Pushing for better manners

Israeli schools were instructed to teach children how to behave. What's this country coming to?

    Itzik came home from school. He ate lunch. Then, the most amazing thing: he said, "May I have some dessert, please?"
    His mother gawked at him in shock, and served him a bowl of sahlab.
    "Thank you," he said.
    She clutched the fridge and shrieked: "Naim! Come quick!"
    Her husband, a former commando, dashed into the kitchen, ready for anything. "Sima! What happened?!"
    Sima pointed a quivering finger at their son. "He ... he ... something's wrong! I think he's sick. Or maybe it's me, I thought I heard him --" Sima fainted.
    Naim stared at his son. "Nu?" he said, demanding an explanation.
    The kid shrugged. "I don't know. All I said was 'May I have some dessert, please?'"
    "You said 'please'?!"
    "Yeah. And then I said 'thank you.'"
    Naim had never heard such a thing. "Is this how we raised you?! Like an American? Wattarya, crazy?!"
    Itzik, mindful of the necessity to respect one's elders and honor one's parents, politely explained that this is what they were now learning in school. "They call it 'manners.' It's a new thing, and all the kids're learning it."
    Naim paled. He snarled at the kid: "Don't move. Don't talk. Don't say any manners." He picked up the phone. "Allo! Tell Dudu I want to speak to him!"
    Itzik tugged at his father's sleeve. "Dad, you're supposed to say 'May I speak to Dudu, please?' It's nicer."
    Naim glared at the kid stonily and abruptly hung up. Wrong number.
    Itzik smiled sweetly. "Excuse me, but the proper thing to say when you call a wrong number is you made a mistake, you're sorry, and have a happy day. That's what we learned today."
    I made a mistake?
    I'm sorry?!
    Naim exploded. "I fought in three wars, and for what? This?! 'I made a mistake? I'm sorry?' What, should I tell the enemy I made a mistake, I'm sorry? Now you'll be sorry, because I'm not taking you to the Betar game this week. I'll take someone else's kid, who knows how to behave."
    The boy was crestfallen. "Sorry."
    Naim got through to Dudu, whose son was in Itzik's class. "Waddayamean, all the kids are doing it! What's going on in that leftist school? Listen to me: call the hevre, we're going to war."
    Itzik's eyes opened wide. "Daddy! Don't kill anyone! It's not polite, we learned that in school."
    "What are you, a homo?"
    "Daddy! It's very, very rude to call someone names, to express prejudice, to demean people who are different, to --"
    "LEFTIST homo! This is your mother's fault."
    "No, sir, it's Miss Cohen, she's teaching us manners, like the ministry told her to."
    Now the kid went too far: he disparaged Naim's cherished party.
    Somebody was going to answer for this.

"ALLO!" NAIM bellowed into the phone. "Gimme Cohen the teacher."
    "Good evening," the voice said. "To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"
    "What?"
    "Who are you?"
    "Itzik's father. Look Cohen, this manners thing is over. Kaput. You're messing with my kid. He talks like a sissy. This ain't how I raised him. Got it?"
    "Charmed to make your acquaintance, sir. You'll be proud to know, your Itzik is my best student, I'd say a good bet to win the school's award for Most Polite Child. I'm most impressed with his --"
    "Hey! You're not listening! My kid's no freier, he don't say sorry and thanks. This ain't the ghetto. This ain't the ma'abara. I fought for this country so no one has to take this kinda crap. Israelis are masters, not slaves. So stick your manners in your bra and --"
    "I beg your pardon, sir, that is simply not said. Women are people too, you know."
    "No, they're women. Only good for one thing --"
    Miss Cohen lost it. "Look, you yahoo!" she blasted him, most ill-manneredly. "It's time you primitive jackasses realized this is a modern country! Your government has decided that your children should learn basic manners, and it's clear that's not being taught in your home. So I have to waste valuable class time to teach your son how to behave, as if he just crawled out of some cave, which apparently he has."
    Imagine! A woman speaking to Naim like that!
    He roared back with a volley of insults. Well, to him they were insults, but to her, they were compliments. (Probably a cultural thing.) She thanked him.

THE NEXT morning, Naim visited the school. He burst into Miss Cohen's manners class, determined to teach her a lesson himself. But at that moment ...
    "Good morning, Miss Cohen," the children greeted her in unison, respectfully addressing her by her surname. Each kid was sitting up straight (just as Miss Cohen had taught them), shoulders back, chin out, smiling pleasantly. Nobody was chewing gum. It was an amazing sight. 
    Miss Cohen realized immediately who the visitor was. She smiled at him. "And you must be the new student. What is your name?"
    Everyone turned to look at him. Dumbfounded and embarrassed, he couldn't think of what to do but answer her question. "Naim," he mumbled.
    "Welcome to manners class, Naim! Please take a seat."
    What could he do? He sat down. Little Itzik was bursting with pride. Miss Cohen was grinning. Naim was in big trouble.
    "Today," Miss Cohen told the class, but looking straight at Naim, "we are going to learn about kindness and consideration, humility and respect. Who can tell me what these words mean. Naim?"
    His face reddened. He slouched down, shrugged, and looked away. He guessed what was coming next.
    He was right. "Who can tell Naim what these words mean? Uh ... Itzik."
    The kid sprung up. What an opportunity, to show off to his dad what a good boy he was! "Yes, ma'am; they mean you should be nice and care about other people and not think you're always right and make other people feel important."
    "Very good, Itzik! Now, tell me someone you respect. Uh ... Naim."
    He grunted.
    "That is incorrect, Naim. Itzik?"
    "My dad!"
    "Correct!" Miss Cohen was having the time of her life. "Now, let's imagine this: You go to the post office, and there's a long line. What do you do?"
    Every child raised his hand. The teacher ignored them. "Naim?"
    He knew the answer to this one. "You push to the front and the hell with everyone else," Naim mumbled, hoping to impress Miss Cohen. (She was a motek, and a redhead, and who knows, maybe...)
    "Wrong!" She called upon Itzik.
    "You wait patiently."
    "Good for you!"
    "Naim, tell me three ways to reduce unnecessary noise."
    "Shut up. That's one." He grinned, goading her, but she didn't flinch.
    "Class, is this how a gentleman speaks to a lady?"
    The children answered emphatically, in unison: "NO!"
    He had enough. "May I be excused?" he blurted.
    Everyone gasped and turned to stare at him. He wondered if he'd said something wrong, and then remembered:
    "Uh, please?"
    Miss Cohen's legs gave way, and she sank into her chair. The children cheered. Itzik, ecstatic, pulled out his cellphone and told his mother. Sima fainted again. 
    Still woozy, Miss Cohen suggested Naim stay for the next part of the lesson. "Table manners," she said. "How to eat soup."
    Naim declined. "Sima doesn't make soup," he said.
    He got up to leave. "Yalla," he said, thinking that was very polite of him.
    "Naim, aren't you forgetting something?" Miss Cohen said.
    He froze. She couldn't mean ... no, that was asking too much. This was impossible.
    "I'm Israeli," he explained. "I just don't know how to thank you."