WITH THE SCHOOL YEAR ABOUT TO BEGIN, I dutifully arrived a few days before the official opening to set up my classroom. To my surprise, there were several other white faculty members. Soon, an older, more experienced teacher - who apparently sensed my anxiety – approached me and introduced himself.
"Hi. My name's Mr. James. You're a new teacher here, eh?"
"Nice to meet you," I said. "Not just new here. New, period. This is my first teaching job."
"Well, good luck, buddy. You'll enjoy it here, if you live through the first few weeks." He cracked up with laughter.
I kept a straight face. (Guess I was too nervous to appreciate the humor).
"Just kidding, just kidding," he quickly remarked. Then he gave me some advice. "Seriously, if you want to make it at any school, and especially here, I've got three rules of survival: First, be tough with your students. Kick the stuffing out of 'em if you have to. Second, stay on the good side of the secretaries and the custodian. Third, don't ask the principal for nothin'. Just do what you have to do and figure out later whether or not it was right."
With that, he smiled, patted me on the back, and walked out of the faculty room. The first two made sense, but I really didn't understand the third.
In the meantime, I was a walking conflict. No one seemed to notice, but I was in a real bind. The dilemma centered around my head, or more specifically, what to wear on my head. In essence, I wondered whether I should wear my yarmulka in such a potentially hostile environment. The reason seemed rather obvious: Why give them a reason to hate me from the start by donning a "Jewcap?" Let them hate me for other "long-term" causes. I needed a fighting chance, at least.
On the other hand, I couldn't just walk around with nothing on my head. How could I, after spending three years at Yeshiva studying Chassidic philosophy, the Code of Jewish Law, the Talmud, the writings of Maimonides and more? (I had even procured three private audiences with my spiritual teacher, the illustrious Lubavitcher Rebbe). I couldn't turn my back on everything!
I ran through my list of options. Wig? Nope. It probably would fall off my head during class! A hat of some kind? Hmm, not bad. It had possibilities. A baseball hat was out. That wouldn't fly in a public school. Eventually, I decided on a nice-looking gray dress hat, similar to a taxi-driver's lid. It was a slick Kangol headpiece, often worn in the inner city. Although my dilemma for a head covering seemed resolved, I wasn't too thrilled about my appearance when I looked in the mirror. I looked like a Russian taxi driver!
The Buffalo Public School System requires teachers to attend a few days of in-service at the beginning of the school year. It goes like this: The teachers arrive the week before classes actually start. This helps everyone break into the school routine more gently. It is appreciated by all, especially after a nice two-month summer vacation. It also enables us to get our classrooms and curriculum ready, even if we are all the while wishing we were still hanging out in the woods at summer camp.
The first day of in-service was pretty uneventful. Just after lunch, (mine was bagged and kosher, of course), the AP, (assistant principal), came up to me in the hallway. She was a middle-aged white woman.
"Uh, Mr. Lazerson," she said timidly. "Excuse me, but why are you wearing a hat?"
I couldn't tell whether she was asking out of personal curiosity or as a result of school business. Nonetheless, white middle-aged ladies were no problem for me. I put on a pleasant smile. "Oh, no problem. You see, I'm an Orthodox Jew. I wear a head covering as part of my religion. The idea that God is above us, that kind of thing."
"How, uh, interesting," she said rather nervously. "Thank you and I, uh, hope you enjoy teaching here." With that she spun around and hastily walked away.
This'll be a breeze, I thought. Step one toward acceptance is in the bag. And to top it all off, I actually made my new AP, nervous! It was a strange sort of victory. I mean, couldn't she see that I was a holy roller? You know, a yeshiva graduate? A follower of the awesome Lubavitcher Rebbe? A descendent of Abraham, Isaac, & Jacob? Yep, come to think of it, how dare she even ask me why I keep my head covered!
The next day, however, was a different ball game. This time I wasn't asked by a white, middle-aged woman who looked something like my aunt Sadie. Let's interject some vital stats here: Male species. Height, about six feet with a few inches to spare. Former college football and basketball athlete. He tipped the scales at around 230 pounds. This particular fellow patrolled the school corridors with his arms hanging about eight inches from his hips, kinda like a gunslinger in a high-noon showdown. His walk and demeanor indicated he meant business with a capitol B. And there's one other important detail: He was my principal!
It was early afternoon and I was busy writing my name on the board. It wasn't an ego thing, I just wasn't sure what my students should call me. David was too informal, and Mr. Lazerson seemed too formal. Dr. Lazerson wasn't really accurate, because I didn't have my Doctorate yet. Thus, I was in the process of writing first one name and then another on the board, meditating about how it looked, erasing it, and trying something else. Just when I was checking out the name "Mr. Laz," which seemed beneficial because it was both formal, (the Mister part), and informal, (the Laz part), the afore-described archetype of masculine testosterone, my principal, Dr. D, passed my room. Dr. D had what was referred to as an "open door" policy. All classroom doors stayed open during school hours. That way he could hear and see everything during his patrols.
"Mr. Lazerson," he called from the hallway. "Can you come out here for a minute please?"
"Yeah, sure," I responded. I tried to sound casual, but I detected a note of seriousness in his voice. I put the chalk down and went into the hallway.
He moved in very close and put a finger gently on my chest. "What's with the cap, man?"
"Uh, well, uh. I'm a, uh, well..." I stuttered, looking up at his face.
I struggled to get out my answer, but I simply couldn't do it. I think I even shuffled my feet, confirming his impression that I was a total reject.
He continued tapping lightly on my chest as his eyes got bigger. I imagined him thinking something like – "hey, I know you speak English cuz I heard you talking at the in-services the past two days...and in the normal course of human interaction, well, when someone asks a question, there's usually some sort of coherent verbal response."
I tried stammering out the required information.
"Uh... well... uh... it's uh..." My tongue felt like it was eight feet long and I was tripping over it.
"Look," he said, putting me out of my misery. "You wanna make a statement about your religion, wear your skullcap. Don't wear any hats in my building!" I surmised that his assistant principal had filled him in on the details.
With that, he turned and continued down the hallway. I wasn't sure whether I was ashamed or embarrassed, but I know I turned about sixteen different shades of red. I returned to my room, utterly grateful that no one had been in the hallway to witness the event. I felt like a dog with its tail between its legs. So much for that smug, holy-roller nonsense I had spouted off during yesterday's encounter with the AP. The game was definitely over. I could no longer hide under my stylish, hip, gray Kangol cap. The choice was clear. Wear a skullcap, or nothing. Back to square one.
Thankfully, one of the most famous teachings from the Baal Shem Tov, founder of the Chassidic movement, (whose name means Master of the Good Name), came to mind. It both haunted and reassured me. It was something I first learned while studying in the safety of the Yeshiva in Mo-Town. He insisted that everything a person sees or hears is a lesson prepared by Divine Providence. Somehow, we're meant to experience it – and to learn from it. Whenever I meditated on that tutelage from the Baal Shem Tov it always brought to mind that awesome line from the Beatles song, All You Need Is Love. It that contains the same notion: "There is nowhere you can be, that isn't where you were meant to be!" Each lesson, in fact each moment, is intended to improve a person's character and standing in life.
I sat down at my teacher's desk, chin in hands, mulling over my principal's words. "If you want to make a statement about your religion, wear the skullcap. No hats." Dr. D wasn't trying to intimidate me or put me in my spot. He was just being straight-up with me.
I interpreted this as a sign from Above that everything would be all right if I wore my yarmulka. I finally realized that the entire conflict existed solely inside my head, with no basis in reality. It was a personal dilemma I needed to confront and overcome.
Dr. D had appropriately challenged me to convince him that I was not afraid to wear my skullcap; even though, to the best of my knowledge, no other Jewish teacher in the entire Buffalo School System currently, or ever before, had done so. It was time to relish the opportunity of being perceived as a proud Jew! From that moment on, it became both an obligation and an honor to wear my yarmulka at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School, right there on High Street!
I removed my gray Kangol cap, stuffed it into my jacket pocket, and retrieved my real head covering, my yarmulka, from the desk drawer. At first it felt like a flashing neon light. But momentarily, I couldn't help but smile. It also felt like a helmet – and I felt a bit more ready for combat.