Amiram Hayardeny’s BigMouth

He’s the kind of guy who’s stubborn and soft at the same time.  He would give you an exhausting argument about some really unimportant issue, but come for a hug a minute later.  He would hide from you and make sure you find him.  This guy is clever, meticulous, and focused.  When this guy has a project to complete, he doesn’t take his eyes off of it.  He sticks his tongue out, like his paternal grandmother while he’s concentrating on some unfinished task.  He is a perfectionist, yet a free spirit.  He writes with both hands, but refuses to eat with a fork and knife.  Or chopsticks for that matter.  This guy has a definite preference for eating with his hands.  He dresses on his own, but will only wear well coordinated colors.  Only recently, this guy agreed to give up his pacifier.

This guy melts me with a smile and with those big gray eyes of his.  When those big tears show up in those big eyes, all I want to do is to take the pain away.

This guy speaks three languages, Hebrew, English and Chinese, at different levels of fluency.  He’s multilingual all the way.  He loves candy, ice cream, and salami, and he mixes his mashed potatoes with rice and ketchup.  If he finds anything that resembles a vegetable is his food, that’s the end of it.  This guy would insist on ordering fried chicken and fries, but would only eat the chicken.  He doesn’t like to share his belongings with anyone else, but completely supports sharing of others’ belongings with himself…

He plays the XBox, and falls asleep in the living room.  He loves Sponge Bob, Looney Toons, Tom and Jerry, and believe it or not - Mr. Bean.  This guy has a personality, a sense of humor, he’s a character.  He has his own computer, and Blue’s Clues is his favorite game.

This guy isn’t just a guy.  It’s my kind of guy.  He’s my favorite guy in the whole wide world.  He’s My Guy.

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For almost forty years I never missed an opportunity to bash teachers.  I always believed that I accomplished what I have despite the teachers I’ve had, and not thanks to them.  I often propose that at the age of six I was tried, convicted and sentenced to twelve years of hard labor without the possibility of parole.  My school years were depressing, without inspiration, aspiration or hope.  I clearly remember the last day of school.  It’s been thirty years, and I haven’t looked back yet.  I don’t go to reunions, I don’t want to hug and kiss with the warden or the correction officers.  Did I just say that?  I meant the principal and the teachers of course.  Forgive me.

Only in college I discovered the joy of pure learning, the satisfaction in understanding abstract concepts, the accomplishment in solving a hard problem, expressing a complex algorithm, I became a scholar.  I learned to respect education and educators.

Almost thirty years later I’m ready to state that the generalization is wrong (dah, of course it is…).  I was subjected to the worst bunch of teachers on the planet.  As if they were carefully selected for some freak show.  I’m ready to say that there are other teachers.  Caring, giving, understanding.  Teachers who listen to children, respect them, even love them.

Shiri’s teacher, Miss Ruth is that kind of teacher.  I never attended her class.  Nonetheless, she taught me a whole lot.  Seeing Shiri’s reaction to her made me understand many things about students, teachers, parents and education.  Students will learn out of fearing their teachers, parents and bad consequences.  They will learn better if they respect their teachers, and have the understanding that their parents really want what’s best for them.  They will excel if they love their teachers, identify with them, see them as role models.  Shiri is a curious child, who loves to question everything, who needs to understand the details as well as the big picture.  In grade school, she had found the joy of studying that I only discovered in my twenties.  I attribute that to Miss Ruth.

Today, as the school year concludes, I want to thank Miss Ruth.  Again.  I want to thank her for taking part in the painstaking job of raising Shiri to be the young lady that she is.  But in fact, I thank her for much more than that.  I thank her re-introducing me to the education system.  To teachers who care, to teachers who love.  To teachers who can truly say: this grown-up was my student, and be able to say it with pride, knowing that they really had part in shaping his or her personality.

Shiri wanted to express her gratitude to Miss Ruth.  She was really at it for a while, until she had found the following poem, By Joanna Fuchs.

Dear miss Ruth

Teacher for All Seasons

A teacher is like Spring,
Who nurtures new green sprouts,
Encourages and leads them,
Whenever they have doubts.

A teacher is like Summer,
Whose sunny temperament
Makes studying a pleasure,
Preventing discontent.

A teacher is like Fall,
With methods crisp and clear,
Lessons of bright colors
And a happy atmosphere.

A teacher is like Winter,
While it’s snowing hard outside,
Keeping students comfortable,
As a warm and helpful guide.

Miss Ruth, you do all these things,
With a pleasant attitude;
You’re a teacher for all seasons,
And you have my gratitude!

You are the best Teacher in the whole world.  Wherever I may go in my life, I will always remember you.

Shiri  Hayardeny

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Here’s a dilemma: you have a five year old, you’re going on a trip and you wonder: to stroller or not to stroller. If you decide to go with the stroller, you risk schlepping around with some extra weight, struggling to fold the damn thing at the most critical moments of the day (I swear, the thing knows when when not to fold). In addition, you risk people making fun of your kid, and of you, for being taken for a ride. Literally. The alternative isn’t better at all. Guy will just stop sometime during the day, and guess what - my shoulders are a pretty comfortable chair. It’s only unfortunate that I don’t have enough hair to provide something to hold on to, but my ears actually provide reasonable handles.

A few months ago, before a trip to Thailand we had a similar dilemma, we chose to go with a stroller. But to avoid an unnecessary waste of money, we decided on the cheapest looking stroller in the store. The store attendant was shocked. The stroller was apparently on display for years, only to show young parents what stroller not to buy.

To make a long story short, on the first day in Bangkok, at the Old Palace, the stroller caved in. Guy disappeared in the wreckage and we had to get him out. We looked around, and when we thought nobody was looking, we left the collection of fabric and scrap metal near a relatively remote garbage can. The stroller survived the trip, but didn’t make the first day in Bangkok. R.I.P.

This time, for our trip to Hong Kong, we had the same dilemma. The stroller strategy won again, but this time, we went to the same store, and asked for the absolute best stroller. The attendant was contemplating whether or not to call Child Services, but the prospect of making a big sale convinced him not to. We took a brand new, Ferrari red, ship shape, spic n’ span stroller. A Rolls Royce. The mother of all strollers. We were happy. Sudden relaxation went through my shoulders.

Of course it didn’t fit in the trunk, and of course we had to check it in at the oversized luggage counter. But throughout all these small problems, we knew: Guy will not spend the day on his father’s tired and old shoulders. Or so we wished.

We picked up the stroller at the Hong Kong International Airport. Guy jumped in, and promptly disappeared within. A few minutes later, we realized, the Master Stroller caved in exactly like the old one. The thing never made it out of the arrival hall at the airport, we dumped it near carousel number 2.

If you are a world traveler, and you happen by an abandoned stroller, orphaned, standing alone in some corner, wondering why, you would know: the Hayardenys were here…

We are now considering artificial shoulders as an alternative.

Guy, by the way, was not unhappy with the results. He mentioned though, that when we get back to Beijing, he would want a new stroller. “No comment” was my answer.

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My wife has strict instructions not to forward email to me that has to do with religion, God, anything that has to do with missionary work of whatever religion. When I saw this in my mailbox, I was somewhat upset. It had all characteristics of cheap religious propaganda. But, since my wife did send it after all, I read it to the end. And then I thanked her for sending it. It touched me. It may you too… It has nothing to do with religion, it has everything to do with special children, with sensitive children. And adults as well…

Originally in Hebrew, here’s my own translation, the best I could come up with.  It didn’t have credits. I looked it up, and found none on the web either. If it’s yours, just say so and I’d be happy to add the credits. Thank you for touching…

Here it is:

I’ve been stuttering since I was four. When I was a child I stuttered a lot, to the point of losing the ability to speak at times. Besides this impediment, I was a very active kid, I had many friends, I was an excellent athlete, and a good student too. In short, I was quite a happy child. Yet, in every fight, every time someone wanted to hurt me bad, they always used the obvious: stuttering was always there for everyone to see. It always worked. Every single time.

One day, when I was six, I came home crying. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just kept crying. In the evening, my Dad came from work, my mother told him that I wouldn’t talk to anyone, and that I was crying hard since I came back from school. My father came into my room and asked me what happened. I didn’t answer. He asked again. I didn’t answer again. Finally I told him that I hated God. I think he took it pretty hard…

In the morning, my father woke me up with a story:

Up in the sky, he said, there’s a huge baby factory. All the angels work around the clock, manufacturing babies for the entire world. The pressure is enormous to meet the deadlines. They receive orders from China, Japan, America, Europe and Africa. even Australia.

There’s a lot of work, and little time, and everything must be precise. The angels have special recipes for the creation of all kinds of children. There’s brain material, beauty material, height material. There are raw materials for good traits, and raw materials for bad traits. Everything is precise. There are huge machines, the size of an entire room…

The angels work hard every day. Dawn to dusk. No breaks almost. Taking turns sleeping, and eating while standing up. All week long.

And then, on Friday, just before noon, a gentle bell rings. The angels turn the machines off, they turn off the lights at the factory, and they start getting ready for the Sabbath.

Every angel takes a hot shower, and then they all take a a nap. Just before the Friday night meal, the angels put on special wings, a glowing halo, and white robes. God prepares the meal, it is filling and tasty as it is beautiful. The angels tell stories, God does too. Everybody is busy singing and dancing. Then everyone clams down and they all go to sleep. After all, they are tired from a full week of hard work. In the morning, they sleep in…

God, though, isn’t sleeping. God doesn’t work on the Sabbath. He doesn’t make rain or shine, peace or war. He doesn’t make decisions or calls meetings. Everything is automatic. He’s bored…

So God sneaks out, when nobody looks, to the baby factory. He collects leftover raw materials from the angels’ workbenches, walks over to a corner, and prepares a child. On his own. And when God does something, he does it the best possible way. No recipe, no plan, but wholeheartedly. So he puts in more brains, more beauty, more personality. He only puts in good traits. But then, God realizes, that he has created a child too perfect. And he realizes that he can’t send a too perfect child into the world. Everyone would know right away that he’s been made by God.

So he creates a small imperfection. Unimportant, negligible… One of the children is a little short, the other is has a slight limp. One is cross eyed, and the other, well is stuttering.

Those kids are called the Children of the Sabbath. And you Michael, my father said, you are one of them…

Every time you see a child with a slight limp, a little cross eyed, a little short, or fat, or stuttering - don’t laugh, he may be a Child of the Sabbath. He may have been created by God Himself…

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