Every time I passed the Jewish school that had refused to take me in as a student, my heart would flutter
Public school in London was far more awful than I’d expected. I’d been out of school for so long and had so been looking forward to learning again, but the girls in my class didn’t seem interested in learning in the least.
More than I hated the pranks, I abhorred the girls’ language. I had learned enough English by the time that I started school to know that my fellow classmates were speaking a dialect rife with slang and inappropriate words. Almost every other word of theirs was unrepeatable.
“Blessed are You Hashem Who has not made me a gentile.” I didn’t know the brachah at that point in time, but I intuited it anyway. And every time I passed the Jewish school that had refused to take me in as a student, my heart would flutter.
If only the headmaster would have accepted me, I’d think. I’d be the best student in the class. I’d get all As. I’d do extra homework and extra anything.
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