David Lazerson - Skullcaps n Switchblades

ISBN: 9781626752917

Picture a classroom of tough, inner-city adolescents with learning and behavioral problems who fulfill all the crazy stereotypes guns, knives, drugs, broken families, and tough-guy personas. Now, infuse the scene with a bearded, skullcapped teacher an Orthodox Jew whose physical appearance musters presumptions of non-athletic stoic merchants, or doctor/landlord/lawyer-types. This scenario fascinated me in a dreadful sort of way. I was this teacher.

It was probably the Good Lord's sense of humor that brought me to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School in Buffalo, NY. My only question was: Why me?

Years earlier, if I had changed a few courses, met different people, or taken alternate routes while commuting, I could easily have fulfilled a more conventional Jewish role such as becoming a fine pediatrician with a nice, successful practice, or attaining the moniker, "My-son-the-CPA." In truth, making a tough-but-honest living as a sanitation worker seemed more inviting than acclimating to life as a special education teacher in the inner-city. You gotta be flippin' kidding me!

But here I was, smack-dab in the middle of what promised to be a dramatic clash of cultures: White vs. Black, Jew vs. Gentile, Middle Class vs. Lower Class, Rap Music vs. Chassidic melodies, chicken soup vs. grits. Clearly, the dilemma centered on whether skullcaps and switchblades could get along. Would either of us overcome our biased notions about the other? A more crucial question was: Would I survive?

I had never intended to leave the Rabbinical College of America in Morristown, New Jersey to tackle a degree in learning disabilities. And even though I received my training at a local school in my hometown of Buffalo, NY, I felt as if I had left the womb.

However, once I accepted this scenario, I became impassioned by idealism. I envisioned applying my newly acquired skills to the realm of Jewish education, hoping to disperse the cobwebs of disinterest and denial I perceived by organizing some sorely needed LD programs, (learning disabilities), within the Yeshiva world. Little did I realize that the fulfillment of that dream would only come to fruition after eight full years in inner-city public schools; schools that were a far cry from the Manhattan Day School Special Education Department, (Yeshiva Ohr Hatorah), I would later direct.

But my stint in the public school system, (which began at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School), was far more significant than time spent simply to "earn tenure." It was a remarkable period where I was able to explore the question of whether or not academia had properly prepared me for teaching in the trenches.

Those early years, and especially my very first year, was a right-of-passage that was full of sharing, infused with laughter, interspersed with tears, and leavened with migraines. But most importantly, it was here that I began learning from my students. In fact, among all the things I learned while teaching at this school, it amazes me that somehow, in their own crazy, straightforward way, my students taught me to be secure in my own culture and to take pride in my roots.

As I reminisce about the events that transpired in the Buffalo Public School System, it still amazes me that my students and I actually survived them. However, the lessons learned still resonate. Today, I continually utilize and finetune the educational strategies I discovered while teaching at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School. In fact, these tried-and-true tactics currently contribute to the success of my pupils at The Quest Center in South Florida's

Broward County Public Schools. I am always humbled when I acknowledge the fact that they were heat-forged in that very first classroom, at the school of"hard-knocks."

I also discovered something else, equally as profound, at MLK: That each and every one of us on this planet was put here for a good reason, and that everyone has something positive to contribute.

It's time we help one another do so.

I WATCHED WITH ANTICIPATION as my students entered the classroom. It was my first day. Somehow, for some unknown reason, fate had taken me, a potential Jewish doctor or lawyer, and turned me into a teacher for inner-city, Learning Disabled, (LD), students.

A week ago I had been ceremoniously presented with their files. "Forewarned is forearmed," my supervisor told me with a strange smile on her face.

Three students had criminal records. Another two were simply too young to be classified as juvenile delinquents. Most came from broken homes. Only three of the ten had fathers living at home. Some had witnessed actual murders. To make matters worse, not only were they all males, but some were nearly as tall as me, all 72" worth!

They entered the classroom slowly and quietly, eye-balling me from top to bottom. I'm certain they had never seen such a creature before I stood out like a sore thumb. Not only was I white, but I also had a long, scraggly beard, and for a finishing touch, I wore a yarmulke on my head, (a Jewish skullcap).

I eye-balled them back. Guessing it was my responsibility to speak first, I turned nervously to write my name on the board. (It seemed a "teacherly" thing to do).

"Fellows," I said. "My name is Mr. Lazer -" I didn't get a chance to complete the sentence.

"What are you wearing on yo head?" one student asked.

"Good question," I responded. "You see, I wear this because I'm a -."

"You in the Navy or sumpin'?" another blurted out.

Nervous laughter. It was starting a lot earlier than I had anticipated. I had been advised that my students would probably test me during the very first week of classes. Perhaps even the first day. But no college professor or textbook ever predicted this challenge might occur during the first minute on the J O B.

"It's gonna be an interesting year," I answered, my eyes nervously scanning the room. "We're going to learn a lot about each other's cultures. The reason I wear this, fellows, is because I'm..."

"Maybe he's bald," one student remarked.

More nervous laughter; this time a bit louder than before.

"Act. Be a good actor." It was sage advice given by my current mentor and cooperating professor, Dr. Herb Foster, (in addition to teaching, I was working toward my Ph.D. at The University of Buffalo). He wrote the best-seller, Ribbin' Jivin' & Playin' the Dozens , long considered the bible on Urban Education.

"If you're heart starts firing away and your mind begs for the "flight response," nonetheless, break out the acting skills. Pretend the outbursts and the in-your-face wisecracks don't faze you in the slightest. Assert yourself get control."

"Okay, okay." I held my outstretched palm toward their faces. "Rule number one in my room is...close the mouth when someone is talking. As they say in French, fermez la bouche." Close the mouth. When I talk you, close your mouths and listen. Got it?"

They slowly nodded their heads. Piece o' cake, I thought to myself. I got this covered.

"Good," I continued. "And it works both ways. When you talk, I'll listen to what you have to say."

More nods as I lowered my outstretched hand. I had just leaped from greenhorn to superstar pro. My acting skills were working like a charm. This teaching thing was no big deal. Or, so I thought.

"Now, you asked me a question and I'll give you an answer. Like I started saying, it's going to be an interesting year. We will learn a lot about each other and our different cultures. I wear this cap on my head because..."