This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Abigail Treu, director of Planned Giving and Rabbinic Fellow, JTS.
My third-grade art teacher was a terror. Her rules were ironclad, and disobedience was severely punished. Quick to lose her temper, she once grabbed a paintbrush from me, and critiquing the stars I had sketched in my rendition of the night sky, painted directly over them. One day, as the class was gathered around, watching her at the demonstration table, I realized that I needed to go to the bathroom. But I knew the rules: no leaving the room without permission, no interrupting the demonstration, and no raising your hand unless the teacher asked a question. I waited patiently until she posed a question, and then, with all of us permitted to raise our hands, fervently waved mine in hopes of being singled out. Minutes went by—eons to a seven-year-old with a full bladder—and I was left squirming from one foot to the other. Panic welled up in me. I knew I wasn't going to be able to hold it much longer, but I also knew the wrath that I would encounter if I bolted for the door without permission. When I finally lost control in front of the entire class, the teacher scolded me: Why didn't you just ask?
I didn't know I could.
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