Blam! The paddle found its mark the second time. Now the kid was really crying and I was feeling mighty guilty. I really didn't expect this. I didn't know what to say to this student. Would he forgive me? Should he forgive me? Would he return to school with his big brothers for revenge? Maybe I should've just spoken to him in the hallway.

  Again, culture clash. It didn't matter what I thought. It was done. Dr. D. gave him a third paddle. The student was holding his backside with both hands and bawling.

  "Don't ever let me catch you talking with such disrespect," Dr. D. told him. "You hear?"

  He nodded, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Even though this type of punishment wasn't my style, I was impressed that Dr. D. was backing me. He wasn't going to let any student take advantage of me. I think he actually respected me for taking his advice, and not hide who I was.

  The student and I left the office together. I think I felt sorrier about the incident than the kid did. I wanted to express that fact to him until I realized that he'd probably view me as a total loser. He would believe I was backing down, and if I came across that way now, the whole event would've been wasted. It would've needed a repeat performance. I decided to get in the last word.

  "Look," I told him. "All the garbage your people have been putting up with for so long because of your skin color, you're throwing in my face now because of my religion."

  He looked the other way.

  "You've got a long way to go before you get back into my book," I said as he walked out the door.

  Strangely enough, I sensed he wouldn't come back for revenge; that he realized he had been wrong.

  At any rate, the word would get out now, for better or worse, that Mr. Laz was no pushover. I hoped it would be taken as a fact of life, and not as a challenge.

  9

  Oh You Oil

  I USE A LOT OF behavior modification/reward type programs in my teaching. When developed and utilized properly, they can be a tremendous catalyst for students with special needs. They place the focus on appropriate skills and behaviors.

  Every so often, an educator will complain that these kinds of activities defeat the purpose of true education. After all, they argue, learning should be rewarding in and of itself.

  My reply is simple. We work for rewards, why shouldn't they? How many of us would continue at our jobs if it weren't for some accolade, be it a paycheck or something else?

  Most behavior modification programs don't work because they're not designed properly. The types of rewards, or positive reinforcers, are often poorly thought out. I've seen junior high teachers who still give out M&Ms and Smiley Faces. The only candy bar that I could've gotten any mileage from would've been chocolate covered cocaine bars.

  I decided early-on to make the stakes as crazy and as exciting as possible. I'd start with end-of-the-week parties featuring popcorn and ice cream. How much they got depended on how many points they earned. Once a week, the two best kids in the class would go out to lunch or dinner with me. Once a month, the top three winners in the class would go to a professional sporting event of their choice, be it the Bills (football), Sabres (hockey), or Braves (basketball, although they're now defunct). We also held special class trips and overnights. Sure, it meant extra bucks out of my pocket, but it also meant that I didn't go home with a migraine every day.

  Basically, I gave points for good work effort and good behavior. In addition, they could earn points for walking quietly in the halls, using good sportsmanship in gym, sharing, working nicely with others, and coming to class on time.

  During my first couple of weeks at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School, I held daily, rather than weekly popcorn parties. We all needed an instant form of gratification. Like any good boy scout, I came prepared with my portable electric stove and pot. (Now, of course, it's the quick & easy microwave method. Back in the late 70's the microwave was new technology and it was often equated with nuclear reactors. We were sure that it would turn food into some fluorescent orange toxic mess).

  "Fellows," I said. "It's now 2:15 PM and that means popcorn time. The points you earned today will determine how much popcorn you get. But first, a lesson in kosher eating."

  Understandably, they look bewildered.

  "A lesson in what?" they asked.

  "I don't know if you noticed at lunchtime today, but I did not eat the school lunch. I only drank the juice. That's because, being an Orthodox Jew, I keep kosher. It means my eating habits are a bit different."

  I didn't want to get into a long-winded lecture about it; so instead, I picked up the bottle of Wesson oil.

  "Here, look closely," I said. "You see this O-U on the label, the circle with the U inside? It means that it's kosher. It means that Mr. Laz can eat this stuff. Got it?"

  They looked at me as if I was out of my mind.

  "You puttin' us on?" one student asked.

  "We're gonna take this from the top, okay?" I said. "Any packaged products, like cereal, cookies, spaghetti, whatever; even this here bottle of oil, have got to have this kind of sign, the O-U, for me to eat it. It means it's kosher. There are even more symbols that indicate a product is kosher to eat, but let's just focus on the good ol' O-U here, okay?"

  I drew the O-U on the board. I wasn't about to go into the other symbols, like O-K, or the triangle K, or the 16 gazillion other ones out there. Let this simple one sink in first.

  "All right," I said, more hopeful than confident. "Let's whip up some popcorn!"

  Instead of following me to the back of the room, they dashed off to their lockers. Great, I thought, they're cutting school because it's close to dismissal time. What a flippin' waste.

  As I ran out to reprimand them, they returned to the room with goodies in hand. They had gone to retrieve their leftover snacks.

  To my amazement, they bombarded me with questions.

  "Is this kosher?" one asked, holding out a cookie.

  "I don't see no O-U on this," another student said, pointing to his apple.

  "How about this, Mr. Laz?" one said, holding a Beef Jerky toward my face.

  "Let's discuss it over some popcorn," I said.

  I was laughing as made my way to the back of the room. It was going to be an interesting year.

  A few weeks later, we ran out of oil. I sent Leland to a small neighborhood store to get another bottle.

  "Remember," I said, giving him the money. "Kosher, O-U oil."

  Ten minutes later he returned, empty-handed.

  "What happened?"

  "They ain't got any of that oil," he said.

  "Oh, come on," I said. "Everybody carries this stuff. What did you say? What happened?"

  "They just ain't got it. The lady said she don't carry that kosher oil."

  "All right," I said somewhat impatiently. "She might not have the same brand we've been using. Just look for the O-U. Would you mind going back again?"

  Anything to get out of class. Ten minutes later he was back, empty-handed again. This time he spoke first.

  "That lady be getting mad now," he said. "She ain't got the O-U oil. She said she never did and never will."

  Something was fishy.

  "This time, Leland, I'm going with you," I said. "Terrence and Phil, you will be in charge. You give out the stars. Everyone's got to be in their seats and working quietly to get points. We'll be back in three minutes."

  The little neighborhood store was basically right outside the school. Before leaving, I asked the teacher next door to keep an eye on my class.

  "Come on, Leland. Let's check out this oil lady!"

  We got to the joint in approximately 30 seconds. It was a small store, loaded with all sorts of ethnic goodies, sights and smells mostly unfamiliar to me, although my eyes were drawn to a jar of pickled pigs' feet. Yuck, glad I keep kosher, I thought to myself. The counter was overloaded with candles, lighters, stockings and a million other doodads.

  At first, the woman looked irritated to see Leland, but she smiled pleasantly when she realized I was with him.

  "Ma'am, this is my teacher," Leland said apologetically. "He's the one I was buying that oil for."

  "Yes sir," she said to me. "Your student asked me if I had any O-U Oil. I told him we don't. I never even heard of that one. But I got other kinds if it'll suit you."

  I cracked up.

  "I'm sorry," I said, still laughing. "There's been a little misunderstanding. We'll take one of those bottles over there."

  I then showed them both that it wasn't a brand, called Oh You Oil, but oil with an O-U symbol on the label. Leland never made that mistake again. In fact, whenever we had to shop for a big class outing, Leland became a fierce label watcher. Once, he refused to bring back Planter's Peanuts because they only had a K on the package and not an O-U!

  10

  Taking Off for the Holidays

  RIGHT AFTER I WAS HIRED to teach at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School, I made the mistake of looking at the calendar. This blundering act let me to the uneasy conclusion that I could be fired within my first six weeks on the job. The Jewish holidays, you see, occurred surprisingly early that particular school year. Not only were they quickly approaching, but each would occur during the middle of the week. In other words, as an Orthodox Jew, I would need two days off for Rosh Hashanah, one day for Yom Kippur, two more days for the first days of Sukkos and finally, another two days for the last days of Sukkos! This amassed into a grand total of seven days. To make matters worse, the holidays spanned five consecutive weeks. I totaled it quickly in my cerebral cortex; seven missed days within the first 25 days of teaching. Not a good record!

  True, I had ten sick days and five personal days in my contract, but they were allotted for the entire school year – all one-hundred-eighty teaching days worth. Not a good way to begin my career. (If I were to maintain that pace, I would miss 75 days by the end of the year. Hmmm... now why couldn't there be even more Jewish holidays)? The closer we zeroed in on Rosh Hashanah, the more anxious I felt. I didn't know what to do. I called my rabbi. Maybe he'd find a way out for me.

  "Rabbi Gurary," I said after explaining my situation, "is there some way I could just walk to school on the days of Sukkos? You know, I won't drive, mark papers, or even take any money for teaching. I can give that pay to charity, or call the Board of Ed and tell 'em to keep the money for those days. I'll bet they never heard that line before. It's just that I'm really afraid I'll get fired."

  We discussed the situation and all of its ramifications. He was sympathetic, which surprised me, because I believed my question was actually out of line and would be answered with a resounding, "No, of course not!" (After all, who even comes up with such a stupid question)?

  "Look," he finally said to me, "call Rabbi Greenberg. See what he can advise you to do."

  Rabbi Greenberg was my other rabbinic authority in Buffalo, and a personal friend. I affectionately called him Rabbi Green Jeans.

  Moments later, I had him on the phone. I explained the scenario one more time.

  "Well, what do you think?" I asked.

  "Hmmm," he responded. "It's a problem, no doubt about it. It's a festival with all its attendant obligations, but then again, if you might lose your job...Call Rabbi Gurary!"

  Huh? I wasn't sure if I heard that right.

  "Uh, Rabbi," I said scratching my head. "I sort of just got off the phone with him. He told me to call you."

  He laughed.

  "I'm crying and you're laughing," I said. "Really, what should I do?"

  "Call my father in New Jersey."

  "Really?"

  His father was a well-known rabbinical scholar and world-wide authority on Jewish law. I actually attended some of his lectures during my studies at the Rabbinical College of America in "Mo-Town." He spoke like an English professor from Harvard. I was wholly impressed with his lectures, and deeply engrossed in jotting down words I had never before heard.

  I got him on the line and brought him up to snuff about my problem. Then I relayed what had transpired between his son and I. He brought up something which I hadn't considered: "There's a real difficulty, in that you will be setting a precedent," he said. "Suppose next year, or a few years from now, another Orthodox Jew teaches in the Buffalo school system."

  "Sounds unlikely, Rabbi," I interjected. "There are only two of us in the whole city! But, go ahead."

  "So, if this other teacher wants to take off for the holidays, they can say to him, 'Come on, we had this guy Lazerson; Orthodox, beard, tzitzis, kept kosher, the whole bit. He came in to work during the holidays. If it's good enough for him, it's good enough for you!'"

  "Yeah, you've got a point," I admitted. "I guess I'll have to take my chances, eh?"

  "Why don't you call Rabbi Osdoba? See what he says."

  "Really?"

  In all honesty, I thought my question was kind of ridiculous to begin with. We aren't supposed to engage in any secular pursuits on Jewish holidays. Holidays are a time for prayer, festivity, and family. (It also might be time to look for a new line of work).

  Rabbi Osdoba is a man of great stature and renown. People call him from all over the world to settle various legal questions. He is known as the "walking Shulchan Aruch," (a walking Code of Jewish Law). My silly question was making its way up the ranks. Next was the Rebbe and then, I guessed, God Almighty!

  I explained the scenario one more time, adding all the details from my discussions with previous rabbis. It was now T-minus three days until Rosh Hashanah and counting.

  He listened carefully to everything I said.

  "I'll discuss it with Rabbi Dvorkan. Call me after Rosh Hashanah. Good luck with your teaching!"

  "I'll need it," I said.

  Rabbi Dvorkan, of blessed memory, was the chief rabbinical authority for Lubavitch. My issue was being raised with the top man in our community.

  It wasn't until after Yom Kippur, however, that I received an answer from Rabbi Osdoba. The answer was no dice. No way could I spend the holiday of Sukkos at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School. It made sense. I was surprised it went as far as it did.

  My wife and I decided to implement plan two. This strategy involved one main factor: Pleading with Dr. D for understanding and mercy. Sukkos was only two days away. I didn't have much time to work with.

  That night I stayed up until 2:00 A.M. typing a long essay to the principal. I went into historical perspectives that explained the significance of Sukkos to the Jewish people. I explained the various customs Orthodox Jews observe when honoring their holidays. I wrote that during our holidays we don't conduct business, write, erase, make money, turn electricity on or off, ride in cars, and more. I expounded on the fact that we use these days to connect on a more spiritual level by performing various mitzvot and studying the Torah. Finally, I concluded my "sermon" with a statement saying that I didn't have to take off again until Passover, and that I didn't plan on getting sick or abusing my personal days. (And furthermore, that I would be an upstanding citizen, model teacher, and never ever misbehave).

  The next day, apologetic treatise in hand, I arrived early, prepared to face the music. I was fully aware that it might be my last day at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Community School.

  My supervisor, a middle-aged African-American woman, was standing by the mailbox.

  "Edie," I said. "Do me a favor and read this, okay?"

  "Sure," she said, looking up at me. "But why so glum today?"

  "It's all in here," I said, handing her my letter.

  She took my type-written pages and began reading. I stood watching her, waiting for any advice or suggestions.

  Suddenly, she began shaking her head from side to side, saying quietly, "Oh David, Oh David."

  It's that hopeless, I thought.

  She continued shaking her head as she read the entire letter. Each time she remarked, "Oh David, Oh David."

  I decided it was all over. I can just leave right now, I thought. Why even bother presenting all this just to be unceremoniously booted out the dang door?

  She folded the letter, put it in my hand, and shook her head again.

  Then she looked me in the eyes.

  "I can't believe this," she said.

  "I know," I said. "That bad, eh?"

  "What are you ashamed about? Tell him it's your holiday and you're taking off. Period. If he doesn't like it, too bad! Take a lesson from my people and stand up for your beliefs!"

  With that she shook her head again and left the office. I stood there dumfounded, numb all over, feeling like I'd been slapped in the face by someone trying to wake me from a bad dream. I also felt like a total jerk. Here I had invested all this time, effort, and psychological energy to get out of something that didn't need getting out of. Instead of a letter, Edie had handed me a mirror.

  I suddenly realized that I had nearly let myself down. Just like when I worried about wearing my yarmulke - the opportunity to walk proud in my heritage had been derailed to nothing but hype, a put-on. In reality, I was afraid of what my boss would say and whether or not he would accept me. I later thanked Edie for the lesson she taught me that day.

  I still went into Dr. D's office, letter in hand, but with a completely different attitude.

  "Doc," I said. "I know you're not going to believe this, but I've got another Jewish holiday that I won't be in for."

  When I finished my explanation, he asked if I had completed my lesson plans for the sub, and wished me a happy holiday. Then he muttered, loud enough for me to hear; "I gotta become Jewish."

  11

  My Escort

  OCCASIONALLY, ON BRAVER DAYS, I rode my bike to school. I figured that 7:30 A.M. was just too early in the morning for any decent troublemaker to be out, (although I was careful when riding past high school students – they were the worst; I'd put my head down and ride like the blazes.) I traveled with protection, however, some divine and some earthly. In my saddlebag I carried my Chitas, consisting of three holy books: the Chumash, (The five Books of Moses), Tehillim, (Psalms), and the Tanya, (the philosophical work of the first Chabad Rebbe). For good measure, I carried a six-inch piece of lead pipe and some spray mace in my pocket. Fortunately, the only thing that ever got any action was my Chitas. (And by the way, you gotta pronounce the "ch" here like the word "Yuch" and not the soft way like in the word "cheese." It comes more from the back of the throat. Both Jews and Arabs have this sound down pat).

 

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