I drove half an hour across town this morning to take my older daughter to gan nitzan (kindergarten). Once we got there we sat down at a small round table next to her teacher, who was painting the kids’ hands with bright blue paint. They were making handprints as part of a Passover project.
“Come on Frieda, let’s do this together,” I said. “It’s about washing your hands before you eat the matzah.”
Her teacher looked up and said something about the worksheet and Frieda’s handprint. I looked at her and smiled; at this point I no longer feel uncomfortable with the Hebrew that is frequently spoken in the classroom and hallways at the day school were my daughter is a student. I picked up the paintbrush and started painting my daughter’s hand. I didn’t say much, because I don’t speak the language.
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