Take Care Of My Little Boy

"Macaroni for lunch again today, huh?" I teased. "I see the ketchup all over your shirt."

He looked down.

"That's not ketchup. It's blood."

I blinked hard, and looked again. It was blood. Splattered all over his little shirt.

"What happened?"

"My Rebbe hit me."

He said it so matter-of-factly, it took a moment to register. Just like that....'My Rebbe hit me.' Like, 'I tripped on my shoelace'. Like it was some normal, everyday occurrence. And if I didn't have the physical evidence, I would never have known what happened.

I sat down with him and listened.

The Rebbe slapped him on his face. Hard. Then he slapped him again. And again.

And again.

At some point, his hand made contact with my little boy's nose. The gushing blood finally stopped him.

I was stunned. Shaken. And angry. I looked at my little boy, and my heart twisted inside me.

I went to see the principal the next morning. He met my concerns with doubt, half-heartedly defending the Rebbe, and tried to dismiss me.

When I left the office, I knew that the Rebbe won't touch my kid again. I was able to protect my son, but I couldn't protect any of the other little boys.

I didn't hear the rest of the story until months later. How the Rebbe quickly ushered my son out of the classroom, stopped the bleeding, and tried plying him with candy.

And how he lost all respect for his Rebbe – not because of the slap, but because of what happened next.

The principal walked by and questioned the Rebbe. In front of my son and 25 second graders watching and listening through the open classroom door, he told the principal that another boy hit my son. My son was 7 years old. Too young to stand up for himself, but old enough to be deeply scarred by that experience. It taught him a lesson that no 7 year old should have to learn.

Ten years later, I don't think my son ever fully forgave that Rebbe. He is left with an intense dislike of the man entrusted with molding precious souls. A man who abused that sacred trust. A man who used his power to relieve his frustrations.


"I'm so excited for Yeshiva," my little boy tells me this morning.

"What are you most excited about?"

"My Rebbe."

Oh.

I had heard a little bit about this Rebbe. He had some issues with discipline, and he was incredibly boring. He had a wonderful Rebbe this past year, and I was concerned about the transition.

Apparently, my little boy had none of those reservations.

"He gives out fake dollars when you know the Gemara, and you can buy seforim with them. He's such a good Rebbe."

"Oh…good!" Maybe this would work out better than I'd anticipated.

"He hurts."

He hurts. There it was again…that same matter-of-fact tone of voice. As though this is an expected component to growing up and going to school.

I've come a long way since the blood on the shirt incident. I'm not that young, meek mother I was back then. No one has the right to lay a hand on my kid. No one hurts my son.

I will protect my little boy.


To my little boy's Rebbe:

Look at my son in the classroom when you teach him. Look into his eyes and see how hard he tries…how eager he is to please. See how your disappointment in him…your frustration…reaches into his soul and breaks his heart. See how it hardens into the foundation of his character.

I see it. I see it all. And I am angry every time I watch his self esteem crumbling.

Do you know how sweet he is…my son?

If you looked into his eyes, would you hurt him? If you loved him, would you?

Is it worth a life? A future?

I don't ask you to love my son as I do. But please….look into his eyes. While your expectations may not change, the way you respond to him might.

Take care of my little boy.