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Starting School
Ilana Kurshan
My son was five. Next year he’d start in school.
We took him one spring day to see the place:
The hallways, classrooms, schoolyard full of kids
Who played ball, hollered, gave each other chase.
My son, a quiet kid, looked ‘round wide-eyed,
As if surveying an uncharted land,
His skin was pale. He looked down at his feet,
And tightened his firm grip upon my hand.
That night, we asked our son, “What did you think?
How will it be to study there next year?”
“The backpacks,” said my son. “With tons of books!”
He’d need two hands to carry them, he feared.
“The kids, too, they are giants,” he exclaimed.
“They hardly even saw me, I’m so small.
They thought I was a grasshopper, for sure,
Compared to me, a grasshopper seems tall!”
“How will I go to school there?” asked my son.
“I know there’s lots to see and do and learn,
But will I find my way, and have a place?
My preschool class is fine. Can’t I return?”
And we, his parents, Joshua and Caleb
(We likened ourselves to those faithful spies.)
“We know you can!” we told our son. “Don’t worry,
Just try to see the new school through our eyes.”
“It’s going to be great! You’ll make new friends,
You’ll learn your way around. Those heavy tomes
Will be the books you love to read, you’ll see,
Though daunting now, that school will feel like home.”
My son’s fears, like the ten spies, tell one truth,
And we, the other two, are also right.
There’s no one way to see what lies before us,
And nothing is as clear as black and white.
It’s hard to conquer fear. We understand.
Stand tall. Walk bravely to the promised land.
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The Talmud teaches that the Torah was given in black fire on white fire (Y. Shekalim 6:1). The black fire is the letters of the Torah scroll, and the white fire is the parchment background. In this column, consisting of a poem on each parashah, I will try to illuminate the white fire of Torah – the midrashim, stories, and interpretations that carve out the negative space of the letters and give them shape.
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