He was the kind of child you noticed in class. Not just once
or twice a day: when he wasn't getting your whole attention,
you were aware of him subconsciously. Whether you were in the
middle of an interesting topic or just plain busy, Yanky was
there. Other teachers had warned me about this `bad boy' and
they had a point.
What made this boy with the clenched fists and don't-care
attitude behave like this? What made him chat while the class
was engrossed in an interesting story? What made him start
chewing a sandwich during a gemora shiur? And why was
he forever complaining?
This seemed to be his main problem. Whatever we happened to
be doing or not doing, he found fault with it. What made him
tick? His behavior was positively unbearable.
However, from the beginning of the year when I took his
class, I felt he was not a bad boy. Nobody liked him,
nor took any notice of him if they could help it. He was an
unloved boy. Yet Yanky was not bad; he was in a bad way.
Admittedly, he was his own worst enemy. Who could love a boy
like that? Naturally, other boys kept their distance if he
went out of his way to plague them.
Even though I realized that he and he alone was entirely to
blame for the situation, that would not solve the problem.
How could I give this boy a feeling of self importance? How
could I convince him of the fact that he, too, was worth
something, if he was so full of self-loathing?
Yanky knew all the tricks. If I praised him for something, he
immediately behaved so badly as to make sure that everyone
understood that it had been false praise. If I made a
positive statement like, "That isn't suitable behavior for a
boy like you," he would snort in derision, making sure the
class realized how ludicrous that statement was. Of course it
was suitable behavior for a boy like him!
I tried everything, including prayer, and refused to admit
defeat. This was a crucial year, and if I failed, who knows
what a treasure would be lost to Klall Yisroel? I repeatedly
asked his advice about class parties, or any problems we had,
in an attempt to make him feel that his opinion mattered to
me. All I got was a shrug and a terse, "Do what you want. You
know better than I do." I tried to give him responsibility to
prove himself, as I saw all this wasted hidden talent.
One day, he looked me in the eye and said, "You are making a
big mistake. I am not the person you think I am. Ask any
teacher, and they will all tell you I am worth NOTHING."
There was no point in telling him that I would not believe
them if they told me that. The bitterness of years of insult
and put-downs could not be erased. I had to take great care
not to let him convince me, too, of his lack of worth.
Ever since I started teaching, I always spent part of recess
time in the classrooms. I loved hearing the boys chat
naturally to each other and it is a splendid way to get to
know them. At the beginning of each year, they were always a
bit suspicious, but after a couple of weeks, I became part of
the furniture and they took no notice of me at all. I never
commented on their conversations but sometimes, when
something needed an adult clarification, I held my peace and
made use of the information weeks later, out of context, and
the children would gaze at me in amazement. How could I
possibly have known that?
On this fateful day, I just could not stop myself and broke
all my self-imposed rules, but it was an opportunity not to
be missed. Today, even Yanky, who thought that nobody valued
his opinion, participated in the discussion. As soon as I
noticed him sitting there instead of wandering around, trying
to find at least one friend, I realized that this was
something unusual.
The boys were eating their lunch, deeply engrossed in the
subject. A subject which crops up in each class at some time
or other and leads to gross exaggeration and bravado. For
some reason, the boys feel the more disgust they evince, the
finer their feelings. I was just going to leave the room
(after all, my recess is no longer than theirs), when I heard
a too-well-known voice rise above all the others. "If anyone
has bitten into anything or started eating from something, I
could never touch it. It sickens me." Faces contorted in
disgust and heads nodded in agreement. For one rare moment,
Yanky felt at one with the group, and that he had said
something interesting.
Then I stole his thunder and spoiled the show. "I agree that
if a goy has started something, I couldn't eat it. But
if a Yid, made in the image of Hashem, has eaten from it, why
should that sicken me? He is my brother, it is as if I,
myself, had started the food, let's say, an apple."
Thirty pairs of eyes gazed at me, wondering when I had
crawled out of the woodwork. Twenty-nine faces showed
astonishment, and then agreement with my statement. Yanky
Segal did not speak. He took an apple out of his satchel,
made a brocha and stared biting all the way round,
making quite sure that there was no place unbitten. Then for
good measure, he licked the thing all over, came towards me
and handed me his apple. He was going to call my bluff. He
knew full well that my deeds would not fit my words. It was
impossible that a teacher could eat what he, Yanky, had
bitten, let alone licked.
How I savored this moment. In dead silence, they followed my
every move. Lovingly, I caressed the apple, then I kissed it.
"An apple which has been started by a fellow Jew, made in the
image of Hashem, an apple which has been sanctified with a
brocha..."
I spoke to the apple as if it could hear and understand,
knowing full well that to one listener at least, my words
were balm to his wounded soul. "What a sweet-tasting apple,"
I enthused as I ate every last scrap in front of the
wondering eyes of my pupils. And indeed, it was a sweet-
tasting apple. The sweetest ever.
I left the classroom, feeling completely drained. As if I had
given five lessons in that short lunch break. However, I knew
that ten lessons would not have sufficed for what the
children had just absorbed. The best proof was the dramatic
change in Yanky's behavior, in his self esteem and
confidence.
Today, he is a leading figure in the Torah world, just as I
had hoped for him.
Can there be anything sweeter than a bitten apple?
