School Play, Minor Characters

“Obviously not, because a few minutes later, another girl from my daughter’s class arrived for her interview, scheduled for the same time. This girl was the oldest of twelve children, and this school was her first choice. Her mother had hired a babysitter to attend the interview; and both the time and money was tight for this family.

“After combined banging on the door, a janitor shuffled to the entrance and peered at us in confusion. ‘Nobody is here anymore,’ he said. We begged him to check again, explaining how we had driven from far and we were given specific instructions that this was our interview time. He reluctantly opened the door for us and said we may find some people still left somewhere on the second floor. We climbed up and saw an office light still on. We knocked on that door, and the assistant principal opened it. She looked at us blankly, while we explained that we were scheduled for interviews.

“There were no effusive apologies for their negligence in remembering, there was no explanation, there was no offer of hot coffee or a place to put our coats. Instead, the assistant principal called out to the other room, from where her sister emerged. The Mehaneles of the school is the assistant principal’s older sister. She had left to Florida, according to the assistant principal, and left her assistant principal in charge of these interviews; who had called in another sister, a teacher in another school, to help with interviews.”

The mother stopped her narrative and said, “I realized afterwards that this school never had any intention of accepting any girls from the school my daughter attended. Not one girl from her grade of over sixty girls was accepted. So, it didn’t matter to them if we came or not, if the Menaheles was there or not to do the actual interviews. It was a perfect time for her to go on her vacation to Florida.”

The mother emitted not one ounce of bitterness; she simply matter-of-factly related her story.

“The assistant principal divided us, and instructed one of us to come with her, the other to go with her sister; and then we would switch.

“The assistant principal rummaged in her desk for some paper to write on, pretending she was taking out some official paper, but it was some scrap that had other writing scribbled on the back of it.”

At this point, the teenage daughter began laughing. “This is how the interview went,” the teen said. “She asked me, ‘What is your name?’ and I answered her. Then she asked me, ‘What school do you go to?’ and I answered her that too. And then she asked me one last question. ‘What is your favorite subject?’ And I told her.”

The mother took up the last thread of the story.

“That was it,” she said. “Three questions for my daughter who has come out nine o’clock for an interview, on this cold and horrible night. But I shrugged my shoulders and switched to the sister sitting in the next room.”

“Ma,” said her daughter, “let me tell the next part!” And they both shared a laugh.

“The sister took out a scrap paper from her desk,” the teenager said, amused, “and asked me, ‘What is your name?’ and I answered her. Then she asked me, ‘What school do you go to?’ and I answered her that too. And then she asked me one last question. ‘What is your favorite subject?’ And I told her.”

“And the interview was over,” the mother said. “A scripted dialogue for a character in their play. My daughter played the minor role.”

I sat there floored, listening to this narrative of utter disregard for a mother, for a child.

“Before I left,” the mother said, suddenly sober and angry, “I turned around from the door and said, ‘My daughter blow-dried her hair for this interview. Even if you never thought she had a chance to be accepted in this school, the least you could have done is pretended’.”

A member of my husband’s shul described his anger at a specific man from Eretz Yisroel who approached him every year numerous times to collect money for wedding and holiday expenses. This man used to be his maggid shiur, and when he had been a bachur struggling with various familial and learning issues, this maggid shiur had made his life a living gehinom.  This maggid shiur was known for his terrible behavior and was eventually ousted from his position to one that had less opportunity for harm. But for the students who had once suffered his cruelty, it was too late. Now this former student was a wealthy and upstanding member of the community, and while not ignoring his maggid shiur’s request, he gave him money resentfully and far less than he could afford to give.

Another drama, another set of characters playing out their lives in real time.

“Tell him,” my husband urged him. “Don’t hold the grudge for so long.”

He did.

And the maggid shiur not only requested forgiveness from his former student, but then posted a full-page ad in the community newspaper asking mechilah, forgiveness, from any bachur he may have wronged in those years.

There is always hope for change.

And maybe this article will elicit change from the Menaheles of that school that had its doors shut and lights closed that wintry night when two mothers and two daughters came for an interview that was a sham.

Because sometimes, minor characters steal the show. And sometimes, the script can change.

Originally published in Binah Magazine