The Shoeless Symphony

The Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra is back in my life! Rehearsals started last week for the symphony's 41st season, and for the first concert we are aptly performing Mozart's Symphony No. 41: "Jupiter" and the Brahms Violin Concerto. New season, new music, and best of all: new rehearsal space!

Being the community orchestra we are, we depend on the kindness and cooperation of other organizations to host us for rehearsals and performances. Last year we were happy to have a new rehearsal space in the basement of a church, which at first seemed great. It was a large, open space that didn't conflict with any other programming at the church. The lighting was poor, acoustics not so great, but we were happy.

Until it got cold.

Apparently, someone at the church forgot we and our fragile wooden instruments required a modicum of climate control and so numerous rehearsals were spent bundled up in as many layers as we could manage, even going so far as to wear gloves while playing our cellos and clarinets. In this 9th circle of hell, as our director so called it, we did our best to prepare our mid-season concerts. But thirty minutes into rehearsal the oboist's reed was too cold to produce a decent pitch, the strings sounded fuzzy and weak (because of our gloves), and the general pitch crept ever sharper as our instruments contracted in response to the chill. More than one rehearsal was cut short because one can only play so much once your fingers are blue.

I'm sure every one of us celebrated at our computers and smart phones when we got the email announcing the new rehearsal space. This year we are lucky enough to be working with a dance studio who is letting us use their top floor dance space. But this wonderful space does come with rules:

1. No rosin in the rehearsal room; only in the carpeted space right outside it.
2. No naked endpins for the cellos, lest we poke holes in the black sprung dance floor (which led to a lovely bit of laughter when our section leader came around at the second rehearsal offering "rubbers" [endpin stoppers] because "It's important to always have protection!")
3. Wind and brass players may not empty spit valves onto the floor; protect it with towels instead.
4. No shoes on the dance floor.

Because of the unique material of the dance floor we are not allowed to tread on it with our shoes, so we all took them off in the hallway before entering. I don't believe a single person was upset at the rule. Many of us probably prefer to practice without shoes and I, for one, couldn't wait to perform with an entire orchestra of barefoot musicians! Did we sound better? Was our tone richer? Were we more unified? I can't say with any certainty, but it sure felt good. I wonder what Brahms would have thought if he saw 75 musicians performing his Violin Concerto in socks. Everyone from the soloist and the director to the trumpets and trombones, playing the most beautiful melodies, toes wiggling.

After rehearsal, a number of us went to a nearby bar for a BSO Meet & Greet where we, with shoes on, milled around and got to know one another. Some members have been there for decades while others have only just arrived. I finally got into conversations with people who I saw all the time at last year's rehearsals but never really befriended. I sipped my tea while others had their beer (because that's how I roll in a bar at 10 pm) and we connected.

Needless to say, I'm very excited about this season. I already feel closer to my symphony-mates and I don't think its only because we're barefoot for rehearsals. I'm feeling more established and part of this community, and I can't wait to perform on stage with them next month.

Maybe they'll let us perform the concert barefoot, too?

Transience and Transcendence

It didn't take long after Tomm and I became members of our synagogue that I dove in to contribute to this vibrant new community which had welcomed us so warmly. I quickly joined the newly-formed Kiddush Committee (which organizes the weekly community-sponsored snack 'n' schmooze after services on Saturdays) and we sponsored our own to kick it off. Not long after, the rabbinic intern approached me and asked me to consider taking on the role of "Gabbai Sheni" to help organize roles and responsibilities on the women's side during services. We even moved to the neighborhood of the shul in order to be closer to it and to the people who belong. In both social and religious capacities I have created a niche for myself in the shul community, and I am loving it. This is, after all, exactly what I was looking for so fervently when we first moved to New York. I am blessed to have found it.

I did not, however, expect so many people to leave so soon after we arrived.

I shouldn't think it odd considering we will only be in New York for a predetermined period of time, but Brooklyn is the site of constantly and rapidly changing scenery. Anyone and everyone will tell you that many areas of Brooklyn have changed beyond recognition within the last 20, 10, and even five years. This neighborhood is no different and the synagogue is, unsurprisingly, a microcosm of that vicissitude. Since we became members in late spring, at least five other families or individuals have joined our community. But in that same time frame, at least four families have moved or announced their intention to move away. Some are moving because of job opportunities, some because of growing families, and even though I haven't been a part of this community for that long it pains me to see these people leave.

Yet the growth continues, most recently with the addition of a rabbi. It may strike some of you as odd that our shul could exist without a rabbi, but Jewish congregations do not require a rabbi to lead services, and a strong lay leadership can sufficiently support a full congregation. We have been working with a rabbinic intern from a yeshiva (seminary) in the Bronx who has led classes, read Torah, and helped guide the community through holidays and other events and will continue to do so, but now the community has grown to a point where we needed something - someone - to guide us further.

So the shul has hired a rabbi to work with us a couple times a month with holidays, to lead classes bi-weekly, and to serve as our posek, the rabbinic go-to for questions about how we as individuals and as a community practice an ancient religion in the 21st century. Yesterday was his first Shabbat with us, and despite being a significant new presence in our community, he let the members lead the service just as we always have. He only stepped up to receive an honor during the Torah reading and to give a d'var torah, literally a "word of Torah," or a sermon.  I was duly impressed.

Loudly and clearly, he spoke of how the Torah presents multiple models of leadership and described them as each being viable ways of finding transcendence in our lives, suggesting that sometimes we need law to create order for us, sometimes we need spiritual guidance, and sometimes we just need the advice of a wise individual who's seen a bit more of the world. He then spoke of our need to expound upon this pluralism in order to find 21st century solutions to 21st century problems, and to embrace not only the multiple paths that exist in our personal search for significance but also the varied paths others take to find it, even when it differs from our own.

The d'var torah got dark when he described the deplorable state of our world - the disease ravaging Africa, the explosions destroying the Middle East, the flames consuming our country from within - and while it may have been a little heavy-handed, I don't entirely disagree with him. But in the end he brought it back and made his message clear: it is up to us to not only find meaning in our own lives, but to share that meaning with the world and, in doing so, repair it.

As we finished services and enjoyed kiddush with nearly 60 people (a significant group in our limited space), we made introductions and said goodbyes. We schmoozed and caught up, snacked on kugel and deli roll, said l'chaim over wine and whiskey, and enjoyed each other's company. And on the way home I thought about what our Rabbi had said about finding meaning and sharing it in the world. In my own little world, in my own little way, I am finding some of that meaning through my interactions with my community, hoping that as new people join us they feel welcome and invited, and as others leave they do so with fond memories, good friendships, and a place to come back to.

Isn't that what we all yearn for, anyway? A place to call home, with people to call our friends? To feel welcomed and accepted, safe from scrutiny and free from adversity? It may not be significant in the grand scheme of things, but it doesn't seem so bad a place to start changing the world.

Going to Hell in a handbasket

Remember when I said that after a long day of work, I enjoy plopping down and doing something mindless? Well, this summer my pursuit of mindless activity led me to the series Supernatural. And oh how I have binged!

The show follows two brothers who travel around the country fighting and destroying the evil things that go bump in the night. Werewolves, vampires, spirits, possessed objects, ancient gods, demons, and even angels (who, according to the show, have really horrible people skills). Every episode follows essentially the same pattern: some random person dies in a bizarre and inexplicable way, the brothers read about it in a newspaper or online, they travel to the scene disguised as FBI agents or insurance adjusters, then they spend the rest of the episode figuring out what they're up against and how to kill it, then doing so. Each episode features at least one grotesque and totally inaccurate blood spatter, lots of punching sounds (still trying to figure out how Sam and Dean have retained their beautiful faces and haven't died of excessive concussions), some broken furniture or walls, and ends with someone getting stabbed in the heart, decapitated, or burned alive (though, really, that last one is for ghosts and their remains have to get burned to destroy them so really they're...burned dead?). Occasionally one or the other of the brothers dies and is inevitably resurrected to keep fighting the good fight, and if I've learned anything from the show it's that whenever a person is stabbed to death, they will definitely bleed out of their mouth. Always.

Man, I love this show.

I wouldn't say I'm obsessed with Supernatural, but I am using it as a way to pass time. Lots of time. The supremely sad moments, while touching, have yet to make me cry, and my favorite episode is still the one anomaly that featured slapstick comedy. I am not a squealing fangirl who posts and reposts Supernatural pictures and GIFs on Facebook, nor do I peruse Tumblr in search of every Supernatural tag I can find.  I enjoy the show, I enjoy the references, and I want to see where it goes while I have the time to waste.  

And frankly, it's better than reality sometimes.

I have started to wonder if I should limit my time on Facebook, not because I'm wasting so much of it but because most of the time I spend on the site leaves me depressed and concerned for the future of our world. For months on end it's been nothing but

                                                                                                                                             Word cloud made at Tagxedo.com

At first, I tried to keep up with the news articles, blog posts, op-eds, and reports on the issues. It didn't take long to realize, though, that the vast majority of what I was reading was highly biased, poorly informed, inflammatory, judgmental, or just plain wrong. I started having to weed through my news feed based on who was posting and the source which they were sharing. Was it an impassioned acquaintance who was sharing something with LOTS OF CAPITALIZATION? Was it a Huffpost op-ed written specifically for their readership? Was it a blog post disguised as an article, or an article written like a blog post? I tried to avoid reading only what I agreed with and pushed myself to read the opposing viewpoint until both sides made me so sick that I stopped reading that altogether. Then I made a rule for myself that I would only read published articles by reputable news sources and avoid anything that suggested opinion. The result? I had nothing to read, and a lot more free time.

Adults of my parents' generation sometimes ask me how I can even hope to remain informed without a subscription to a newspaper or a television to watch. I wonder how they can hope to remain informed with those things. I am a frustrated consumer of current events, and much like my distaste for sucralose in my soda, I'm not terribly interested in someone else's opinions dressing up in an article and calling itself news. But because I want to remain informed, I generally have to muddle through at least a few of those sources to find out what's going on. At some point though, it becomes too much to handle, and as the realization of my white, privileged, American middle-class existence sets in I tune out and turn on a show that occupies my brain for an hour or two. (Or five on a Sunday when Tomm is on call.) 

There isn't much I can really do about most of what's going on. My opinions on the Middle East aren't going to change the minds of the ones doing the killing, I don't feel I can affect the police force in Missouri, and the anti-Semites in Europe aren't going to stop harassing Jews and destroying their property because I say so. It's a defeatist attitude, I know. I did make a sizable donation to the ALS Association as part of the Ice Bucket Challenge, so at least that was one good thing to come out of a sad circumstance. Still, unlike Sam and Dean Winchester, we can't summon and destroy the demon in charge and we can't burn the bones of the offending evil spirit responsible for the deaths. As Dean says in one episode when confronted not by monsters but by sick and twisted human killers, "Demons I get. People are crazy." And these are crazy times in which we live.

So, at a time and in a world where I feel so frustrated by the news I hear and so unable to do anything about it, can you really blame me for wanting to see this instead?

What I Did Over My Summer Vacation

The mood to write doesn't strike me as often as I'd like. When I am overworked, stressed, or just plain tired after each day of hard work, I find I am simply uninterested in the prospect of sitting in front of my computer and doing anything productive.  I'd much rather sit back and enjoy mindless amusement in as passive a manner as possible.  And usually that's what I do.

This summer I have been working at a Jewish day camp for children ages 5 to 12 and Friday was our last day.  It has been an astonishing experience and I finally have the wherewithal to sit down and reflect on it.

The camp was located on Staten Island which, though technically part of New York City, has a fair share of roughly wooded areas that are home to a number of summer camps. Every day I took a yellow school bus full of young campers over the Verrazano and into a campground where instead of car horns and angry commuters I heard insects and laughing children. Every day I enjoyed escaping the right-angled city to a place with open-sided shelters and winding gravel paths, preferring the shade of trees to the shade of apartment buildings. I came home covered in bug bites, dirt, and tan lines, (although honestly, I think I've sustained more mosquito bites from the couple of mosquitoes living in our apartment than I did all summer at camp.) and I was happy.

My position at the camp was a Division Head, and I was in charge of all the campers and counselors in 2nd grade, known at camp as the Grapes Division. I developed and enforced systems and procedures used in our shelter, supervised and directed all the counselors in the division, responded to all parent questions and concerns, and worked closely with the directing staff to ensure a successful summer for everyone. I worked a great deal beyond the 7.5 hours we spent at camp five days a week, but although the hours were long I enjoyed the summer immensely.

Never before have I been in a supervisory or administrative position, and I am incredibly happy I took this opportunity. At first, I thought the most challenging aspect of the job would be working with parents and their anxieties. I was warned there would be crazy parents, kind parents, aggressive parents, and over-sensitive parents. It was true, I encountered all those types of parents, but what they didn't tell me that all most parents are looking for is to be assured and reassured that their child is receiving the best care possible when they aren't around to supervise. And once I was able to calm or assuage their concerns and fears, it was usually smooth sailing from that point forward.

What they didn't tell me was that the most challenging part would be supervising high school and college-aged counselors who are not as receptive to suggestion or reprimand as the average 2nd grader. While I am confident in my classroom and behavior management skills as an elementary school music teacher, I found that reminding a 20-year-old to hand in progress reports on time or reprimanding a slew of staff members for their poor attendance was not nearly so straightforward. I constantly wondered how I was doing: if I was too harsh or not harsh enough, too friendly, too standoffish, too accommodating, too forgiving. You name it, I considered it. I compared myself constantly to the other division heads whose personalities and supervising styles were so drastically different from my own. By the end of the summer I knew that my counselors liked me, but did they respect me? Was I effective?

Ultimately, I think the answer to that question is yes, I was effective, because the Grapes Division was among the most well-run on camp and had some of the happiest counselors. Still, I am already thinking of ways to change and improve for next year.

Unlike the other Division Heads, I had no prior experience at a day camp. When I was younger I attended an overnight camp for four weeks every summer, but the two camping experiences are drastically different in many ways. (In fact, I remember all of us campers dreading the week when the young kids from the affiliated day camp came to see what sleepaway camp was all about. I regret that we made fun of them mercilessly behind their backs. Day camp simply wasn't nearly as cool as sleepaway camp. We were clearly just obnoxious teenagers.) Not only have I never had experience at a day camp, but I had never so much as worked at a camp before this. I was truly jumping into the deep end with little more than a bachelor's, a teaching license, and ambition to keep me afloat. Now, at summer's end, I can honestly say that not only did I not sink, but I swam with the best of 'em.

While I'm sure Tomm would tell you a different story based on my occasional rants at home, I really did have a wonderful summer. Today I got so many hugs by campers and counselors alike, and my directors told me in no uncertain terms that they intend to see me next summer. I feel buoyed by the success of the summer, especially considering it was a job that required a very different set of skills than what I use during the school year. I was challenged, I learned, I taught, I guided, I planned. I used my skills and developed new ones. I grew. And so did my campers and counselors.

I am still a music teacher. I will still return to the public school in a few weeks to teach lessons on steady beat and dynamics and playing rhythm sticks. I am still dedicated to the pursuit of education through sound and song. But spending my NYC summers in a forest with sun and mosquitoes and smiling children doesn't seem so bad. 

Counting my blessings

I'm suffering from a bad cold and it's well past my bedtime. I have to be up in about six hours (which is barely sufficient for me), and I have a 13-hour day ahead of me. But I am anxious - for mostly good reasons - and sleep is evading me, so I turn to my very neglected blog.

Though the NYC public school year doesn't finish until the end of June, my daytime position at one school has come to an end. The principal wanted to make sure the program wrapped up before the end-of-year craziness really began, and I can't entirely blame her for that decision. I was kind of looking forward to a bit of a break myself, despite how sad all the students (and teachers!) seemed upon learning that Monday was my last day with them. To make my departure even more emotional, I received an enormous number of handmade Thank You cards from students which made me smile like a crazy person as I read them on the subway.  But I promised them all I would be back next year, and the principal and I hugged on it to make it official.

As for that break I was hoping for before my summer camp job starts in June, that was only wishful thinking. Two weeks ago my supervisor asked if I'd be willing to fill in as the music teacher at another school for the last seven weeks of the year.  The regular music teacher is apparently unable to complete the year, so I agreed to take on the position. This means an additional 9 hours of teaching a week (plus 5 per week of prep and meetings), on top of the after school position I'm still doing through June.  I was hoping I would have a week to prepare things after finishing the other school, but nope! I start tomorrow morning.

Naturally, I'm nervous and apprehensive, as I suspect most teachers are before their first day with new students.  It doesn't help that I have a cold which has left me feeling stuffy, sneezy, sleepy, and a few other dwarfs (with Doc making me chicken soup when he's home), so I'm definitely not bringing my A Game.  Still, I'm looking forward to it and I'm excited to use these weeks to strengthen some of my lesson plans and try out some new ones.

I also found out fantastic news today: I was accepted to a graduate school program! Starting in September, I will be working towards my Masters of Music in Music Education in addition to teaching.  I'm equal parts excited and anxious, but I have a few months before I really have to start freaking out about it.  I'm just glad I'm in and that two years from now I'll have another advanced degree under my belt.  

Y'know, riding the subway every day gives me a lot of time to think. I don't always use the time wisely, but occasionally I think about all the luck Tomm and I have experienced since moving here. He's nearly done with his first year of residency and we both agree it hasn't been quite as atrocious as we expected it to be. Together we are making it through his residency, we're beginning to establish ourselves in a new Jewish community, we have found a great apartment in a wonderful area (the keys to which we should be able to get tomorrow), and he even got his first vacation request for next year so we can celebrate Pesach with my family.  On a personal level, I found two jobs fairly quickly after moving here, I have organized and prepared for successful concerts both as a teacher and as a performer (with the BSO), I have made connections that led to a long-term subbing gig and a full-time summer job, and I have been accepted to grad school.  But maybe "luck" is the wrong word; perhaps "blessings" is more adequate.  My father-in-law reminded me today that he is always praying for his children. Worrying and praying. And I know he's not the only one.  Both Tomm and I are surrounded by so many people who love, support, care for, and pray for us that it's a wonder we ever worried about whether or not we'd be able to survive in big bad New York.

Maybe that's why I get these colds so often.  They are annoying and sometimes keep me from getting things done, but they also help me recognize all the bright and good things in my life.  If being sick occasionally is the price I pay for being blessed in so many ways, then keep the Vicks and tea coming.  I can handle it.

Back to the blog

John Lennon once sang "Life is what happens to you when you're busy ignoring your blog."

Or, y'know, something like that.

In any case, it's been well over a month since I last wrote and you can generally assume that I haven't written because I've been busy.  First it was preparing for Passover (spring cleaning with a deadline, as my mom likes to describe it), complete with making my very first seder.  Then it was actually Passover, which was surprisingly busy. Then it was full-tilt concert preparation, hard core apartment hunting, New York State teacher's licencing tests, applying for graduate school, and a few other obligations.  Thankfully, most of the hard work of the last two months appears to be paying off.

Big news number 1: I made it through my first really, truly, honest-to-goodness, did-it-all-by-myself Pesach!  Passover is one of those holidays that requires so much work and has so many laws, traditions, and procedures associated with it that I avoided "making Pesach" whenever I could.  As a college student, I either went home for the holiday or stayed with my aunt and uncle. Even in my apartment last year I ate as many meals as I could elsewhere so I didn't actually have to buy new food, new dishes, or cover my countertops.  This year, however, I couldn't get out of it.  Not only that, but I was also making a small seder for three for the first night.  Thankfully I think I pulled it off, and it wasn't even quite as scary as I thought it might be.

Big news number 2: We found a new apartment!  Although our current apartment is a total steal in NYC and the hubby is a block away from work, the neighborhood leaves something to be desired. Since finding a synagogue and community that has yet to disappoint me, we started looking for an apartment closer to that neighborhood.  It was a long and arduous search, but I am happy to announce we found a place only a few blocks from shul and we're signing the lease on Tuesday.

Big news number 3: My spring concerts for the Pre-K through 3rd grade classes at my school has been a source of great stress for me the last few weeks, but after a few hours of very successful rehearsals on Friday, I'm actually looking quite forward to them.  The theme is "Music Through the Decades," and each class has a song to represent a particular genre and decade.  Early American folk, 30s swing, 60s R&B, 70s pop, 80s hard rock, you name it.  The kids have worked so hard, and after hearing them on stage I am extremely excited for the performances next week.  Admittedly, though, I'm not sure if I'm primarily excited for the concerts or for them to be done.  Either way, I'm looking forward to it.

Big news number 4: Applied for grad school.  Will hopefully get in.  Will keep you updated.

Tonight after Shabbat I had every intention of finally tackling some of the house chores that I have been putting off for the last two weeks, but somehow I'm sitting at the computer instead.  For the first time in two months I'm feeling like things are actually under control, and I am so chilled that even the piles of laundry on the floor aren't bothering me.  It'll all get done. The worst of it is over. And pretty soon, I'll be able to relax in a brand new place to call home.

The It Crowd

This past weekend was the holiday of Purim, a Jewish festival celebrating the victory of the Jews over the evil vizier Haman in ancient Persia under the rule of King Ahashverosh (who is most likely King Xerxes I). It is a joyous holiday during which we read from the Book of Esther (known as the megillah), eat hamantaschen (triangle-shaped pastries filled with jam, poppy seed, chocolate, or other goodies), dress up in costumes, and imbibe.

It is one of the most rambunctiously joyous holidays in the Jewish calendar, yet I've never been a huge fan of it.  Since I became old enough to decide on my own costumes instead of my parents putting me in whatever mask they wanted, I realized that I was very bad at making costumes and so I haven't dressed up much in the last few years.  I don't like drinking, nor do I enjoy being around people who drink copiously, and big parties usually aren't my thing.  So I've come to ignore Purim, more or less, and prefer to focus instead on the holidays I'm good at.

But this year, as with most things in my life since moving to New York, things were different.

This year I attended a giant party at a huge Reform synagogue which was co-sponsored by at least three congregations and a couple Brooklyn Jewish social organizations.  There were multiple readings of the Book of Esther to accommodate the different communities represented, then we all coalesced afterward in the social hall across the street for a giant costume and dance party. 

With a guest list of nearly 300, this is not typically the kind of event I would attend, especially without a group of friends to go with.  But in the last few months I've been getting to know some new people and have even made a few friends with whom I've hung out outside of Jewish events.  A few of them said they would be there, so I went hoping that I'd at least be able to mingle momentarily with a few people here or there.  I didn't expect to stay too long or involve myself much in the party, but at least I would have the experience and be able to say I was there.

I decided to get together with a new friend beforehand and walk with her to the event.  She is even newer to Brooklyn than me, so for once I was the one familiar with the area and the people.  It felt pretty cool to know what I was doing, where I was going.  When we got there I started looking for the people I knew from the shul I've been attending regularly the last couple months, and I wasn't disappointed.

After the megillah reading, we slowly made our way over to the social hall where the party was getting started.  It didn't take long to get separated from my friend and lost in the crowd (and it didn't help that I was probably the shortest person in the room), but eventually I found another friend who I knew would be there.  She introduced me to her friends and while talking to them someone else bumped into me.

"I'm sorry!  Oh, hey!  Great seeing you here!  I'm going over there, but we'll talk later!"

I recognized the girl, but could not for the life of me think of her name right away.  Where had I met her?  How did I know her?  It took me nearly 15 minutes to remember that I had only met her a week prior at another event for Jewish Brooklynites, and I think I remembered her name.  But what's really cool to me, what I consider to be a major milestone in my social exploration of Brooklyn, is that not only am I just randomly bumping into people I know, but others are recognizing me, too.

Nearly eight months ago I moved here knowing nobody.  I had no social circle, no friends in the area, no network to speak of beyond Tomm.  The fact that I not only attended but thoroughly enjoyed a huge dance party last weekend is an enormous step for me.  I can confidently say I'm making friends and finding my niche in this big city.  Now that's an accomplishment.

At a Loss

I was never a fan of failure.

Throughout my education, I always strove for straight As and high marks; I sought praise like the teacher's pet I was, and I was rarely satisfied with anything less than the best.  Not my best, the best.  Sure, I could admit that certain subjects weren't my strongest - chemistry and P.E., for instance - but that was no excuse for doing poorly.

In hindsight, it was a pretty easy thing to excel in school.  Do the homework, write the papers, listen in class, get a good grade.  So long as my teachers were following a rubric as they graded my work, I was fairly confident.

And cocky.  Way too cocky for my own good.

Now it's biting me in the butt.

As a music teacher, I no longer have the privilege of having supportive teachers grade me with rubric in hand.  There are no percentages and letter grades, notes home or report cards.  But I still feel like I am graded, only this time my students are the ones with the metaphorical red pen.

Sometimes, I think my students are giving me an F.

I teach in two locations for two different programs.  The first is during the day at a public school in an affluent neighborhood where I am the primary music teacher.  I teach in the students' classrooms, usually with the teacher there to assist me if necessary.  The classroom teacher can also help quell misbehavior, leaving me to focus more on what I am teaching.  It's a pretty cushy job.

The other one is after school three days a week at a significantly less affluent school on the Lower East Side.  Past SoHo, past the cute diners, past the wine bars and American Apparel store.  If you go past all those you will eventually find yourself in an area where everyone struggles just a little more: families, children, and teachers alike.

In one particular Kindergarten classroom that I enter once a week to do music activities, the students have been getting progressively more antsy for the last few months.  Back in November they were a fairly mild-mannered bunch, at least insomuch as they could find their way to stay in one designated area of the classroom and participate in music.  They required a lot of guidance, reminders, and structure, but for a few weeks in late Fall they were functioning fairly well when I was in the classroom.

As the weather got colder and recess was more frequently moved indoors, individual students started posing more and more challenges to the overall harmony that had been fleetingly achieved. Like dandelions on a freshly mowed lawn, instances of misbehavior popped up everywhere and spread quickly.

Today I went in armed with a plan. I knew which activities I wanted to share with the students, including one that would review and reinforce the rules of our music time which have long been ignored. I intended to keep the energy high and everything moving along so the students would be swept up in the excitement in a way that would hopefully minimize disruptions. I was ready.

Of course, that was before I actually entered the classroom. And although things started off well, it didn't tale long for this girl to start poking that girl, that boy to crawl to the middle of the circle and spin on his knees, that boy starts crying because he wasn't one of the three children to offer an idea for the Hello
Song, and...well, you get the picture.

I tried to bring the focus back, and at some point I succeeded. For the next five minutes we had a rousing song session to review the music room rules, and they were doing great. But the moment that song was done they were back to their antics and I was wearing out. I tried transitioning to my next activity but it apparently wasn't nearly as interesting as I expected it to be and with ten minutes left I gave up.

Yup. I gave up.

The students were ordered to go back to their seats.  The other educational leaders in the room lectured them while I, the dejected music teacher, stood by and listened as if they were in fact lecturing me. "Come on!" my ear heard. "You're the teacher! You're the one with the actual certification and you've lost control, given up. You've failed your students."

There is truth to the idea that we are our own worst critic, but I can't help but feel that I really am failing at this particular venture. What am I doing wrong? Or maybe it's not my fault. Maybe it's just poor parenting and poor classroom management during the day and not enough play time outdoors and it's too late and they're tired and none of this can be helped. I know there are other teachers who, when faced with this kind of adversity, blame the system and claim they can't do anything about it, but I can't let myself believe that's true. So I blame myself.

After that class I felt empty of any conviction that I'm a good teacher, which is interesting considering how bolstered I feel when teaching music at the school across town. It's hard for me to objectively assess what the problems are and how they can be addressed, worked with, and solved. Part of that is because I'm still a novice, but the other is because of the clouds drifting slowly and ominously through my consciousness, obscuring my judgment. Sometimes, I am my own worst enemy.

Failure in and of itself might not be so bad if I were the only one affected by it, but when a classroom of students loses out on music because of my inability to keep their attention, I have failed 20 others. I can only hope they will forgive me and try again with me next week.

Living in the Kingdom

I just read two articles that labeled Brooklyn as the second most expensive U.S. city to live in, with Manhattan as the unsurprising first. Wow. And here I am, a part time music teacher from Wisconsin. Definitely one of those "What am I doing here?" moments.

The articles painted an unsettling picture of an increasingly divided borough with alarming statistics of income, cost of living, and levels of education. A third article gave a number of bizarre statistics (who really cares if a few jars of horseradish cost $74?) which were all designed to prove a point: the cost of living is skyrocketing in Brooklyn and the lower and middle classes aren't even on the shuttle.

For the last few months Tomm and I have been throwing around the idea of leaving our neighborhood and finding an area more closely resembling our...shall we say...demographic. Also something within 3 miles of a shul I cam stomach. But every time I ask Brooklynites about the preferable neighborhoods like Park Slope, Prospect Park, Cobble Hill, and even Crown Heights, they all tell me the same thing: it's expensive and often prohibitively so. I suppose there's a reason they're preferable, though such news makes Boro Park look better and better.

So after being told time and again about how expensive it is to live here, I wasn't entirely surprised by those articles. Still, what was surprising was the disparity which is growing throughout the borough. I suppose, though, that in a world where the 85 wealthiest people have more combined wealth than half of the global population, I should not be shocked that the second most expensive city is also home to massive poverty and exceptionally low reading levels. That seems to be how the world works these days. In fact, I commented to the person who posted the aforementioned articles on Facebook that it's as if Brooklyn is a microcosm of the current global economic trends.

It's scary to know I'm living somewhere where, if I were on my own, I could never survive. It also makes me wonder why someone would ever go to New York to "try and make it big" like all those jazzy musicals about flappers would have you believe. I find it hard to justify spending so much money on rent alone, not to mention food, clothes, and other necessities.  This is probably just me being a Midwesterner, but aren't there more important things in life than spending thousands of dollars a month on a one-bedroom apartment, even if it is only a block away from the coolest bars and a giant park?

Thanks, but I think I'll just take the train.

Open Mic Night at the Tea Lounge

From the outside, it resembles any of the other establishments in Park Slope with its unspoken air of haughty snobbery. It's surrounded on all sides by yoga, sushi, and a food co-op. It's easy to pass by unless you know what you're looking for, with the exception of one innocuous piece of furniture by the entrance: the backseat of an old van where a bearded man sits smoking a cigarette. The sound of indie beats creeps under the crooked door which gives way to a nonconformist's wet dream. Subdued lighting obscures the individuals while highlighting the MacBooks, their emblazoned apples dotting the room like fireflies.

Tonight we are infiltrating a world to which we don't belong. Let's hope we go unnoticed so we can sip our Darjeeling and hot cocoa in peace.

It is a tea house/bar/cafe/artist's haven. On this particular night they are having an open mic and everyone has turned up to hear the singers and comedians perform. Scarves, knitted hats, and unnatural hair color fill the room like nametags at a hipster's convention. The attendees are mostly people in their 20s and 30s, plus a couple token old men who wish they were. Long-haired hippies and modern philosophers, feminists and people with a cause, vegans and vegetarians and the gluten free by choice, and a few straight-laced polo-wearing guys who are here to get their piece of the grungy homemade experience they can't get in pristine Park Slope. And us.

Each wall is a different color, as if every time they had to repaint they only had enough for one can of whatever color was on clearance. The floor is uneven and unfinished, and the furniture makes it look like the sofa section of St. Vincent de Paul's. Somehow, underground Bedouin chic works for this place and the people lounging on every available cushion.

First up: classical Spanish guitar meets Snoop Dogg. It's a Latino with a sweet voice and a classical guitar singing Nelly mashups.

Between acts: "What's your favorite sport?" asks the MC. "Meditation" yells the girl next to me.

Next act: a small, uncertain Asian man standing at the mic with an iPod and an iPad. He sings a song about the subway that makes you wonder if you should laugh at the candor or listen in silent admiration at his belting bluesy voice with the telltale accent of a reformed Midwestern. Sure enough, he's from Ohio.

Third: middle aged man with a turtle neck and Dockers, singing about online dating.

Fourth: a guy approaches the mic with a mbira. Singing and playing thumb piano. Pretty cool, actually. Impressive. Next song he gets a little more traditional with a folk guitar.

In between each set the MC works his comedy on the apathetic crowd. I begin to wonder if laughter is too mainstream. At some point he starts speaking solely to the few people sitting immediately stageside.

Next up: keys and drums duo where the sound feels a little too big for the space and I can't be sure the two are entirely in sync. But they're having fun and it reminds me of the jam sessions I used to have with an amateur band in Israel. Not meant for anyone's pleasure but their own, and in a space like this that's ok.

Sixth: a vocal duo comprised of a black guy wearing a ridiculous ill-fitting winter hat, a busty white girl with thick-rimmed glasses, and one beautiful blend of voices serenading the diminishing crowd.

Seventh: the hip hop freestyler wearing a button up shirt and tie with a black scarf draped around his neck.

Number eight: Jamaican hip hop artist trying to infuse a little more excitement in the room than we have, but we go along with it.

Nine: a bald man who reminds me of James Taylor with folksy lyrics, an easy voice, and six steel strings. A far cry from the performer who proceeded him but a change of pace that feels normal in this hodgepodge home of rebels and dreamers.

Last: like the last performer, but 20 years younger with a sound 20 years newer.

The one thing each performer has in common is the complete and total honesty with which they approach the stage, ready and willing to share their passion with a roomful of critical strangers. This open mic is bringing out some impressive talent - timid people with big voices and big dreams, probably confined in their own lives until they get to the microphone and set their voices free.

As for the audience, I know I'm being harsh on this crowd of strangers, but it really is fascinating to observe this particular side of Brooklyn in a large group. The fact of the matter is, though, Tomm and I are probably not as far removed from them as we'd like to make ourselves believe.

The Countdown

In the wee hours of December 16th, it occurs to me that my wedding is now less than two weeks away.  In 13 days, 12 hours, and 15 minutes (less by the time I finish writing this), I will be standing under the  chuppah with at least three rabbis and the man who will be my husband.

For as momentous an occasion as this is, the weeks leading up to it have their own events and related stress.  Today I performed in a Brooklyn Symphony Orchestra concert.  This week I have three nights of elementary school concerts, then we're flying back to the Midwest for a week with our families and some last minute wedding prep.  With everything else going on it's almost hard to remember how big of a deal this really is.

13 days, 12 hours, 9 minutes.

I've already told a handful of classes at school that when we return from our winter break in January they will be calling me by a new name.  The youngest ones are excitedly trying out the new name, seeing how it feels on their tongue and proving to themselves they can remember what I've told them.  The older students - girls in particular - understand what the name change means and have also started calling me by the name I won't officially use for another 13 days, 12 hours, and 30 minutes (or so). It makes me smile every time.

I can't really figure out why I'm writing this at...[checking clock]...1:06 in the morning.  Maybe it's just a way of telling myself that there's a reason I can't fall asleep.  Or maybe I'm just awake enough to be thinking of everything that has to get done but too tired to coherently do anything about it.  Whatever the case, the fact remains:

I'm getting married.

This is happening.

13 days, 12 hours.

The Optimism Challenge

A few weeks ago I found myself in the stressful and emotionally tumultuous trifecta that is school concert preparation, wedding planning, and not seeing enough of my fiance.  It seemed that everything had to be done right now! and if I couldn't get it done then surely entropy would ensue and the world would be over as we know it. Such stress was not uncommon for me, but this time it manifested itself in a single sentence, repeated mantra-like every time I stepped on the train, crossed unnoticed through bustling crowds, or dealt with indifferent and outright rude sales clerks:  I hate New York.

Most of my life has been regularly punctuated by these moments of severe stress nestled uncomfortably between moments of slightly less severe stress.  In fact, I distinctly remember a moment in elementary school (5th grade, to be precise) when I found myself stressed and unable to fall asleep well past midnight, trying to convince my parents that maybe I should call my classroom teacher so she could assuage my fears about whatever homework assignment or project was at hand.

I was a special child.

I was also never good at transitions.  The first year of junior high, freshman year of high school, and freshman year of college all featured extreme emotional instability that made it hard for me to cope with anything life had to offer.  I am forever indebted to the people who were closest to me during those years, and I suspect karma will make me pay for that some day.  Big time.

I always strove for success, though, and my need to be a scholastic perfectionist was only strengthened during my periods of self doubt.  I suppose I figured that if I could do well in school, it would be proof for everyone else that at least some of my stress was valid.  "See?" I could say to my parents, "I worked like crazy to get that A!  And if I hadn't worked that hard I definitely would've gotten an A-."

Like I said: special.

So with this insight into my neurotic need for perfection and my utter inability to manage major changes in my life, it is no surprise that from the moment I moved to New York I have been off-balance, and when I found myself surrounded by every obligation in the world a few weeks ago, I lost it.

And Tomm, the saint who for whatever reason will be publicly promising in less than four weeks to put up with this the rest of his life, finally called me out on it.

In no uncertain terms and with a good dose of tough love, he helped me realize that I needed to find a way to stop this vicious cycle of stress, anxiety, and discontent with everything around me.  I needed to pull it together and change something since New York was not going to change itself for me.  I was hurting - everyone could see it - and it simply wasn't healthy for me.

I thought a lot about what he said, and I instinctively knew he was right.  Just as in every other juncture in my life I had a choice about how to respond to it, and now was the moment of truth: How would I learn to love (or at the very least tolerate) a city I never imagined I'd call "home?"

I was reminded of when I was still in grade school and my mom introduced a new family bonding strategy at dinner.  Every night she would ask us "What is the best thing that happened to you today?"  My younger sister and I, being the sullen teenagers that we were, often rolled our eyes but we always found a response.  Sometimes it was "I did well on a test." Sometimes it was "I came home."  But whether we knew it or not, my mom's trick worked and slowly changed the tone of dinner; we began to look on the bright side a little more often.

The day after my stern talking-to from Tomm, I told him I'd like him to do me a favor.  "Every day, I'd like you to ask me: 'What was the best thing that happened to you in New York today?'  I want to start focusing on the good things about New York, and I need your help."

As the days went by, he was faithful to my request.  Most days my best part of New York was a kind stranger on the train, but even such a minor detail made a big difference in my outlook the moment I focused on it.  Suddenly, I noticed my attitude changing.  Instead of blindly muttering "I hate New York I hate New York I hate New York" in rhythmic unison with the train clattering over the tracks, I heard the toddler singing children's songs with his mom in a seat nearby. I saw the disgruntled teenager hold the door open for the old man.  I became more and more aware of the good people, the kindness that had previously been missing from my sights. 

There are still moments when some New York experience grates on my nerves, but it's a work in progress and that's okay.  In the meantime, I'm changing how I see this city, and it seems to be responding in kind.

Cold, Cold, Go Away

It has been over two weeks since I last wrote, and that's at least a week too long.  I have wanted to, though, numerous times, and I have a slew of barely-begun-but-ready-to-edit blog posts to prove it.  Lots of interesting things have happened, things that I want to discuss and share, but gosh darnit I'm just too tired.

Right after Halloween (specifically, after singing a rousing and vocally challenging Halloween song with six consecutive classes in one day), I began feeling that I was either losing my voice or getting a cold.  It turned out to be a cold. I thought it was on its way out until it came around to throw a few more punches, not unlike the character in a movie who walks away from the fight only to whip around and deck the other guy in a surprise attack.  It hasn't been all bad, though.  There have been a few positive outcomes of this unshakable indisposition:

1. My Contigo travel mug is the new love of my life, and one of very few products I will recommend with the zeal of a street preacher.  Thanks to this, my tea stays warm through a train ride, a walk to school, and about five periods of teaching.  If the tea lasts that long, that is.

2. I am incredibly thankful to my mom's friend who gave me the tea kettle for my wedding shower.  It's easily the single most-used utensil in the kitchen right now.

3. I have been so tired that I've gone to bed at or before 9:00 pm at least four times in the last week, and it's glorious.

4. Thanks to this cold, I have perfected my impression of a 67-year-old man with smoker's lung. It's spot on.  In fact, I think when I'm home for Thanksgiving I should stage a competition with our aging neighbor who thus far has gone unchallenged in the Hocking-Loogies-From-The-Balcony-While-Shirtless event.

It's really the fatigue that gets me, though.  I can live with the phlegm and the sore throat, so long as I have my Contigo to keep me company.  I can live with the sniffling nose and even the occasional mild headache.  But when I have so many things to do, - planning a wedding which is just over a month away, planning a school's winter show which is less than a month away, plus everything else that's part of my daily or weekly routines - feeling unable to do any ounce of work past 6:30 pm doesn't help my stress level.  Thankfully, most of the wedding planning is taken care of at this point.

The other byproduct of this fatigue is not being able to write.  For some reason, I can't sit down and write a creative, coherent, or remotely interesting blog post when I can feel the need for sleep creeping in behind my eyes.  It becomes impossible to concentrate or write freely, even when I have accomplished all my other tasks for the day and have a few hours free.

I hope that when things die down a little and when this cold finally frees me of its burden, I'll be able to write a little more.  Until then, tea and sleep will be my extracurriculars of choice.

The Triangle Place

There's a grocery store three blocks away from our apartment that Tomm and I refer to as "The Triangle Place."  It has a name - something about sanguine trees and a farm - but it sounds silly and doesn't make sense so we call it The Triangle Place.  It is situated on its own tiny, triangular island near a six-way intersection, and its entrance is obscured by the stairs leading to the train platform above.  Its lights are always on, illuminating the produce that lines two sides of the building.  Day and night, heaps of potatoes, mounds of onions, various types of peppers and tomatoes, and numerous other mislabeled vegetables glow in florescent pools of light.  There is fruit, too, usually well-priced if not the most fresh, but certainly a better deal than the next closest grocery store whose produce prices are three times as much.  If I'm going to end up throwing it out anyway, better to throw out the less expensive option.

Inside the isles are cramped, and the old linoleum floor bends unevenly and curls at the edges.  Despite its small size, I often forget where everything is because unlike the large, well-lit grocery stores of the Midwest, this store feels more like the basement office in a house.  You know, the one for which the bright eyed new owners had high hopes and envisioned as the perfect work space, but which instead turned into a storage space for holiday decorations, outgrown clothes, and unappreciated birthday gifts.  Still, the shelves are well-stocked, the products make the best use of the space allotted, and its not uncommon to leave with unexpected goodies instead of the few groceries you went looking for but never found.

The establishment is like the United Nations of grocery stores.  Located on the edge of a Jewish shtetl, it is designed to cater to a Hispanic population, if its tortillas, fajita shells, and the aisle devoted to Goya canned goods are any indication.  Still, nestled between the cans of refried beans and corn, and just below the tortilla wraps, are Jewish foods with Hebrew on the labels, and bottles of Kedem grape juice stand alongside Jarritos.  Meanwhile, behind the counter is usually a young Russian woman in her 20s.  One Friday afternoon when the sun, already hidden behind the apartment buildings, edged toward the horizon, I overheard this cashier wish an undeniably Jewish patron a gut Shabbos.  And tonight, a young Jewish girl payed for her Mexican groceries with a Muslim cashier while Arabic music played from behind the counter.

The Triangle Place is a miniature embodiment of Brooklyn - cramped, dingy, but always available, the things you need usually in stock, and bustling with every nationality represented.  There is nothing glamorous about it, but it has its treasures if you look hard enough.

Sally the Singing Guitar

It’s been a while since I last wrote, which is perhaps to be expected in the first weeks of a new work schedule.  Additionally, the community orchestra I’m performing with had its opening concert of the season on Sunday.  It was the first concert I performed as a member of a symphony orchestra since I was in college.  It’s been three years.  I know that probably doesn’t seem like much to most people, but after having performed with string orchestras regularly since I was 10, a three-year hiatus is notable.  It feels nice to be back on the stage playing that particular flavor of music – the kind that only 60 string players, a full wind section, and percussion can pull off simultaneously.

Meanwhile, I spend my days pushing my music cart around three floors of an elementary school with my guitar on my back.  Sixteen classrooms – in and out, in and out, setting up, tearing down, every 50 minutes.  Initially I was put off by the thought of not having my own room.  The classrooms in this school are great, but there's not nearly enough room in which to dance, move, explore, get into groups, play instruments, and do all the things I intended to do with my perfectly planned, immaculately designed lesson plans. You know, in that dream world of mine. Still, despite my discontentment at not having a space to call my own I’m discovering there are a number of benefits to using the students’ own classrooms for music.  First of all, they know the room.  With knowing the room comes knowing the room's rules, which makes my job easier.  Then there's the fact that their teacher is still in the room.  Her presence alone is helpful, but it's especially beneficial if there is a student who needs just a little more one-on-one help with paying attention, in which case the teacher or her aid can step in without me having to turn my attention away from the class.  So even though pushing a cart around isn't remotely ideal, it's not quite as bad as I had imagined.

The students know me best by the guitar, whom I have affectionately named “Sally” for the sake of the kids.  Their reactions upon seeing me in the hallway are adorable, as expected.  “Hi Sally!”  “It’s Sally!”  “Saaaaallllyyyy!!!!”  and the occasional “It’s the music teacher!”  Many do remember my name, but I’m apparently not nearly as cool as my guitar.  Either that, or they think my name is Sally, which is fine so long as they’re saying it with such excitement. 

I feel like I’ve stumbled upon a nugget of teaching wisdom in personifying my guitar.  Last year I made the rookie mistake of assuming that the students would have some sort of innate, evolutionary predisposition to respecting instruments and personal property.  Oh, how wrong I was!  The youngest students were always reaching out to touch the shiny, blond wood, or brush their fingers over the strings like they saw me do every day in class.  It was especially tempting for them when they lined up and there stood the guitar in its stand by the wall, so close!  All it took was a single finger, a quick flick of the wrist, and out came the ringing tones that didn’t quite make a diatonic chord but sounded like music nonetheless.  At least, that’s what I figure it sounded like to them.  The same sound, to me, had quite the opposite effect.  My head whipped around, eyes searching wildly for the child attached to the fingers which had so brazenly touched my guitar.  My guitar!  Really, I guess I wasn’t so different from the children.  I just didn’t want to share.

What I had failed to do was introduce them to the guitar as a thing to be respected.  Yes, it is mine.  Yes, it is [relatively] fragile.  No, students shouldn’t get to play it whenever they please because, well, chaos.  But I never explained that to them or helped them understand the difference between mine and yours, about asking permission, about respecting instruments just like we respect people.  I forgot that children will be children, and it is my job as an educator to help them grow up, little by little, into the kinds of human beings we need in the world.

So this year I changed things up a bit.  It wasn’t a well-planned conscious decision; like many things that happen in the classroom, it just kind of happened.  “This is my guitar, and her name is Sally.”  Sally?  Don’t know where the name came from, but it seemed appropriate for my small, well-loved guitar.  “Sally loves to play music, and she loves singing with friends, but she’s very shy.  She doesn’t like when people she doesn’t know try to touch her or play her, and if she gets scared she might go back home (to her case, of course).  So let’s promise to respect Sally so she stays with us to make music!”

Wow.  Why didn’t I think of this before?

The immediate response among the children was powerful.  By giving the guitar a name she transformed from an inanimate thing into a someone, and someones can be spoken to, cared for, and respected.  Sure, sometimes a student’s curiosity still gets the best of them, but even then my response is measurably improved because the lesson I teach in reprimanding them is far more powerful than “It’s mine, don’t touch it!”  I can speak to the child and say “Oh no! Did you touch Sally?  Remember, Sally doesn’t like being touched by new people.  What should we say to her?”  Respect, apologies, and just a dash of guilt, all thrown into one!

Little by little, I think I’m figuring out how to be a good teacher.  Between the ideas that pop into my head without a moment’s notice and those that I steal shamelessly from other teachers, I’m slowly collecting the tricks for that bag my music ed professors always talked about. 

Great, one more thing to carry around!  Maybe I should name it, too.

The psychology of teaching

I just finished my third week of teaching at my after school job and my first day at my day job.  Both are at elementary schools teaching roughly the same age group - Kindergarten through 2nd/3rd grade, ages 5-8.  The differences between the two schools - and their students - are immense.  The after-school position is located in an area with a very high percentage of students living in transitional housing, to give you an idea of the socio-economic condition of these families.  Meanwhile, the elementary school where I teach during the day boasts strong parent involvement in the school.  That's just one primary difference between the two.

Whether it's a result or simply a correlated factor, the students at my day job are markedly more well-behaved than those in the after school program.  Home life, parent involvement, health, neighborhood, school atmosphere, teachers' efficacy, and time of day -- I believe these all play a role in how a student performs in school.  Though it's impossible to pinpoint the causes, as a whole the students whose lives are more challenged are more likely to act out and be disruptive than those who regularly get the attention, support, and love they need and deserve.

As a teacher, one of the biggest threats to our students' learning is often their own behavior.  The term "Classroom Management" is thrown about regularly among teachers from before they even get their licenses.  I remember being a student in college and regarding classroom management as my greatest weakness (even though I hadn't even had a chance to try it yet).  I was terrified that no matter how good I might be at teaching a child how to play an instrument or sing a tune, I would fail miserably the moment the class acted up.  I may have even had nightmares about hiding in a corner while my students took complete control of my room and broke every rule I had ever imposed or implied, like a mutinous ship about to throw its captain overboard.  I might still have those nightmares.

I've not been teaching long, and though I've learned a great deal I still have a lot to learn about managing behavior in my classroom, as evidenced by my classes this week.  Oh boy.  Students were talkative and it seemed impossible to get their attention for more than a minute at a time.  They were reluctant to participate and when they got excited, they couldn't control it.  Some students in each class would start crying and throwing hissy fits if they weren't called on to propose an idea and get a turn.  When I would finally get the class focused and attentive, two students would start acting up and the whole class was distracted yet again.

At the beginning of my final class today, I quietly approached one boy who has had some trouble in class the last few weeks.  I encouraged him to have a "good day," to try really hard to have the best music class he could.  I smiled, and we pinky-swore that he would do better.  Five minutes in and he was disruptive.  Now, this kid knows when he's doing something wrong, but fixing it seems to be very challenging.  Typically, one of my ways of pointing out behavior that needs to be fixed is to move away from the circle: if a student is acting inappropriately (talking, ignoring directions, acting out, being non-participatory in a purposefully defiant way), I motion for them to scootch out of the circle, and once they show me they're ready to return I invite them back in.  It works for some, not so much for others.  Well, for this student, it did not work.  He ended up sitting out the entire class period.  By the end of the day, he was so distraught that he wasn't allowed to participate (ignoring much of what he would have to do to make that happen), that he was bawling.  "Let him bawl," I thought.  "Maybe this will deter him from behaving similarly next time."

As the class was leaving, the teacher whose room I use approached me.  She's not much older than me, but she has a Masters degree in Special Education so I definitely appreciate any advice she can offer.  "Have you tried rewards with him instead of punishment?  The kid obviously doesn't respond well to punishment, so maybe try giving him something special to do instead, or offer him a prize for good behavior."  Bribes.  Bribes always work.

It made me think about my approach to behavior management.  Yes, I realized, she was right.  Not just this boy, but many students respond best to getting opportunities instead of having them taken away.  At the end of that lesson, I built a drum circle by inviting a couple students at a time - those who showed they were prepared to join us - instead of starting with everyone and moving out the ones who didn't do well.  In the end, every student in the circle was doing what they were supposed to do.

Then tonight I read something interesting.  A friend on Facebook shared an article from Business Insider entitled "8 Mistakes Our Brains Make Every Day and How to Prevent Them." The third mistake discusses "sunk cost," whose origins are described by psychologist Daniel Kahneman:

Organisms that placed more urgency on avoiding threats than they did on maximizing opportunities were more likely to pass on their genes. So, over time, the prospect of losses has become a more powerful motivator on your behavior than the promise of gains.

The article briefly describes how people "emphasize loss over gain."  Now, I am certainly no psychologist and having not done any additional research on sunk cost, I can't be sure I'm understanding this accurately.  But in considering my teaching, the idea that losses are a "powerful motivator" struck me.  If my experiences today alone are any indication, then while loss is indeed focused on, it doesn't actually motivate young students to avoid it.  It seems that many of these students can't get past what they are losing, but the threat does not encourage them to do better.

In fact, I don't know that that threat works on me, either.  I remember a professor in college who told me that if I couldn't master the performance of a particular piece of solo repertoire, then perhaps I should consider another profession entirely.  It didn't make me work harder on the piece, but it did leave me crying in the cello locker room (which was, thankfully, immediately across the hall from my professor's studio).

But maybe that's precisely what this concept is all about.  It's not that we are encouraged to do better by avoiding negativity, but that we dwell on negativity in such a way that it impedes our ability to seek positive experiences. Is this what my students are doing, dwelling on negativity?  And does that mean that the punishment I'm offering is actually much more severe than I previously thought?

I need to find a way to correct the wrong behaviors.  I do believe that children need to learn how to behave even when they're not getting any discernible prize for doing so.  But by the same token, if students cannot fix their behavior after being punished then perhaps I need to change the process entirely and avoid the negative behavior in the first place.

Maybe, to borrow from Mr. Kahneman, I need to avoid the threats in order for my students to maximize their opportunities.

Sun spots

Every so often, I happen upon Clara sitting in the kitchen in a pool of sunlight that has sneaked through the clouds, between the tall buildings, and into our window.  My first thought is always "Why is she sitting in the middle of the kitchen?" but I quickly notice the brightly lit rectangle in which she has placed herself and I dismiss my initially absurd question.

At home, my dog used to do the same thing around the house.  You could often find her curled up in splashes of warm afternoon sun, oblivious to the world.  I know that a lot of animals do this, and it makes sense.  If the sun is shining, go sit in it!  But sometimes I'm envious of the way Clara can just wander around until she finds the warmest part of the floor, hunker down, and enjoy it for as long as it lasts.  Wouldn't it be nice if we could all do that just as easily?

Well, after much searching and waiting, I think I have finally found my sun spot.

My last job as a music teacher ended in June and until last week I was unemployed.  Originally I had thought surely I would have a job by the beginning of the school year in September.  Throughout the spring and summer I applied for a multitude of teaching positions, hoping desperately that I might be able to use my music education degree to its full extent here in New York.  But the pickings were slim and, more frustrating than that, agonizingly slow to materialize.  At the very end of August I was finally offered a part time after school position.  Minimal hours, decent pay, challenging school environment, but teaching music nonetheless.  I knew I still needed something in addition to the 8.15 hours I would be paid there, but I was at least happy to have something.

A few days later, I got a call for a general music position that I had been pursuing for months.  I was ecstatic to finally have clinched that one, but I'd still have to wait nearly a month to do a demonstration lesson for the principal and the program directors.  In the meantime, I calculated that I would have less than 17 hours a week of classroom teaching, and I knew I'd need a little bit more.  Not even because of the money, but just to keep myself occupied.

So I sat around and twiddled my thumbs for a few weeks, waiting for one program to start and for the date of the demo lesson to arrive.  I was happy I'd have some work, but I was frustrated by both the lack of positions in my field (especially since I really wanted to teach in a string program) and the astonishingly slow pace with which everything was moving forward.  While I was sitting around, students had already started school and I wondered "Why aren't these music programs starting, too?"  Apparently this is one of those New York things.

Then, a week before my demonstration lesson, I got a call about a school that needed a string teacher twice a week for 10 hours total.  Oh my goodness, yes! I thought.  This is what I want!  And I could probably do this in addition to the other two programs, so long as we could organize the schedule correctly.  I immediately called for an interview, we set one up for the following Monday, and it went very well.  It looked like I was well on my way to having three jobs at three different schools, but doing what I love.  Hard work, to be sure, but I was excited nonetheless.

Two days later was the demonstration lesson.  It went swimmingly.  Afterward I was shooed away so the principal and the program coordinators could talk behind my back, and later that day I got an email from one of the coordinators.

"The principal wants you to teach 16 classes."

Twice what we had first discussed.

Crap.

Somehow in the span of a week, I went from worrying that I wouldn't have enough hours to being offered an overabundance of classes to teach.  I may have been pushing it thinking I could teach at three schools every week - an after school program for around 9 hours, 8 classes at one school during the day twice a week, and 10 classes at another twice a week - but add another 8 classes to that and I knew it was past my limit.  Thankfully, I had a few days of Jewish Holidays to think about it before any decisions had to be made.

Throughout the holidays on Thursday and Friday, plus Shabbat, I didn't know what to do.  And what's more, I felt frustrated.  Why was I told something at the last minute that would force me to decline something else that I so desperately wanted to do?  Why was this all happening at the same time?  Why wasn't it easier?!

But when I told people about my situation, many of them noted the overwhelmingly positive aspect of my circumstances.  Unlike a month prior, I had plenty to choose from!  I had options, and the people offering them to me really wanted me to work for them!  So shouldn't I be happy?

Well, today I talked with one of the program coordinators for the school that wanted 16 classes a week.  We spoke at length about the situation and he sympathized with my circumstances.  He knew what I wanted, he knows where my educational passions lie, and we figured it out.  By the time I made the decision to decline the string teaching position, I was confident I was making the right choice.

Once I made the decision, I immediately felt better.  I felt as if I had chosen the best option, not only for me but for the adults and students involved.  I'm confident that in the next few years I'll get other opportunities to teach strings, and I'm incredibly happy to be working for this particular organization for my first year in New York.  It took a while, but I think things finally settled in the way it's supposed to be.  I found my own little sunspot, and I'm going to enjoy it as long as I can.

Shul Shopping, Part III

The Holiday Season is in full swing and along with it come plenty of opportunities to go to the synagogue.  We began with Rosh Hashanah two weeks ago, then last Saturday many of us spent a good portion of 25 hours in the synagogue and not eating.  Just four days later we commenced the celebration of Sukkot, that bizarre Jewish holiday in which Jews suddenly become carpenters and build strange huts in their yards topped with bamboo sticks, tree branches, or corn stalks.  Oh, and we also say a blessing while holding onto the trimmed branches of three different trees (date palm, willow, and myrtle) plus an Israeli citrus fruit called an etrog and shake them all around.  It's all very symbolic.  Take my word for it.  

Here are some pictures if you have no idea what I'm talking about:

A traditional sukkah
Source: The Mendel Sukkah, sukkot.com

The Lulav and Etrog
Source: Blueenayim, dreamstime.com

With all these opportunities to go to the synagogue, it can be a bit of a challenge to get in the holiday spirit if you aren't enjoying the congregation with which you're spending so much time.  I spent all of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur at Shul #3 which, although it was the best of the three I tried out, still lacked much of what I was looking for.  By the powerful concluding service of the holiest day of the year, culminating with one long blast of the shofar (ram's horn), I knew I needed to start looking for another shul to call home.  I've already written at length about my dissatisfaction in my own neighborhood so it shouldn't surprise you that I needed to look a little further.

A quick search on Google Maps for "Modern Orthodox Synagogue Brooklyn" provided a couple other options.  I'm sure there are more synagogues than appeared in the search results, but any synagogue that has an Internet presence is probably closer to what I'm looking for anyway.  To my dismay, the next closest synagogue was three miles away, which wouldn't be so bad if I weren't planning on walking to shul every Shabbat.  But I'll get to that later.

I walked to the synagogue on Thursday morning and entered to find that although I was fifteen minutes late for the service, they hadn't yet begun.  I actually took this as a good sign.  There's this thing known as "Jewish Standard Time" in which everything starts later than expected, and I'm very used to that way of doing things in a synagogue.  The building was a bit smaller than the other three I had been to, but the sanctuary was bright, open, and featured a single curtained mechitza down the center of the room.  This barrier was designed as sectioned frames on wheels so they can be moved and manipulated as necessary, and even removed entirely for an event in which they'll allow a mixed crowd.  There were no pews; instead, there were rows of chairs set up, again making for a very convertible space.  The ceiling featured a domed skylight, and the morning sun poured freely into the space.

The service featured a great deal of singing, much of which was accomplished by the untrained voices of the congregation, a small but delightfully boisterous bunch.  Unlike the other synagogues in which most people seemed to sit back and let the leaders do their job, I felt that the members of this congregation were more personally involved with the service and with one another.  I especially smiled when one paragraph was read out loud in English by an old man in the back - the same paragraph that my Dad has had the honor of reading in our synagogue for years.  We use a different translation, but the message was the same: we want you to pray with us, and we want you to understand it.  Let's face it.  It can get really easy to forget what's actually being said when you're praying in another language.

By the end of the service, there were maybe 30 people in attendance (a high estimate, perhaps), and most of us went to the sukkah for the kiddush reception.  By the way, it was a single kiddush, with a single table.  Finally!  A kiddush for the men and women together!  At the kiddush, I could tell that people were friendly, but nobody really approached me to say hello.  I was a little dismayed until I decided to leave and the rabbi stopped me at the door.

"Hello.  You're new here.  Where are you from?"
"I just moved to Borough Park."
"Oh?  And what are you doing all the way over here?"
"Well, I didn't like any of the shuls in my neighborhood, so I came here."

We spoke a bit longer, he invited me to lunch, and I politely declined because I told him I had to get back to have lunch with my fiance.  So he invited both of us for the following day.  Before leaving, I told him:

"Y'know, of all the shuls I've been to around here, you're the only rabbi who has spoken to me.  Thank you.  I really appreciate that."

He seemed stunned.

The  next day I convinced Tomm to come with me, and after services we were approached and welcomed by the president of the congregation, the Rabbi (who wished us mazel tov on our engagement and confirmed our acceptance for his lunch invitation), and the old man who read the paragraph in English.  Additionally, I was invited to lunch by the rabbi's wife who I didn't realize was the rabbi's wife, so I declined only to find that it was her food I was eating an hour later.  At kiddush, someone helped us when he realized we hadn't managed to get a bit of the wine after the blessing was made, and when kiddush seemed to be ending and we had lost track of the rabbi, the old man from before said "Oh we'll get you to that lunch!  Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

Music to my ears.

The lunch table was graced by many of the congregants and the rabbi's 20 children (okay, maybe there were only 12), and I managed to get into pleasant conversations with a few other people.  After a fabulous meal replete with salads, fish, chicken schnitzel (Tomm's favorite), potatoes, vegetables, and a scrumptious dessert, we had to take our leave early because of Tomm's work schedule.  The best part for him?  Not a single person raised an eyebrow or protested about the fact that he was working on Shabbat.  Instead, everyone treated him with the respect owed to a hardworking doctor, recognizing that there is no greater mitzvah (commandment or good deed) than to save a life, even if it means working on Shabbat.

Speaking of working on Shabbat:  Many of us - regardless of our faith background - are familiar with the precept to "do no work" on the Sabbath.  It is, after all, the reason many Christian establishments are closed on Sundays.  Throughout the Jewish community this commandment is observed to varying degrees depending on the individual's  level of religiosity (wow, that's actually a word?).  However on the Orthodox side of the spectrum there is a very little room for debate; the 39 categories of labor that define "work" are clearly delineated and avoided on Shabbat.  They go beyond the commonly understood definition of "performing a service in exchange for money" and extend into such activities as building, baking, and lighting a fire.  These categories provide the framework for the myriad of rules that observant Jews follow in order to create and experience a holy, joyous holiday every single week.

While I do my best to observe the Sabbath, I do so in a way that is comfortable for me, a way is constantly in flux.  I haven't reached the point where I strictly follow all the laws of Shabbat and I am still trying to figure out what works for me to make the day holy.  There are a few things I do my best to avoid, such as spending money, working (I refuse to work at a job for which I am paid on the Sabbath), and driving.  I have my own excuses for certain things, like using the phone in order to stay connected to my family on Shabbat and thereby make my experience more enjoyable, and while that may change with time it suits me for now.  As for driving, that is something I definitely try to avoid, especially driving to the synagogue.  But when the synagogue is three miles and a full hour each way by foot - potentially through pouring rain, snow, extreme temperatures, and other cumbersome natural phenomena - driving or riding on the bus becomes a much more appealing option.  For example, today, when I was just plain tired and didn't want to get up early enough to make the trek.  Had I resigned myself to taking the bus I could've cut the commute in half and felt much more willing to go.  But I was lazy, so I didn't attend services today.

I want to walk, I really do.  But I may have to consider what's really important in terms of my Jewish practice and experience.  If avoiding transportation means not going to shul and missing out on the positive experiences of participation in a community, then am I really making Shabbat holy?  I realize that for the more observant Jews out there, this is a non-issue.  This isn't even a discussion.  But the spirit of the law means just as much to me, if not more than, the letter of the law, and I may need to seriously consider what is important to me at this point in my life.

As for the shul, this one might not be the end of my search.  I still want to see what else Brooklyn has to offer, to make sure I find the place and the people that make me the happiest.  In the meantime, I'm just glad I've found a place that makes me smile and is willing to invite me for a meal.

A sassy way to save your day!

Despite having just recently fasted for Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, I really don't have anything inspirational, eye-opening, or remotely monumental to share with you.  What can I say?  Sometimes, even the holiest of days doesn't provide fodder for a blog.

However, today something struck me as being worthy of a post.  Mind you, this does not follow suit with my usual content, but I think everyone can benefit from this one.  If you haven't already heard of this diet, then I encourage you to read on.  If you know about this diet and have used it, then I implore you to comment below about your experiences so I know if it's still worth touting.

I now present to you, the BRATT Diet!

For some unidentifiable but thoroughly aggravating reason, I was struck this afternoon with a rather poignant stomach ache.  I knew it was nothing serious and was fairly certain it was the result of something I ate, but it put me in the fetal position and made me considerably whiny.  As Tomm fixed himself a sandwich for dinner, I realized that I probably should try to eat something, and turned my sights directly to the BRATT diet:

Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, Tea, Toast.

The diet consists of low-fiber, low-fat foods that are very gentle on the system.  While they do not provide the nutritional substance required on a daily basis, they are perfect options for a day or two while suffering from an upset stomach or diarrhea.

I first learned of this from my cousin when I was in college, and I was a little skeptical at first.  I had told her about how for a few days it seemed that everything I ate was disagreeing with me.  It was mostly just annoying and uncomfortable, but I wanted so badly to digest something, fully and completely, in a normal fashion.  Imagine my relief, then, when I made myself some plain ol' toast  accompanied with tea (unsweetened, no milk) and found that over the course of the next couple hours I was completely fine!  No pain, no grumbling, angry stomach, no intestines yelling at me - such bliss!  After a day or two of nothing but BRATT food, I was feeling significantly better and was able to resume my normal eating habits.

When I was in Israel, there was a period of a couple weeks where I regularly had intestinal upset.  (I determined later it was probably because of an aversion to the regional tap water, and once I switched to bottled water I was pretty much fine.)  I ended up eating a lot of toast and drinking a lot of tea in that time just to keep myself hydrated and somewhat sated.  It was during this particular bout - specifically during a 12 km hike - that I discovered something interesting about the diet, or at least about myself:  If I think I'm feeling better and want to "test" it with "real food," DON'T.  No matter how benign the food might seem, no matter how convinced I am of its laudable dietary qualifications, multiple degrees, honors, or awards, it's not worth it.  It only ends in misery, forcing me to crawl back to my rice and applesauce only to hear them chide "I told you so."

Thankfully I don't regularly suffer from stomach problems, but in the last few years I've been satisfied with the results whenever I've had the unpleasant opportunity to resort to the BRATT diet.  I don't know that I can say with any amount of certainty that this diet actually helps get rid of a bug, but I usually feel a bit better after nibbling on toast or sipping some tea.  I often find that having something in the stomach is better than nothing at all, even when your stomach is as cantankerous and petulant as a hormonal teenaged girl with PMS and a pimple on picture day in 8th grade.  At the very least, it feels like progress to be able to swallow something and not regret it 15 minutes later.

I should reiterate that this diet is not recommended for long-term use, at least not on its own.  One resource recommends it for a maximum of three days (don't worry, it's safe to open the PDF in that link), but more than that and you will deny your body the vital proteins, fats, fiber, and nutrients it needs. 

So what do you think?  Have you tried this?  If you're like me and even the most simple tummyache is mildly debilitating, I highly recommend this course of action.  I'd be happy to hear your thoughts in the Comments section, if only so I can confirm my suspicions that I am the only one in the world so madly in love with this sick-people diet.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some applesauce to eat.