Jokes are funny because they contain elements of truth. Below, an e-mail (forward) I received this morning:
Last week I purchased a burger at Burger King for $1.58. The counter girl took my $2 and I was digging for my change when I pulled 8 cents from my pocket and gave it to her. She stood there, holding the nickel and 3 pennies, while looking at the screen on her register. I sensed her discomfort and told her to just give me two quarters, but she hailed the manager for help. When he tried to explain the transaction to her, she stood there and cried.
Why do I tell you this? Because of the evolution in teaching math since the 1950s:
1. Teaching Math In 1950s:
A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100.
His cost of production is 4/5 of the price.
What is his profit?
2. Teaching Math In 1960s:
A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100.
His cost of production is 4/5 of the price, or $80.
What is his profit?
3. Teaching Math In 1970s:
A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100.
His cost of production is $80.
Did he make a profit?
4. Teaching Math In 1980s:
A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100.
His cost of production is $80 and, therefore, his profit is $20.
Your assignment: Underline the number 20.
5. Teaching Math In 1990s:
A logger cuts down a beautiful forest because he is selfish and inconsiderate and cares nothing for the habitat of animals or the preservation of our woodlands. He does this so he can make a profit of $20. What do you think of this way of making a living? Topic for class participation after answering the question: How did the birds and squirrels feel as the logger was cutting down their homes? (Note: There are no wrong answers.)
6. Teaching Math In 2006:
Un hachero vende una carretada de maderapara $100.
El costo de la producciones es $80.
Es verdad.
Muchas gracias
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
September 11th
Friends from abroad asked me yesterday, "How are things in New York today? Are you okay?" How were things in New York yesterday? About as one might imagine on the five-year anniversary of the sudden massacre of thousands of innocents within our midst; about as one might imagine, knowing that our television broadcasts, newspapers, magazines, and online news sources ceaselessly inundated us with reminders ranging from the tragic to the infuriating to the ridiculous; about as one might imagine, when ceremonies commemorating the heros of that fateful day are used as merely a backdrop for political manoeuvering and angry protests; about as one might imagine, knowing that we are no safer now than we were then.
An acquaintance of mine seemed not his usual self today. He told me that he had spent yesterday evening watching CNN, and that he was sad and depressed. When I asked what about it, specifically, he was having such a hard time with, his answer surprised me. "I just still can't believe something like that could happen. I can't believe that there are evil people in the world who would do something that horrible." Now, judging as best I can, I believe that I can safely assume that this isn't a man who has lived a particularly sheltered existence, by any measure. Yet, he still finds himself in a state of utter disbelief as to the events of five years ago. I wanted to tell him, "Of course it can happen; it's been happening nearly every day, somewhere in the world, for decades. It's not over. This wasn't a one-time event. There really are people out there who are so sick that they will gladly sacrifice their own lives to murder as many innocent people as they can. There are a lot of them. So find a way to wrap your mind around it, buddy, because you can't fight back if you're too stunned to move." But his eyes were so full of pain, his air so confused and desolate. All I could do was smile sympathetically and instruct him to turn off CNN. "It does no good to dwell on upsetting images; get some sleep tonight."
An acquaintance of mine seemed not his usual self today. He told me that he had spent yesterday evening watching CNN, and that he was sad and depressed. When I asked what about it, specifically, he was having such a hard time with, his answer surprised me. "I just still can't believe something like that could happen. I can't believe that there are evil people in the world who would do something that horrible." Now, judging as best I can, I believe that I can safely assume that this isn't a man who has lived a particularly sheltered existence, by any measure. Yet, he still finds himself in a state of utter disbelief as to the events of five years ago. I wanted to tell him, "Of course it can happen; it's been happening nearly every day, somewhere in the world, for decades. It's not over. This wasn't a one-time event. There really are people out there who are so sick that they will gladly sacrifice their own lives to murder as many innocent people as they can. There are a lot of them. So find a way to wrap your mind around it, buddy, because you can't fight back if you're too stunned to move." But his eyes were so full of pain, his air so confused and desolate. All I could do was smile sympathetically and instruct him to turn off CNN. "It does no good to dwell on upsetting images; get some sleep tonight."
Thursday, September 07, 2006
For the Grandmas and the Trees
The following was written by Livnot U'Lehibanot's Educator Extraordinaire, Michael Even-Esh, who recently returned from reserve duty in Lebanon. Michael's stories of people and times past never fail to stir emotion and introspection; his stories of times present evoke stronger reactions still.
For the Grandmas and the Trees
The cellphone rang at 2:35 am. "Shalom Michael. This is a computerized emergency telephone call-up from your unit. If this is indeed you, press 1." Am I really me? This is an existential question I've been grappling with for years, but I figured this wasn't the time for philosophizing; I pressed 1. "Shalom Michael. Enter your IDF serial number, followed by the pound sign." I did. "Michael. Be at your prearranged pickup site tomorrow morning at 9am; from there you will proceed to your base for equipment and instructions. If you received this message, press 1." I pressed 1, but in my mind I finally understood why they asked me if I'm really me: if you don't know who you really are, you probably shouldn't be holding a gun in the first place.
The next morning I wore green and made it to the pickup site, and soon found myself near a school in Tiberias, waiting for the ride that would take me to my base. As the air-raid sirens went off, the local folks (the staff of the school was there, too) said "here we go again" and "at least we had a couple days of quiet," and we (at first, I was the only soldier present) hurried into the nearby bomb shelter. I knew that our Livnot friends in Tzfat had been doing this regularly, but I personally had never done it before. Within seconds, explosions could be heard nearby. Some folks shrugged, some were quiet, some were close to panic. Cellphones were pulled out and soon everybody knew what was hit and where. The Tiberias Jewish Intelligence Network was running smoothly.
This same scene took place 3 more times, and finally the driver, another soldier and I left the building to get into the car and drive to the base; how long can one wait? Ah, what service -- a ride to the gate of my base! As we reached the car, the sirens went off again, and the three of us scurried off for cover. An elderly woman, perhaps in her mid-seventies, came out of nowhere to look for safety, and I motioned for her to come join me. "There are gas containers on the other side of this building, so let's stay here." Her eyes were open very wide and at first it seemed as if she wanted to talk but simply couldn't. Then, right before we heard the nearby landings a minute later, she told me in near-panic that she left her grandchildren with the babysitter and had to get back "as soon as possible." I talked to her and calmed her and when all was clear, we parted as if we were old friends. "You go get them," she said to me, putting one hand on my shoulder and pointing north with the other. "This cannot continue. We cannot let this happen again. You go get them." The image of this frail elderly woman from Tiberias, and her plea, would be like a compass to me in the weeks to come
Over 200 rockets rained down that day on northern Israel. Until now I'd heard about such scenes, but after seeing it with my own eyes, it just drove home the point that somebody's gotta go in there and stop those murderers. And if the air force can't do it without hurting innocent civilians, then it's up to ground forces to get in there and discern between good and evil.
In a huge hangar in our army base, a grand reunion was taking place; our unit was reassembling. Back- slapping, hugs and even kisses were being exchanged by the hundreds. And after I gave and received some of my own, I took a step back and looked at the entire scene with an internal fish-eye lens; we were a motley, diverse, cross-section of Israeli society. The officers, who had been called up two days earlier, told us the plan: two days of training, and then entering eastern Lebanon on foot to clear out rocket launchers that have been raining missiles.
"This will not be a classic battle. We will essentially be going in to hide in strategic spots, hunt for launchers and terrorists with special equipment, and then coming out after two or three days. Beware: because we'll be hiding, and because transportation is too dangerous due to anti-tank missiles, do not expect outside assistance! We'll have to be totally self-sufficient. All the food and water and equipment that will be used, we'll have to take with us on our backs. And if you get injured, you should all know that it's possible that you'll have to wait until nightfall before you can get evacuated, even by helicopter."
After lunch, the unit's rabbi made an announcement. "After consulting with the chief halachic rabbinic authorities, we have been exempted from fasting tonight and tomorrow for Tisha B'Av. Anything that concerns saving lives is tantamount; nobody is allowed to be weak and frail. But don't forget the significance of the day." We then focused on equipment, guns, food and water. Meanwhile, some grabbed catnaps, some called home, some mulled around, some stared out into space, but most had conversations with friends. There's a special glue here that binds us all. Like an unspoken covenant.
Meanwhile, our entrance into Lebanon has been delayed until Saturday night. We spent time training and talking -- and bonding. It was a most strange Tisha B'Av, eating and drinking. But the meaning of the timing was not lost on many. Baseless love to combat baseless hatred; unity instead of division; building and not destroying
If the fast day on Thursday wasn't a fast day, then Shabbat on Saturday wasn't really a Shabbat. Last-minute preparations were the order of the day. This was our last chance to fix equipment, camouflage it, make it comfortable, make final preparations. We practiced a lot, we drove to an area where the foliage and the scenery and the landscape were very similar to Lebanon, and we acted out various scenarios. A surprise ambush; a minefield; a booby-trapped house; evacuating wounded; officers getting hurt and others taking charge; soldiers getting lost; anti-kidnapping measures.
No less important was the shlepping. After putting on a flak jacket and an ammunition pack, we had to shlep equipment. The army actually went out with cash to camping stores and bought hundreds of king-size backpacks; some folks brought their own trusty backpacks from home. Friday night we packed everything into these big backpacks -- ammunition, equipment, clothes, food, lots of water, personal items -- and went for a trial march. The packs were incredibly heavy. I don't think I've carried anything so heavy since I was in the regular army in the early 1980's. People were groaning from the weight; it was hard to breathe, harder to run and extremely hard to stand up after kneeling during waits.
And after everybody knew what hurt and what wasn't right, we went back and fixed it all in our tents. Inserting padding here, moving bottles there, repacking, taping this and tying that, finding kneepads or making them from scratch, and of course camouflaging everything so we would be virtually invisible. Remembering a few incidents in the previous war in Lebanon in 1982, I added a few items to my pack: toilet paper, 12 energy bars, smoke grenades, and lots of water. The only Shabbat-like things that happened were quick Shabbat-like meals (with military chulent, if you can believe that), and Kabbalat Shabbat. Friday night as the sun was setting, it was as if everybody came out of their little green rabbit hole to pray. Believers and atheists, men and women, officers and soldiers, black and white, head-covered and bare-headed. We sang, we danced, we prayed. A huge circle was formed. The mood was not joyous, but hopeful. Not celebratory, but spiritual. How else can one prepare for a war? Sing, dance, pray, hope
Saturday afternoon the busses came and took us north. As the sun was setting we came towards Kiryat Shmonah, almost a ghost town. Company commanders gave last orders. We had a huge Havdallah ceremony. Soldiers got in circles according to their companies, smelled the scents and saw the fire and drank the wine. Everybody sang: "Kol Haolam Kulo Gesher Tzar Meod. . . The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge, and the main thing to recall is to have no fear at all." It was a very moving moment. So Jewish.
We got on the buses again, and went up the mountain to the border. We all noticed a terrible smell: a burning forest. Hundreds of pines were burning thanks to a katyusha barrage. Grrrr I thought. It's not enough to kill people, you have to burn forests, too? It was a very upsetting sight. Isn't it obvious to the world what's going on here? Evil people are destroying human, animal and plant life. That elderly woman in Tiberias was right: we have to go in there and stop them. Every additional moment that they aren't stopped, means death to innocent living things. To me, the arithmetic was very simple: if you care about The Sanctity of Human Life, you sometimes have to act. Like a doctor who performs an operation, sometimes you have to cut off a limb to save a life. Ethical soldiers sometimes have to stop/maim/kill terrorists in order to save innocent lives. The Talmud said it so beautifully and simply: "One who is kind to the cruel, is actually being cruel to the kind." Most of our lives should be spent in kindness; but there are times when -- for brief moments -- we have to put kindness on the back-burner. Otherwise we're in danger of being too naive and causing damage to the innocent. It's called "balance".
Near the border, we got off the busses with our gear. Last bathroom stop. Last cigarette -- none were allowed in Lebanon. Last cellphone calls -- no phones were allowed in Lebanon. We put all our phones and tobacco in a wooden box and gave it to our support unit that would be assisting us on the Israel side. Last bite to eat before we enter. Everybody checked everybody else for anything that might be shining: watches, earrings, jewelry, equipment zippers, etc. Camouflage make-up kits were taken out; the few folks who knew what they were doing painted our faces. We laughed at each others' frog-like faces, and then marched over to the fence.
The battalion commander spoke: "We have two missions here: to make sure our task is accomplished militarily, and to make sure we all get back home safely. I want you all to know that while we're inside Lebanon, I will think a hundred times before giving any orders. Be responsible and do what you have to do as best as you can. Remember: we're doing this for our own homes. I am very proud to be leading you all. Shalom." The battalion rabbi said, with us all, Shma Yisrael. Gulp. We all hugged each other, got our gear on, and started marching. We walked right through an empty patch in the border fence. That's it; we were in Lebanon. I said a silent prayer, and I looked back one last time.
Two images were engraved in my mind: the burning forest and its smell, and that elderly woman in Tiberias and her words. "This cannot continue. We cannot let this happen again. You go get them." Yes, I thought, this is why we're here; we're doing this for them. We're doing this for the grandmas and the trees.
For the Grandmas and the Trees
The cellphone rang at 2:35 am. "Shalom Michael. This is a computerized emergency telephone call-up from your unit. If this is indeed you, press 1." Am I really me? This is an existential question I've been grappling with for years, but I figured this wasn't the time for philosophizing; I pressed 1. "Shalom Michael. Enter your IDF serial number, followed by the pound sign." I did. "Michael. Be at your prearranged pickup site tomorrow morning at 9am; from there you will proceed to your base for equipment and instructions. If you received this message, press 1." I pressed 1, but in my mind I finally understood why they asked me if I'm really me: if you don't know who you really are, you probably shouldn't be holding a gun in the first place.
The next morning I wore green and made it to the pickup site, and soon found myself near a school in Tiberias, waiting for the ride that would take me to my base. As the air-raid sirens went off, the local folks (the staff of the school was there, too) said "here we go again" and "at least we had a couple days of quiet," and we (at first, I was the only soldier present) hurried into the nearby bomb shelter. I knew that our Livnot friends in Tzfat had been doing this regularly, but I personally had never done it before. Within seconds, explosions could be heard nearby. Some folks shrugged, some were quiet, some were close to panic. Cellphones were pulled out and soon everybody knew what was hit and where. The Tiberias Jewish Intelligence Network was running smoothly.
This same scene took place 3 more times, and finally the driver, another soldier and I left the building to get into the car and drive to the base; how long can one wait? Ah, what service -- a ride to the gate of my base! As we reached the car, the sirens went off again, and the three of us scurried off for cover. An elderly woman, perhaps in her mid-seventies, came out of nowhere to look for safety, and I motioned for her to come join me. "There are gas containers on the other side of this building, so let's stay here." Her eyes were open very wide and at first it seemed as if she wanted to talk but simply couldn't. Then, right before we heard the nearby landings a minute later, she told me in near-panic that she left her grandchildren with the babysitter and had to get back "as soon as possible." I talked to her and calmed her and when all was clear, we parted as if we were old friends. "You go get them," she said to me, putting one hand on my shoulder and pointing north with the other. "This cannot continue. We cannot let this happen again. You go get them." The image of this frail elderly woman from Tiberias, and her plea, would be like a compass to me in the weeks to come
Over 200 rockets rained down that day on northern Israel. Until now I'd heard about such scenes, but after seeing it with my own eyes, it just drove home the point that somebody's gotta go in there and stop those murderers. And if the air force can't do it without hurting innocent civilians, then it's up to ground forces to get in there and discern between good and evil.
In a huge hangar in our army base, a grand reunion was taking place; our unit was reassembling. Back- slapping, hugs and even kisses were being exchanged by the hundreds. And after I gave and received some of my own, I took a step back and looked at the entire scene with an internal fish-eye lens; we were a motley, diverse, cross-section of Israeli society. The officers, who had been called up two days earlier, told us the plan: two days of training, and then entering eastern Lebanon on foot to clear out rocket launchers that have been raining missiles.
"This will not be a classic battle. We will essentially be going in to hide in strategic spots, hunt for launchers and terrorists with special equipment, and then coming out after two or three days. Beware: because we'll be hiding, and because transportation is too dangerous due to anti-tank missiles, do not expect outside assistance! We'll have to be totally self-sufficient. All the food and water and equipment that will be used, we'll have to take with us on our backs. And if you get injured, you should all know that it's possible that you'll have to wait until nightfall before you can get evacuated, even by helicopter."
After lunch, the unit's rabbi made an announcement. "After consulting with the chief halachic rabbinic authorities, we have been exempted from fasting tonight and tomorrow for Tisha B'Av. Anything that concerns saving lives is tantamount; nobody is allowed to be weak and frail. But don't forget the significance of the day." We then focused on equipment, guns, food and water. Meanwhile, some grabbed catnaps, some called home, some mulled around, some stared out into space, but most had conversations with friends. There's a special glue here that binds us all. Like an unspoken covenant.
Meanwhile, our entrance into Lebanon has been delayed until Saturday night. We spent time training and talking -- and bonding. It was a most strange Tisha B'Av, eating and drinking. But the meaning of the timing was not lost on many. Baseless love to combat baseless hatred; unity instead of division; building and not destroying
If the fast day on Thursday wasn't a fast day, then Shabbat on Saturday wasn't really a Shabbat. Last-minute preparations were the order of the day. This was our last chance to fix equipment, camouflage it, make it comfortable, make final preparations. We practiced a lot, we drove to an area where the foliage and the scenery and the landscape were very similar to Lebanon, and we acted out various scenarios. A surprise ambush; a minefield; a booby-trapped house; evacuating wounded; officers getting hurt and others taking charge; soldiers getting lost; anti-kidnapping measures.
No less important was the shlepping. After putting on a flak jacket and an ammunition pack, we had to shlep equipment. The army actually went out with cash to camping stores and bought hundreds of king-size backpacks; some folks brought their own trusty backpacks from home. Friday night we packed everything into these big backpacks -- ammunition, equipment, clothes, food, lots of water, personal items -- and went for a trial march. The packs were incredibly heavy. I don't think I've carried anything so heavy since I was in the regular army in the early 1980's. People were groaning from the weight; it was hard to breathe, harder to run and extremely hard to stand up after kneeling during waits.
And after everybody knew what hurt and what wasn't right, we went back and fixed it all in our tents. Inserting padding here, moving bottles there, repacking, taping this and tying that, finding kneepads or making them from scratch, and of course camouflaging everything so we would be virtually invisible. Remembering a few incidents in the previous war in Lebanon in 1982, I added a few items to my pack: toilet paper, 12 energy bars, smoke grenades, and lots of water. The only Shabbat-like things that happened were quick Shabbat-like meals (with military chulent, if you can believe that), and Kabbalat Shabbat. Friday night as the sun was setting, it was as if everybody came out of their little green rabbit hole to pray. Believers and atheists, men and women, officers and soldiers, black and white, head-covered and bare-headed. We sang, we danced, we prayed. A huge circle was formed. The mood was not joyous, but hopeful. Not celebratory, but spiritual. How else can one prepare for a war? Sing, dance, pray, hope
Saturday afternoon the busses came and took us north. As the sun was setting we came towards Kiryat Shmonah, almost a ghost town. Company commanders gave last orders. We had a huge Havdallah ceremony. Soldiers got in circles according to their companies, smelled the scents and saw the fire and drank the wine. Everybody sang: "Kol Haolam Kulo Gesher Tzar Meod. . . The whole entire world is a very narrow bridge, and the main thing to recall is to have no fear at all." It was a very moving moment. So Jewish.
We got on the buses again, and went up the mountain to the border. We all noticed a terrible smell: a burning forest. Hundreds of pines were burning thanks to a katyusha barrage. Grrrr I thought. It's not enough to kill people, you have to burn forests, too? It was a very upsetting sight. Isn't it obvious to the world what's going on here? Evil people are destroying human, animal and plant life. That elderly woman in Tiberias was right: we have to go in there and stop them. Every additional moment that they aren't stopped, means death to innocent living things. To me, the arithmetic was very simple: if you care about The Sanctity of Human Life, you sometimes have to act. Like a doctor who performs an operation, sometimes you have to cut off a limb to save a life. Ethical soldiers sometimes have to stop/maim/kill terrorists in order to save innocent lives. The Talmud said it so beautifully and simply: "One who is kind to the cruel, is actually being cruel to the kind." Most of our lives should be spent in kindness; but there are times when -- for brief moments -- we have to put kindness on the back-burner. Otherwise we're in danger of being too naive and causing damage to the innocent. It's called "balance".
Near the border, we got off the busses with our gear. Last bathroom stop. Last cigarette -- none were allowed in Lebanon. Last cellphone calls -- no phones were allowed in Lebanon. We put all our phones and tobacco in a wooden box and gave it to our support unit that would be assisting us on the Israel side. Last bite to eat before we enter. Everybody checked everybody else for anything that might be shining: watches, earrings, jewelry, equipment zippers, etc. Camouflage make-up kits were taken out; the few folks who knew what they were doing painted our faces. We laughed at each others' frog-like faces, and then marched over to the fence.
The battalion commander spoke: "We have two missions here: to make sure our task is accomplished militarily, and to make sure we all get back home safely. I want you all to know that while we're inside Lebanon, I will think a hundred times before giving any orders. Be responsible and do what you have to do as best as you can. Remember: we're doing this for our own homes. I am very proud to be leading you all. Shalom." The battalion rabbi said, with us all, Shma Yisrael. Gulp. We all hugged each other, got our gear on, and started marching. We walked right through an empty patch in the border fence. That's it; we were in Lebanon. I said a silent prayer, and I looked back one last time.
Two images were engraved in my mind: the burning forest and its smell, and that elderly woman in Tiberias and her words. "This cannot continue. We cannot let this happen again. You go get them." Yes, I thought, this is why we're here; we're doing this for them. We're doing this for the grandmas and the trees.
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