Often in life there are moments when reality, in whatever form, strikes. What follows that strike may be a eureka moment, perhaps in the bathtub, with light bulb over head (please beware of possible electric shock), or it may leave you stricken and bleeding on the ground. Either way life will not look quite the same again after reality lifts the curtain of ignorance, or innocence, and there's no turning back. Unless delusion is your preferred route, which for many is quite often the case.
I bring up this fact of striking reality because of an interesting memory that came back to me today, from over 15 years ago. Why it popped up today I haven't the foggiest clue, but it made me smile, and it seemed timely, so I figured I'd blog it.
15 years ago I was in the 7th grade, at the venerable East Valley Middle School. My first three periods of class were taken up with Mrs. Jacobsen, a petite, thin woman with sharp angular features, very dark brown curly hair, and a unique, engaging, and effective teaching style. For example, if you insulted someone there was a teddy bear at the front of the class, you had to go up to it, hug it, and apologize to the bear, while the entire class watched raptly, giggling. At the age of 13, NO ONE wants to be subjected to that kind of humiliation, and after the first person had to do it (my friend Kyle, I remember it like it was yesterday) no one ever threw another insult the rest of the year.
Social Studies was one of our periods with Mrs. Jacobsen, and it was obvious that was her favorite subject. She was well traveled and obviously interested in the world and its people, in all their various shapes, colors, and creeds. She told us stories, all of us 12-13 years old, about the bus drivers in Russia who kept their giant bottles of Vodka behind their seats, close at hand to take a swig at every stop. They were completely drunk, 24/7, and happily behind the wheel of a large city bus full of people. She told it to us like it was, our young ages be damned, because it seemed she thought the truth was more important than our innocence, and to this day I respect her deeply for that.
The memory that came back to me today revolved around a project we were given on Middle East politics. A chunk of the class, about 10 people, was divided into two groups, the Israelis and the Palestinians. We were then sent to the library to look up information about the two groups, we were only given the hint that there was some sort of conflict between them. We were supposed to put on a mock diplomatic meeting a few days later, where the two groups would discuss options and perhaps even a solution to the conflict.
We of course knew nothing about the Middle East, the Israelis or the Palestinians, let alone about any particulars of some conflict that was going on, or how it could or could not be resolved. We looked up information in books, but it was a middle school library, all warm and fuzzy information, about global location, happy cultural traits and fabulously innocuous anecdotes. No young mind could be warped and twisted by evil truth and honesty. We gathered our information, gleaning the fact that the conflict revolved around both sides wanting control of the land in the area, with specific desire given to Jerusalem. To our 13 year old innocent minds the solution was profoundly simple; give half of it to the Israelis, half to the Palestinians. This would include dividing Jerusalem in half, not unlike dividing a cookie in half to give to your friend at lunch. It was flawless; a perfect solution to this little conflict, each side deeply satisfied with their half of the yummy cookie that was their country, munching away contentedly.
We presented our idea, complete with a map of the place split right in half, with smiles, hand shakes and diplomacy the likes the world as never seen. But someone was not content. By a few minutes into the presentation it was obvious Mrs. Jacobsen was not pleased, her jaw was about to hit the desk and she could barely contain herself until we finished (which I don't think we did, I believe she finally had had it and stopped us before we finished). She was appalled. She accused us of not finding any information about the subject. We were supposed to dress up to play our parts, and we all came in wearing jackets and ties, and this she said was obvious proof that we had not studied for this at all. We countered saying we looked up everything we could find in the library, and even showed her the book that said Palestinians dress much like Western people do, with jackets and ties. They are just like us! the book said. She told us to go home, ask our parents about the situation, and come back tomorrow with a new presentation.
So we did. And of course reality, in all its splendor, head dresses and improvised bombs descended upon us. The next day we arrived, the Israelis in jackets and ties (and one Yakima even), and the Palestinians in sheets and makeshift head scarves. I was the lead Palestinian, and I quickly lit into the Israelis for stealing our land, called them various names such as pig dogs, did it all in a terrible accent, and finished off with a rousing "Death to the infidels!!" to boot. The Israelis responded that they would sooner die than give an inch of ground to the Palestinians, and the entire thing descended into a near mock fist fight, all of us having the time of our lives. Mrs. Jacobsen was quite trilled.
Our profoundly political (in)correct performance was a wild success, we all got A's, disturbing though the entire thing seems now. We then had an in-depth discussion of the issues after the presentation, and by the end everyone in the class was clear as to why our first presentation had been so off base.
Now with the weight of 15 years behind me, I look back at that experience and am amazed at it all. We believed so easily and assuredly that our first solution was perfect, and we had no idea why those silly Israelis and Palestinians hadn't just split the entire thing long ago. We were so innocent and naive, and it was beautiful. Reality struck us though, the light bulb lit, and we were all quite shocked.
The final thought I had today, before I smiled to myself nostalgically and moved on, was a simple one; if only no one, Israeli, Palestinian, or otherwise, raised their children to know the reality of the terrible situation over there, that a religious blood feud of vast irrational proportions had raged for years, there would be no terrible situation left. Young people don't care about such things. We were happy to all work together, us play-acting Jews and Muslims, to share our cookies happily and equally. We had no desire to fight; we didn't see the point in it.
Today I understand the reality of the situation more deeply, as we all sadly do, but I frankly still don't see the point.
