Sheer panic. That was my first reaction when I saw my seminary schedule. Back in high school—oh so very long ago—my longest class was an hour. And that was endured with several lengthy “bathroom trips.” Now, my shortest class is a grand total of two hours, with the strong recommendation not to leave the class for any reason within the first hour, barring death (yours) or destruction (the world’s).
Now, before I go on, there’s something you should know about me: I follow the rules. I am that stereotypical goody-good whose parents instilled in me a healthy respect for authority. And yes, while I know that’s not the coolest thing in the world to admit to, it is the truth. So, when they told me not to leave the classroom, you can bet everything you have that I will stay in that classroom come hell or high water.
Seeing as this is seminary and not the King David Hotel, the high water came—in the form of a leaky air conditioning unit. Right above my head. Lovely, just lovely. After that came the hell, of the frozen-over variety: the Beit Midrash was a freezer. Two cardigans and one sweater later—borrowed from an Israeli who was distracted by the chattering of my teeth—and I was sufficiently warmed up to actually attempt to learn.
Observant readers may have noticed the key word in that last sentence: “attempt to learn.” I used to think I had a pretty good attention span. After all, I would only go to the bathroom once a class, as opposed to the majority of my peers who went a minimum of three times. After two hours in the Beit Midrash staring at a gemara that refused to make sense, I began to reevaluate my perception of my abilities. That attention span I was so proud of? A lie. A comforting lie, but a lie nonetheless. As for that learning I was attempting, well, that wasn’t really happening. There was only one thought (not the hundreds my gemara teacher had promised) running through my head: How the hell am I supposed to do this for a whole year?
The answer is, I’m not. At least, not in the way I thought I would. I’m not going to be that girl who falls asleep using my gemara as a pillow, exhausted from a full day of passionately arguing over a masechet with my chevruta and trying to navigate the staircases in my floor-length skirt. For better or for worse, that simply isn’t me. And, thank the Lord, it doesn’t have to be. As long as I learn to the best of my (newly reevaluated) abilities, I’m accomplishing one of my goals for the year. (The goal other being to go on Ben Yehuda and not see a single person I know. I don’t know if this goal is possible. I will keep you posted.) I don’t need to be that perfect learner. I’m simply not there yet. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get there. So be it. I may not be the best learner, but I’m learning something. I already learned something really important: The next time I go to the Beit Midrash, I will be wearing my Canadian winter coat.
And no, I’m not giving back the Israeli’s sweater.
Arielle Wasserman is currently studying at Midreshet Lindenbaum, one of Masa Israel’s 200 programs.
