Yalla, t'dabri.

i arrived at class early.
my heart sank as i realized the teacher was 100% hard-ass. blonde hair tied back, tightly bunned. blond people scare me.
her thin drawn lips – her short-squat posture – were reminiscent of Israeli teachers in the past… enough to make me wince at the thought of speaking Hebrew in this class, ever.
first impression: bad.
then it got worse.
she called for 9 students to come to the middle of the class to be a part of a simulation.
all i could think was ‘don’t pick me, don’t pick me, don’t ruin this for me…’
i counted slowly as one by one 9 students went up… 9, without me.

they were simulating a negotiation, and debating back and forth.
then i heard it. my heart leapt. i’d know that accent anywhere.
…an anglo…
he was debating with the others in the simulation, patient with himself, confident, despite his accent, despite once in a while pausing to think and gather his words…
i couldn’t help but stare in awe. he was British. he was speaking up.

i walked up to him after class.
– hi. when did you get here?
– two days ago…
– and… and you felt ok participating like that?
– yeah, sure… you just gotta do it. didn’t i sound alright?

for the rest of the night, he was my hero.

and if he could do it, what should stop me?






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