Hebrew School

I never attended Hebrew School, but my oldest brother, Darrell, did. At an early age, Darrell connected with Judaism because it, he has told me, brought him a sense of peace. He enjoyed hearing the stories his teacher would tell and was making friends with children in his class. He loved to go to attend classes at the school and it was the first time I remember being both envious and jealous of my brother.

We went with Darrell whenever he had class and had to wait in the lobby. The school was in its infancy at the time, associated with a new synagogue, so classes were held at a store in a strip mall. I was always very curious about what went on, but was never able to sit with him during a session.

One afternoon when I was four years old, I got my wish. I had to use the bathroom and my mother let me go by myself. She was reading an article in a magazine and the bathroom was just down the hall. After I finished, I could not get my pants snapped. No one was there to help me, so I opened the bathroom door with one hand and held my pants up with the other. I walked out to the lobby so my mother could straighten me out, but she was not there when I returned. I panicked. The only other room I knew in the school was the classroom where my brother went each week. I quickly ran toward his door, hands in the air, pants at my ankles, opened it and shouted, “I need my mommy…I need my mommy…my pants are down…my pants are down…”
This was my first—and only—experience with Hebrew School. The dues the synagogue suggested families pay were being increased. My father complained that he did not have to pay to pray and that he could teach his children what it meant to be Jewish. My brother was devastated and I was sad because I would never be able to see what it was really all about.