia and auto immune diseases that the pieces fell into place. Two years earlier, I had been diagnosed with idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura (ITP) an auto immune blood disease that caused my platelet count to drop to a tenth of its normal range . As I read the article, all the pieces began to fall into place. In articulating the symptoms of dyslexia, the author was describing me; my childhood learning challenges, an inability to decode written words; reversing letters; disastrous, undecipherable handwriting and most profoundly of all, a complete inability to spell even simple words – a characteristic that remains with me until this day.
I think back to Mr. Gladstone’s third grade Hebrew Class at the Solomon Schechter School. He was kind and gentle and, in order to spare me the embarrassment of my inability to keep up, he set me aside and gave me the menial task of cutting strips of paper. Even as a third grader I knew this was wrong. He had given up on me and deemed that I was incapable of learning. And I understood that message.
My struggles with Hebrew and other subjects continued and I was a consistent failure in my Solomon Schechter classes. At a young age I accepted my status as a failure and a fool. I remember one fifth grade evening, determined to do best and really try I worked for hours on assigned Hebrew essay. The following day Mr. Chorovsky read my paragraph out loud – and laughed while he derided it in front of the class. I never tried again. That memory lingers in my consciousness and as I retell it, the feeling of embarrassment wells up. It is not a distant memory but a present sense of pain and anger.
These memories of frustration and embarrassment come cascading forth. Mr. Katzir telling my mother, as I stood watching, that I shouldn’t take the New York Statewide Hebrew Regents examination. I would fail and my failure would be a negative reflection on the school. My mother’s response “He needs to learn to fail”. I so distinctly remember being heartbroken by my mother’s response. She saw no hope either. Mom, with all do respect, fuck you. How about “Let’s figure out a way to succeed”. I took the test. And got a 95%. Fuck you Mr. Katzir.
A friend of mine talks of being in the “C” group in a prestigious private school in Baltimore. The “C” group was just what it sounded to be – third tier students who had been tagged and labeled with low expectations. As a perennial “C” group student at Solomon Schechter School I fully related to his experience (having graduated from Johns Hopkins University and Georgetown University Law School my friend is now a highly successful attorney in Baltimore). To this day I get flushed and feel a profound sense of failure, of embarrassment of being in the “C” group when I misspell a word in a work document, mispronounce a word when reading out loud or get caught in a malapropism. That sense of embarrassment quickly transitions to a burning anger.
While my dyslexic and ADHD-based limitations and failures were framing my life, there was always a subtle but unidentifiable counter force in the background. A second set of incongruous clues that seemed not to make sense in the context of my daily frustrations began to emerge. One day in seventh grade, the abominable Mr. Katzir announced that he had a headache and left our class alone for an hour. As consciences and thoughtful students in a Jewish day school, we did what any thoughtful group of pre-teens would do in that situation – we rifled through his desk, discovered his record book and perused its pages. In it we found a listing of the IQ’s of each member of the class. Janet’s IQ topped the charts at 160. That was an eye popper. But, strangely enough, incomprehensively, mine was among the highest in the class. It was, in fact, higher than many successful students in the de-facto A group and higher than those who were perennial favorites of the teachers.
Our study of the Bible in the Solomon Schechter School began in third grade. If learning Hebrew was difficult for me that learning to read the bible in that alien language was exponentially more difficult. It wasn’t pretty. The standard for accessing our biblical knowledge was the “Me amar Le me” (who said to who) question. We were given a line from the biblical text and had to recall which biblical figure had said it and to whom. As an example, the text “'Wilt Thou indeed sweep away the righteous with the wicked?” would be written on the exam (in Hebrew) and we would be required to remember that it was Abraham speaking with God in Genesis; negotiating for the salvation of the occupants of Sodom. With profound challenges in reading, decoding and consequently, memorizing, Hebrew text, these test were among the low points of my academic life and a regular confirmation of my incapacities.
But one day in seventh grade, Rabbi Alex Kaplan, the school principal, came to speak to our class. He asked us a puzzling question:
“In the story of creation, God created light on the first day but did not create the sun and the moon until the fourth. How is that possible?”
As always, the A group students were the first to respond”
“Perhaps God created fireflies”
“Maybe the rocks glowed”.
Rabbi Kaplan nodded and graciously accepted these answers.
Risking embarrassment and the furthering of my humiliation in the classroom (can I possibly be reduced below C group status) I raised hand and ventured:
“Maybe the light represents knowledge and wisdom”.
Rabbi Kaplan smiled with gentleness and warmth. It was a spark of success, a moment of accomplishment in a decade of frustration and failure. But in that moment, I had a fleeting sense that I possessed a level of understanding that was of value. I had no capacity to comprehend what it meant but I instinctively knew that it was important. In retrospect, I now understand that I possessed a symbolic capacity that many of my classmates lacked. I understood the meaning of “light” as a metaphor. But symbols and meaning were not the currency of academic success in grade school or, for that matter, in high school. Me amar l’me”. What can you remember? What can you spell? “What can you repeat?” I could do none of these.
Still can’t
Dyslexia Part One
There are a number of jokes about dyslexia:
“The dyslexic “First Church of Dog” and other dog/god related ditties.
How does it change many dyslexics to take a light-bulb?
The dyslexic was thrown out of the restaurant for spitting in the tips jar
My favorite happens to be: “Did you hear about the paranoid dyslexic? He kept on having this eerie feeling that he was following someone”. I see myself in that joke, and am drawn to its existential undertones. “I am dyslexic. What if I have spent my entire life following the wrong people?”
With the help of spell check I now get to use words like weltenstaang and schadenfreude with impunity. I get to use the word impunity. Chances are I even have a vague sense of what these words mean. And, to my great credit, there are even occasions when I use these words in the proper context: “I get a most pleasant feeling of schadenfreude when I observe others falling into open manholes." One could say that schadenfreude is part of my weltanschauung.”
When I am away from my precious laptop and forced to soldier on with paper and pen or when my penchant for verbosity exceeds the capacity of Mircosoft Word’s spell check, my disability becomes far more evident and pronounced. I will change sentences to avoid using certain words. “He was in excruciating abdominal pain” becomes “his tummy hurt”. “He was overcome with a profound anxiety which bordered on a more global and undefined angst” becomes “He was really, really scared. I mean really scared”. This would not be a problem if I was writing children’s books or for the “New York Daily News”.
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