The School After School: The Eleventh Step

Almost everybody I knew had a school after school. Usually it would meet for a couple hours a night a couple times during the week, and one day during the weekend for three or four more hours. For the Catholic kids it was Cathocism, for the Protestant kids it was Bible Study, and for the Jewish kids it was Hebrew School. Hebrew School was the place where you learned an ancient language with hieroglyphics that looked similar to the squiggles found atop a Hostess cupcake. Similar to English there is both a manuscript form found in books and a cursive form that is used in standard writing. Unlike English the words and sentences move from right to left. Now this seemed backwards to us, but we were told since Hebrew actually preceded English as a language it was actually the latter that was backwards. At any rate, we were charged with not only knowing our ABCs, but our Aleph Bet Gimmels as well. What you need to know about my Hebrew School was it was filled with West Siders. Yes, I lived on West Lancaster Avenue. Had I lived on East Lancaster Avenue I would have gone to some schmaltzy East Side Hebrew School, where kids were dropped off by parents who drove new Cadillacs. German cars were still considered in poor taste within 20 years of the Holocaust. On the West Side we were picked up and dropped off by a school bus. Unlike the stereotypical Jewish kid on the East Side most of our fathers were not doctors and lawyers. Few of us had stay-at-home mothers. Our fathers tended to be insurance salesmen, tavern owners, bakers, tailors, clothiers, aluminum siding salesmen, and junkyard owners more commonly referred to as recycling businesses today. Most mothers were secretaries, retail clerks, or sold Avon or Tupperware. As a teacher, Mr. Pais was pretty good. He generally overlooked a little whispering or not knowing where the class was when it was your turn to read. Even Roz, the brightest kid in class, was willing to pass a note despite knowing the consequences. My note had practically reached Chuck, its intended audience at the front of the room when Miss Goodie Two-Shoes, Feggie, blurts out that there’s a note being passed. Mr. Pais turns from the chalkboard he’s writing on and sees where she’s pointing. He has no choice, at least not if he plans to maintain something close to a reasonable sense of discipline; he has to send me to the principal’s office. Mr. Mendelssohn, who is best known for introducing the fil-ums on Sunday mornings, speaks sternly to me, but I doubt if I really heard anything as I stared at his lips. My punishment was to sit in the coatroom outside his office for fifteen minutes. On the ride home Chuck told me what I missed in class. Then he told me this dirty joke involving various anatomical parts which kids our age were supposed to pretend they knew nothing about and weren’t interested in knowing. I knew then that someday Chuck would be a prominent physician. Please offer a comment or your own story of the school you went to after school.