Late Winter 2006
“Rebbetzin, there has to be another school. You are a woman, a radical feminist, and you teach Gemara to other women.” It was hard not to have a raw, visceral reaction to the voice on the other end of the phone, shouting harshly from the command-central of a national Jewish educational organization. Why I attempted to argue with this person could only be attributed to my utter bafflement at his reasoning and my genuine surprise at his support for the creation of an alternative school, which had been generated by the announcement of my recent appointment as head of school of our centrist Orthodox yeshiva.
Call me naïve, but I did not see that coming. Yes, I knew that I would be the first non-rabbi and the first woman in the fifty-nine-year history of the school to be the head. And yes, by-laws had to be adjusted to allow for such an innovation. But was a new school truly necessary in our moderate-sized Jewish community of Seattle?
Halakhic Issues
What were the halakhic issues around a female head of school? Was this an issue of gender or a response to a specific person and her outlook? Both points were raised. A halakhic argument was constructed around issues of serara, the prohibition against women taking a position of authority, based on the Sifra’s teaching, “melekh, ve’lo malkah,” that the king must be a man, not a woman. Thus a woman taking on a position of authority would not be fitting.
Ironically, the teshuvah cited as indicating the problematic nature of a female in the role of head of school was a teshuvah of Rabbi Moshe Feinstein responding to a she’eilah from my own father, Rabbi B. Poupko, about whether a woman could serve as a mashgihah for kashrut. Its relevance to the issue of head of school was tenuous at best. The response from Rav Moshe was that a mashgihah is permitted because it is not considered to be a position of authority in that she reports to the rav hamahshir, the rabbinic authority for whom she is working.
In the case of a head of school, no matter the gender, the person is always answerable to the board of directors of the school. Thus the role does not constitute serara. When the question arose at our school, a nationally known halakhic authority from outside of the city was consulted, because the local rabbis were not comfortable making the decision. This highly respected, widely recognized, and by no means liberal-leaning figure offered an official halakhic statement of approval. Nevertheless, his response was clearly not enough for those who felt that a woman should not be in the role of head of school or, perhaps, that I should not be the woman in that role.
In the lengthy list of trials and tribulations of Jewish communal service, this one quickly took top tier for heartache. I felt a smidgen of injury for my own bruised ego (“What, they don’t like me?”), but much more upset for what this split would mean for the community. I felt concern for those who had supported me, a female candidate, not to make any grand gender statement but simply because they saw me as the best person to do the job. After all, I had been in this early-childhood-to-eighthgrade school for two years, first as director of Judaics and then as Judaic principal, and had co-led the school along with the general studies principal, the early childhood director, and the finance director—parenthetically, all women. They saw me as the best person for the job. Why, then, should there be this kind of contention?
Soul-Searching
Then came the self-flagellation and soul-searching. That long-distance phone call had packed a potent punch. Seemingly, it was on my account that we were engulfed in tumult and a swirl of controversy, causing a concomitant needless deflection from the critical issues at hand. What we really needed to be paying attention to was the much-required work of ensuring an excellent school for our children.
My attraction to Jewish education began back in second grade. I had lived, hoped, and dreamed of growing up to become a Humash teacher since then. Everything that had happened since—that early thrill of asking the right question, anticipating Rashi’s comment, mastering the reading of a Ramban, figuring out how to detect the subtle nuances of parshanut—was all about bringing this very same excitement to future classrooms.
My teaching philosophy was to make sure that every Torah lesson was imbued with challenge, student engagement, and hiddush (new ideas), so that our precious Torah would continue to thrive in the lives of every student. I wanted every student to love learning as I did. I wanted each of them to rush home with a desire to share the learning of the day and work on moving it forward. I wanted them to have the insatiable hunger for Torah that I have.
Behind me were years of rigorous learning from incredible teachers in Jerusalem and New York—years of working on what an effective and engaging lesson should look like. There were hours dissecting the appropriate homework sheet, fine-tuning the questioning in class, scrutinizing what is written on the board, and modeling all the critical moves that a teacher makes to draw out students’ unique wisdom.
Did that voice on the other end of the phone know that I had been working toward this opportunity to lead a school where the teachers could make up a community of learners? Did he know how desperately I sought to fashion a school where we could bring a true affection and respect for children into every crevice of the building? Could he not see that I was poised to direct a school that was less about hierarchy and more about empowerment, less about divisive practices and more about authentic deep, rich Jewish experiences?
The challenges facing the head of school are not primarily around gender. They are more about the standard tasks, trials, and tests that this kind of job presents.
Here I was, fresh from ten years in an aggravation-free position working for the entire Jewish community as director of Jewish education services for our Federation’s Jewish Education Council, a Covenant Award winner, and a sought-after speaker across the country. I had spent years coaching teachers, working with education directors, planning conferences, and teaching adults. Now, at the urging of others to serve my own community, I had returned to day school life and found myself in this precarious place.
“No good deed goes unpunished” was a phrase that often crossed my mind at the time. But in spite of the drama, the timing here was perfect. I would never have been prepared to enter the challenging role of head of school had it not been for the wealth of experience and training built into those ten years, being part of the Mandel Foundation’s Teacher Educator Institute, spending a year at the Hebrew University as a Melton Senior Educator, and being a participant in the Visions of Jewish Education Project. These were years of thinking about what good Jewish education looks like and sharing those ideas with educators worldwide. I was truly poised to make a meaningful contribution to our community
Was Talmud Teaching the Issue?
Yet here I was on the receiving end of such harsh criticism. Was it because I was not a rabbi or because I was a woman or because I was a Talmud teachingwoman? What was really the issue here?
What of this Talmud teaching? I heard myself formulating a defense, and then a split-second later, a ripple of delicious irony zigzagged through my mind. This sheitel-wearing, balcony-sitting rebbetzin was now a radical feminist? Oh, how the perceptions shift!
“Sarah Schenirer was a woman. She established and headed a lot more than one school,” I not-so-calmly countered.
“Fine but you are different,” I was told. “You teach Gemara to women.”
“My grandmother taught Gemara,” I argued. ”My other grandmother taught Hebrew in Odessa. This is my yerusha, my inheritance, my family legacy. This is no newfangled fad. This is a love for Torah.”
This Talmud class had been ongoing—summer, winter, spring, fall—and was now set to begin its twentieth year. It had been bringing together women from across the vast spectrum of the Seattle Jewish community every Thursday night, through the entire year. These women seek to connect with the real and the authentic. This learning is l’shem Shamayim (for the sake of Heaven).
My Talmud teaching was the result of a modest proposal to a teacher many a year ago: “Give us, the women of this college, a share in the portion of our brothers.” My love of Talmud and experience of its study is a work in progress—one Thursday at a time, leading up to an exultant and triumphant siyyum on Masechet Berachot after eleven years of study.
Suffice it to say, neither the grandmothers defense nor the evidence of continuous study lishma worked. “That was different,” he insisted. I got off that phone call quickly; shortly afterward I found the JOFA website and sent in my first membership dues. If this was the charge, then so be it. I was clearly a feminist—and one who taught Talmud. So there!
September 2013
Years have passed, and 20/20 hindsight reveals the inevitability of communal growth. Choice is good. The challenges facing the head of school are not primarily around gender. They are more about the standard tasks, trials, and tests that this kind of job, with its daily demands, presents. The ongoing efforts to work toward serving every student, family, and staff member and to be responsible to supporters and board members—a delicate daily balance—grip my time and mental space
The conversation around a female head of school is, to my mind, a thing of the past. In spite of this, there are moments when I wonder about the public persona of a female head of school in our Orthodox Jewish world. Although I am still introduced every now and then as headmaster, I am not a man. I do not hold the Torah on Yom Kippur next to my male colleagues on the bimah, nor do I receive the honorary aliyah on holidays, nor do I step up for a kibbud under a former student’s huppah. But I have proudly chanted a chapter of Megillat Esther at a women’s megillah reading, as well as leading Kabbalat Shabbat at our women’s Friday night tefillah. I have spoken at the tish of a kallah. I have offered many a word of Torah and given many a shiur. Blessedly, for our generation of youngsters, this is the new normal. My grandmothers would be proud. And as for me, I am deeply grateful for my portion.