For many years I believed that I was a good educator. Students, alumni, and parents told me so. I was mostly effective at exciting my students to learn, drawing them in, and teaching them content and skills they remembered for a long time. Students thought that I was fair and sensitive and really committed to their success. Hey, I even learned how to admit my mistakes and learn from them.
And then I got married and started raising children.
I run a progressive N-8 Jewish day school (Luria Academy of Brooklyn) committed to inclusion of children with a broad range of abilities and needs and backgrounds. One of the questions I get asked frequently by parents is when we are going to build a high school. Truthfully, it’s not currently part of our plan and we are blessed to be in New York City where Jewish high school options abound. What prompts the parental requests for a high school is their very reasonable concern for how their child will transition from our student-centered, individualized, supportive classroom to a more traditional, less flexible environment.
I recently had a conversation with a faculty member at a school of education which is part of a local university. He teaches a course titled “Learning and Cognition” and finds himself under pressure from students every year not to teach it. The students, as they enter the classroom, understandably want practical tools, and do not see the connection between how people learn and what they do in a classroom.
In a small Jewish day school, differentiation is a fact of life. Some of our students have diagnoses which explain why they have challenges in learning and some do not; some need lots of repetition of material in order to synthesize ideas and others seem to understand and be prepared to explain the content the first time they read or hear an idea. In our small community, some are able to thrive in a Hebrew immersion class while others begin to shut down in this environment. A typical curricular model in middle schools at small Jewish day schools is to offer grade-specific Jewish studies courses; this has the advantage of all students being exposed to the same content, and building upon past learning is an easier task. At Oakland Hebrew Day School (Oakland, CA), a K-8 school, we, too, had this model until ten years ago, when we found ourselves grappling with the following issues:
During our time in school together, Jewish studies classes were streamed based purely on Hebrew language skills. This approach, with its exclusive focus on Hebrew facility, prevented us—and we suspect many other neurodivergent students—from accessing and engaging in the depth and richness of Jewish texts and traditions. Furthermore, by focusing solely on translation and basic comprehension, it denied us the opportunity to apply our own strengths of analytical and creative thinking, which are often reserved for advanced streams.
A painful reality for Jewish educators is that, despite our most valiant efforts, a significant population of young people who go through the Jewish day school system feels distanced and removed from their education, as if they are perpetually outsiders to their community. Who are these young people? What causes this sense of distance? What can we do to help them? While every case is different, often these children are dealing with some sort of trauma that educators are not always equipped to support, and sometimes can inadvertently inflict. However, proper awareness and appropriate responses can go a long way in helping these young people feel welcome and understood.
My experience at Jewish summer camp played an important role in forging my identity, first as a Jew, and then as a Jewish educator. When I made the jump from Director of Education at the camp I grew up at to the Jewish day school classroom, I would often reflect on what made camp so impactful and how I could bring aspects of experiential education into the formal classroom. I soon realized that it is not just about what camp has that the classroom does not, it’s just as much about the aspects of formal education that camps are unburdened by.
One of the most powerful sources of professional reflection for me has always been hevruta—the back-and-forth of honest, challenging dialogue. Several years ago, a teacher with whom I shared a classroom told me that my teaching was “too frontal” and that I needed to give students more “voice and choice.”
Being naturally competitive and reflective, I took the critique to heart. During winter break, I spent two solid days redesigning my Navi curriculum for my sixth graders. My goal was simple: to create a system where students could take genuine ownership of their learning while still meeting our academic expectations.
Judaic studies is a high-stakes undertaking for teachers who aspire to cultivate in their students not only deep knowledge of texts and traditions that shape Jewish identity, but also a personal relationship with the Torah and with God. Either of those objectives without the other misses an opportunity to foster in children a love of their heritage and the desire to keep it vital in their lives.
Every student enters tefilah with a different story. Some find comfort in familiar words and melodies; others feel unsure, disconnected, or skeptical. Yet tefilah in schools often assumes uniformity—everyone doing the same thing, in the same way, at the same pace. When we shift our focus to the people in the room, new possibilities for meaning can open up.
