A little about how I ended up as a teacher in Vienna.
We’re going to start way way back; before even my own memories. Something my mother recalls from back when I was about four years old, and my mother took me to my first day of Sunday school, Jewish religious school:
In the car I turn to my mother, face glowing with pride, and say, “Today I begin to be a Jewish man!”
“You’re only four years old!” my mother thinks silently. She smiles and watches me enter the building.
A few hours later the phone rings. It’s my Sunday school teacher. “There’s a problem with David,” she says. Can my mother come in to speak about it? Of course.
The teacher explains to my mother that I ask too many questions. In all her years as a teacher my mother has never heard of such a thing as a student who asks too many questions.
The Sunday school teacher explains that David asked whether or not there was such a thing as Old Hebrew (seeing as how there is old and modern English.) Not knowing the answer, the teacher said that Hebrew is a very old language, but David was not satisfied with her reply. He pelted her continually with questions she, the simple daughter of a rabbi without any real education training, could not answer.
My reputation of “problem child” at my synagogue is begun, and the system takes care of the rest: I am sent to the office, where I cannot learn with the rest of the students. Returning to classes too ignorant to understand the subjects of discussion – let alone participate – I act out in frustration. I am sent back to the office to be further robbed of opportunities to learn.
Some years down the road, I return from yet another office visit, and peer into the classroom. I am delighted to see that the class is studying the basics of Hebrew letters – a subject I actually know a little about. I put my hand to the doorknob, but don’t open it. I withdraw my hand like it’s been shocked. This isn’t my classroom. That isn’t my class. These kids are two years below me, and I would be just barely able to keep up with them.
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