The Back Seat

2026-03-01

It’s the winter of 1991. I’m seventeen years old. I’m sitting uncomfortably in the back seat of my parents’ rental car as my father drives through the hills of Jerusalem. I can smell the dry dusty air. I’m staring through the windshield at the dirty roads. And most importantly I’m trying to ignore what my father is saying.

My mind is racing. How am I going to get out of this jam? It wasn’t my fault. That magazine. The one that certainly has no place in a yeshiva. It was sent to me in the physical mail from a work friend. I didn’t buy it. It was only a joke.

My father is still speaking. He’s a brilliant man with amazing academic achievements who always has the answer for how things should go.

My thoughts are still racing. How is it going to go now? Looks like I’m definitely going to get expelled. Did I just torpedo my education? Will I lose all my friends? No one will marry me now. Did I just screw up my entire future?

I better listen up to what my father has to say. I sit up and lean forward. After all, I’m a good kid. I do what I’m told to do. I always have.

This was the same man who’d suggested I skip my senior year and start college at sixteen — early admissions is best. The same man who’d wanted me to be a doctor — doctors always have security. And now he was eloquently making the case for me to stay in Israel. You’ll get back on track, he says. You can stay for a second year. Maybe you’ll be a rabbi. The rabbinate will be lucky to have you!

My jaw dropped. I felt a rush of defiance from somewhere deep in my gut, like nothing I’d experienced before. THIS is NOT my path.

I gave no thought to the consequences. Maybe I’d have to find new friends. Maybe I’d never get a shidduch. But in that moment I found I had agency. I claimed my own path.

That first Shabbos back in the US, I stood outside shul with my hand on the door and took a big gulp. The shame of being expelled weighed on me. How terrible will it be when I open this door and everyone points and stares? I opened the door, walked down the aisle to my seat — and discovered something amazing. All the fear and shame was in my head. No one was thinking about me at all.

The education system that expelled me didn’t fail me academically. I could read, I could learn, I could pass tests. It failed to see me. It treated deviation as deficiency. A kid who didn’t fit the mold wasn’t a person to be understood — he was a problem to be removed.

People rightly complain about the expense. People even more rightly complain about the actual educational value. But the real shame is the system snuffing out a kid’s motivation. I’ve always cared about finding a solution. I’m done watching.

This is the first in a series of articles about what that looks like.

If your education system failed to see you too, I’d love to hear your story. Email me.