The prickly grass tickled his feet as if attempting to bring a
smile to his tightly closed lips, but nothing could make him
smile. The experience only made him set his mouth even more
firmly, expressing total apathy. Apathy by definition is a
total lack of interest, an absence of reaction, yet those who
experience it know that it is the toughest attitude in the
world.
We sat there together on the springy grass -- I the teacher
for secular studies and he, the most amazing student I have
ever encountered. I had expressly invited him for a discussion
on the lawn, hoping that its softness would somehow soften him
also. But the grass turned out to be prickly and as tough as
his demeanor, and my dreams for a heart-to-heart talk to break
the ice nearly evaporated.
Yonoson was one of the most outstanding students in his own
class and in the whole school. He was a student par
excellence. A favorite of all the teachers, he was loved as
well by his classmates. He was the type of student that makes
teaching a pure pleasure. He had all the qualities that
attract a teacher to his students: ambition, motivation,
understanding, a prolific background in all topics, maturity,
and even a sense of humor. When someone referred to Yonoson,
they referred to all the above without exception.
That was the first Yonoson. The second Yonosan was the exact
opposite: an air of contempt emanated from him and more than
once he brazenly broke the rules of the school. His sense of
humor was laced with impudence and it wasn't clear whether the
studies interested him at all. However, since he really was
talented, his homework would always be prepared and he had a
ready answer for any question that was asked in class. This in
itself was a problem -- you couldn't really prove that he
wasn't paying attention. But this was only a side issue.
The real problem was that in this class, only one Yonoson
learned, and all the descriptions of the first Yonoson and the
second Yonoson only served to emphasize the difference between
the two, between the past and the present. It was hard to
pinpoint the time of change, the day when the first Yonoson
changed his personality and became the second one. But when it
did happen, no one could stop the process. As a teacher for
secular studies, I encountered this phenomenon already at the
beginning of his sixth year in school. At first, I ignored it,
and treated it as a passing phase. But as time went on, the
phase became more permanent, and he seemed to reach a point of
no return. I contacted Yonoson's mechanech in order to
understand what was happening.
"True, he's a bit weaker in his studies and his behavior is
also not on par lately, but I'm afraid to broach the subject
with him. Poor kid, you probably also heard the rumors that
since last year, the financial situation at home has become
very difficult."
"Is that a reason to justify chutzpa or breaking the rules of
the school?" I insisted.
"He could be told gently, but it's better not to take notice,"
his teacher replied. "To express sympathy is one of the
easiest tasks. All one has to do is speak in a soft tone of
voice, lower the eyes expressively and nod one's head ever so
slightly." I nodded understandingly, and let myself sympathize
with Yonoson. I started treating him with patience and ignored
his misconduct.
Since I only spent several hours a week teaching his class, I
didn't dwell much on the topic. Every time his behavior
exceeded the norm, even for regular students, I would nod in
his direction and he would smile embarrassedly and try to get
back on the track. This way, using communication without
words, we could understand each other from afar. If, however,
I thought that my nods and his embarrassed smiles would prove
to the second Yonoson that I hadn't given up on the first
Yonoson, but was patiently waiting for him to come back, he
proved me completely wrong. Slowly, his behavior became more
and more unbearable, until all the teachers in the school
wondered out loud -- what had happened to him? His
mechanech gave the others the same explanation he had
given me at the time. "Poor kid, a real pity" etc. And before
you knew it, the first Yonoson was buried deep in the distant
past. All that was left were some sweet memories and a glimmer
of hope in my heart.
The most difficult change for me was the apathy, which now
enveloped him, and his attitude of contempt concerning
anything connected to the school and the teachers. In the
meantime, he had managed, paradoxically, to maintain good
grades without being a student at all! This knowledge jolted
me suddenly, and I understood that this was a new type of
student, whose success is measured only by grades, all the
rest was simply none of the teachers' business. It was this
realization that made me think that our attitude towards him
had been faulty, and that we should have used a different
approach. And that's why I had invited him for a private
discussion on the lawn.
I knew it would be hard to cheer him up. Because of his strong
personality, he probably wouldn't be so ready to share his
thoughts and feelings with me, but I had to try and discover
what was bothering him, and for this I was ready to sacrifice
time and effort.
Many times in the past, I had tried to speak to him alone. I
never even touched on the topic I had used as an excuse to
start a discussion, as my whole intent was to win his trust,
arouse his interest, and to somehow soften his bad stance. But
all I had managed to do was augment his cool indifference
towards me. He answered with a `yes' or `no,' leaving me with
a feeling of alienation I hadn't felt in a long time. After
these meetings, I felt totally drained. It seemed we would
never be able to converse. The only message I was able to pass
on to him was through body language, to which he reacted more
than once with a smile of understanding. And although he
remained indifferent to my words, I felt that he liked me.
This feeling gave me the strength to go on and try again, not
to give up, but to try to understand once and for all what
this child was trying to communicate with his strange
behavior.
A whole month passed without my being able to feel progress of
any sort. I racked my brain for solutions, but to no avail. I
decided to continue on with the `discussions,' when slowly, my
efforts began to bear fruit. His answers were longer and less
terse than the brief `yes' and `no' to which I had grown
accustomed. From time to time he would make comments and
sometimes we even laughed togther, but still the conversations
would end with a stalemate. What amazed me the most was his
ability to start over each time. Every single discussion we
had was like a first-time conversation, as if we had never
spoken together before. Each time I had to break the ice anew.
As if we hadn't laughed together the day before, or exchanged
ideas two days before that.
Now there was a new challenge. I wanted to find a way to
continue the flow and content of our talks, so that there
would be a chance for openness between us. I also thought that
a change of location would help. Perhaps the closed building
and the walls of the classroom were too intimidating while
some fresh air and an expanse of fresh grass would help loosen
him up. But as I mentioned, the grass was prickly and the
effect was the opposite of what I had hoped. He was as tough
and distant as he had been from the beginning. With a
constancy worthy of praise, Yonoson managed to avoid meeting
my eyes, and glancing here and there, he listened with half an
ear.
*
I felt I couldn't take it any more. I was afraid that in
another moment I would burst out crying. Tell me, how often
can a person try to melt a block of ice without falling into
despair? From the depths of anguish, a resolution was suddenly
born, to stop beating around the bush and confront the problem
directly, whatever the result might be. I switched from a
conversation `about nothing' to a direct approach, broaching
the subject I had originally wanted to discuss. Without any
introduction, I gave him the whole spiel -- about how I felt
concerned about the way he had changed. I told him about the
first Yonoson and also about the second Yonoson. To my
surprise, I even asked if he knew about them.
"Yes," he answered in a hoarse voice. "It's davka on
purpose."
"Davka what?" I persisted.
"Davka everything."
"Davka for whom?" I asked, unbelieving. Actually, I had
expected him to continue with his attitude of indifference or
at most, I thought he would try to vindicate himself, but I
was unprepared for this sharp retort.
"Davka for everyone. The teachers, and everyone who
feels sorry for me and thinks I don't notice it." Yonoson hit
me without pity.
"Who feels sorry for you?" I asked innocently.
"You, my mechanech. Everyone!" he answered and his
voice broke. This voice was like music to my ears and assured
me that I had succeeded. For an instant, I had caught a
glimpse of the first Yonoson again, the one I loved, the one
whom everyone cared about. I wanted to take advantage of the
cracks in the surface of his frozen shell and peel away his
indifference once and for all, to reveal the first Yonoson in
all his splendor, when suddenly, his voice again became cocky,
leaving me confused and wondering. Had his voice really
cracked a moment before or was it a figment of my
imagination?
"You felt sorry for me because my father went bankrupt," he
said in a quiet, even voice. For a moment I felt I was
speaking to someone my own age. I forgot that my companion was
my student, only a child. With deep understanding and
maturity, only as Yonoson #1 was capable of, the twelve- year-
old child explained to me what we adults had been unable to
perceive.
"You felt sorry for me, but I didn't want your pity. I hate it
when people feel sorry for me! That's why I became impossible.
I wanted you to bring it up already. To punish me. But you
didn't; you just kept ignoring me and I couldn't break the
cycle. I HATE it. I just HATE it when people feel sorry for
me!"
Again his voice broke. This time his voice stayed broken and
hoarse until the end of the conversation. I too, was seized
with trembling. Suddenly, the enormity of our mistake and the
grief we had caused this child with our pity dawned on me and
I felt ashamed. I couldn't deny it or admit it. I could only
stare at him miserably, like a person asking for forgiveness.
Again, body language proved to be the most trustworhty between
us -- he understood right away.
Several minutes of silence passed. With short, abrupt
movements, Yonoson tore up blades of grass which grew around
us as if to vent his emotions on sticks and stones. Only when
he finished plucking at the grass did I feel that his heart
was free to hear me. I looked at his sad face and said gently,
"I want you to promise me right now, Yonoson, that you'll
never bring the second Yonoson to school again. Leave him at
home. Actually, you're better getting rid of him altogether. I
really wouldn't like to meet up with him any more."
"I promise," Yonoson said with emotion. "I promise to make
sure that you'll never meet him again. But I want you to
promise something in return."
Surprised a bit by his daring, I nevertheless nodded in
consent. "I want to be sure that the next time you meet a
student who is double, or more correct, one who is two, you'll
address him directly and put him in his place. You'll tell him
what you think. Don't let him get away with it and above all,
don't feel sorry for him!" Yonoson pleaded, tears seeping from
the corners of his eyes. It wasn't difficult to promise him
that I would do my best to fulfill his request. I had already
seen how cruel pity can be.
I acknowledged his request with a nod of my head. Our tear-
filled eyes met and expressed what words could never say. We
continued sitting on the lawn which had been witness to our
conversation. Was it only my imagination, or had the grass
suddenly become softer and more pliable than before?
